Narration : Short Stories by Mukund Thapliyal

THE SOCIAL DIVIDE

2009-10-23T10:25:00.000-07:00

Author’s note: This story reflects my anguish over the division of society on caste basis by the political leaders in India for their personal gains.

Ramanna did not know his origin. It never occurred to him that a day will come when he would need to know it desperately. He vaguely remembers his early childhood days. His mother was tall, slim and fair working in the house of the Dharmakarta of the temple in the small town of Srirampuram.

They say his mother was a poor young girl from a nearby village when she was taken in to temple service by the Dharmakarta who was a widower but liked to be in the company of a young woman. Resultantly, when two years later a child was about to be born to the young woman, the Dharmakarta married her to one of the temple workers. There were gossips all around but no one dare speak against Dharmakarta. And no one spoke against Dharmakarta when few months later, the servant suddenly disappeared from the temple.
Young Ramanna grew oblivious of his origin and of the history surrounding him. At the age of seven, his duty was to rear the two cows of the temple and their calves. The cows had their names and so had the calves. Nandi, the black calf was Ramanna’s favourite. Ramanna was a happy lad in their company.

To get up in the morning, drink a glass of porridge which some times his mother gave him stealthily; clean the cow shed; take bath in the pond; eat whatever was available out of the leftover from the kitchen and then to take out the cows and the calves for grazing until late in the afternoon was a set routine which Ramanna enjoyed since the time his memory could take him back.

For Ramanna, there were no demands on life and every thing was in order. Sometimes, he used to mock at the children who were burdened with the load of books and trudged towards the school but in his heart he wished his mother could also send him to the school.

Days passed. Ramanna and his mother were still in the service of the Dharmakarta. One evening, he was told by one of the temple servants that his mother had died suddenly. Ramanna didn’t know the cause; in fact no one knew the exact cause. A story however went around that she was forced to abort a child. Ramanna was only eight then.

Ramanna missed his mother and often wept for her. There was no one to care for him. He missed her more when he felt hungry. He remembered how she always produced something for him to munch whenever he coaxed her. After her death, things had become very difficult. Though he never neglected his work, he used to get abuses from everyone in the house.

On many occasions he was not even called for the meals along with other servants. Ramanna felt very dejected and he would talk of his grief and cry over the hump of his pet calf Nandi who was now a fully grown bull.

Ramanna eventually decided to quit the temple service. He knew the thought was fraught with severe punishment. He had to keep it a closely guarded secret. He shared the secret only with Nandi with tears running down his cheeks and left his village one night walking in an unknown direction.

In Ramanna walked for three nights, hiding during the day time behind haystacks and bushes. On the fourth day break, Ramanna reached Vishakhapatnam. Luckily for him he was spotted by a mason who took him in his employment on half the salary. Young Ramanna soon became adept in the skill of brick-laying, white washing and painting.

Over the years, Ramanna grew in to a tall, well built young man, fair like his mother. He was over twenty now. All these years there was not a single day when he didn’t remember Srirampuram, his mother and his favourite bull Nandi.

Times were changing around Ramanna. People talked of rights and privileges based on caste basis. Ramanna could never understand anything of the matter. He worked earnestly during the day time and in the evening spent most of his time in the small temple near his work place.
“Isn’t it fair that everyone gets equal opportunity to work and earn his livelihood? Why should there be any social or economic discrimination on the basis of origin of birth, he would often argue within himself.”

The urge to see his birth place drove him one day to Srirampuram. The township had changed; it was acutely congested with concrete structures all over. The cowherd that he had reared with passion had died. There were no friends left in the neighbourhood. All boys that he could remember were out to some town or the other in search of jobs. Ramanna was unaware of the twelve year’s exile he had served on himself. He was sorry to have come to Srirampuram. He decided to return the next day.

In the evening, he went to the temple to attend the evening prayers. As he was entering the temple he came across the Dharmakarta talking to the temple servants. Ramanna could notice Dharmakarta’s faded impact. He had grown old and lost much of his acerbic tongue that Ramanna remembered. Ramanna then saw him coming towards him.
"Namaskaram Aiyya!” Ramanna said with folded hands.
"Ah! You are Ramanna, right?”
“Yes sir.”
How come you remembered this place after so many years?”
Ramanna kept quiet.
Dharmakarta then sitting on the upper railing of the parapet wall asked Ramanna, "I believe you are planning to go back".
"Yes sir. There is nothing in this village for me", said Ramanna in a choking voice.

"Why do you think so? It is your lust for money that has given birth to such feeling. Don't you have any duty towards your birth place? Don't you remember your mother serving the temple all her life? Didn't I look after her? And what is this I hear? Is it true that you are working as a mason?"
Ramanna still kept quiet.
“Who is there after me to look after the temple? I may have been severe but didn’t I trust you like my own child?” The old man continued. He was now trembling with rage. Age was not in his favour. His wife had died early; his daughter was married off and his son had settled in the USA. The Dharmakarta was indeed an isolated old man.

Ramanna couldn’t make out the purport of the outburst. He felt sorry for the old man and he thought he had a duty towards the old man and towards the temple. The words of Dharmakarta were therefore catalytic in his returning to his old world. Yes; he thought he could do some service to the temple which was withering from all sides. He thought to repair the temple with his own hands and paint it fresh. And then there was old Dharmakarta to look after.

Ramanna stayed back. He was happy once again in his new life in the old world.

Ramanna married and had a daughter and a son. He married off his daughter when she was eleven and put his son in the town school.

When Dharmakarta died, his son could not come for the cremation. “Perform all the rites on my behalf since you were no less than his son. Since my family has decided to settle down here, I will transfer all land and property to you name whenever I come to Srirampuram,” he told Ramanna over the long distance call.
Ramanna tilled the temple land for his survival and used the temple offerings strictly for its upkeep.

Things but took an unexpected ugly turn for Ramanna. Dharmakarta’s daughter staked a claim over the property and filed a suit in the court blaming Ramanna to have usurped her father’s property. Ramanna could not bear the allegation made against him and quit the service of the Dharmakarta family and the temple. What a reward after his mother and for that matter he himself had served the Dharmakarta family and the temple for so many years? But there was no animus in his heart against anyone. He used his skills to make a small house for his family and started practicing as multipurpose artisan.

Ramanna was no longer young now though he was strong and healthy despite his fifty years. He still worked hard and he served the temple with same enthusiasm and dedication.

Ramanna’s son Saraswathi Chandran was very bright. Ramanna had named his son after his mother whose name was Saraswathi. Young Sara was doing very well and Ramanna was proud of his son and he was proud when people called him for his services and praised his craftsmanship.

Sara didn't belie the hopes of his father. He secured high marks in the examination and wanted to join an engineering college. Ramanna was diffident because of his weak financial position. He would have been much happier if his son had taken a job to help him in his old age.

Sara was a determined lad. He consulted his teachers who advised him to get a backward class birth certificate, which would qualify him for a scholarship to take him through.
"Try it out. Everyone knows that your father is a mason."

Sara was pragmatic, unlike his father. He made an application duly attested by dozen of his neighbours and submitted it to the Town Munsif Office. He was sure of getting the required certificate.

Day after day, young Sara went to the Munsif’s Office but there were no signs of his getting the desired certificate. He met every functionary in that office pleading them to help him out. He reminded them of the work his father had done in their houses on several occasions and promised them of the future help as well.

There appeared a ray of hope when an official from Munsif’s office told him that the certificate will be given to him after verification by the Munsif himself. Sara was delighted for everyone in knew the fact. Sara was the son of Ramanna, the mason.

"Yes, Yes. You are the son of Ramanna, the son of a mason. But what is the origin of Ramanna?" the Munsif asked Sara.
How could Sara reply to such a question?

It was therefore for Ramanna to establish his origin. Whose son was he? He knew his mother's name only and that he lived in the house of the Dharmakarta. Whose son was he? He could say nothing?

"We know your mother was in the employment of Dharmakarta and no one knows the whereabouts of your father. How is it that you were till recently tilling Dharmakarta’s land? Why did Dharmakarta ask you to stay back in Srirampuram after you had settled in Vishakhapatnam?
Ramanna had no answers to these questions.
The Munsif continued, “You picked up the skills of a mason which is not enough proof that you belong to the caste of masons. On the contrary there is enough evidence to link you to the Dharmakarta family. I am afraid, under such circumstances your son cannot be given the backward class birth certificate," announced the Munsif.

Young Sara was crestfallen. No one has seen him after Munsif’s fateful verdict.
Old Ramanna is remorseful but hopes his son will return one day to Srirampuram as a successful man based on his own merit sans the divisive birth certificate.

EMANCIPATION

2009-09-29T08:57:00.000-07:00

An hour’s drive from Rishikesh, up stream of River Ganga, there is a small hamlet called Vyaasi. There are about a dozen small shops and two shabby tea vendors cum food joints in Vyaasi. The road has been widened at this point to facilitate parking of buses, vans, jeeps and cars carrying the pilgrims to and fro Kedarnath and Badrinath, the two holiest shrines of Hindus. The two tea vendors are busy the whole day serving hot, strongly brewed extra sweetened tea. The drivers’ fraternity enjoys the brew immensely and so would you provided you left your hygiene sensitivity behind and you are not a diabetic.
There is a track cutting across the road at Vyaasi. Its southern end going to Vyaas Ghaat, the bathing joint on the river bank and the upper end climbing up hill goes to an ashram popularly known as Vyaasi Ashram.
Vyaasi gets its name after the philosopher sage Vyaas, the author of the epic, Mahabharata and the eighteen Puraans, the Hindu mythology scriptures. It is believed that Vyaas lived in a cave here and thus the place got its name, Vyaasi. A cave exists but there is no archeological proof of it being the study room of sage Vyaas.
A point is worth mentioning here. Hindu mythology is too complex and confounding to inquisitive western mind and the basic reason for the same could be that it does not provide material proofs. That the men could walk on water or float in air; that there were celestial bodies crossing over from one planet to another; that a mere sprinkle of water could bless or annihilate a dynasty etc. are unresolved enigmas of Hindu mythology. Yet equally enigmatic is the fact that countless skeptical and truth seekers head east and particularly to these lesser known pockets of oriental mysteries.
From Vyaasi, climbing the track for nearly an hour, you reach the Vyaasi ashram. The ashram is not more than a mile from Vyaasi but the climb is stiff. There is a small temple in the center of the ashram. It is a Shiva temple.
Early in the morning as the sun comes out in the east, the snow on the far off Himalayan ranges glitters and in the foreground, the deodar and fir trees with their rich green coat sway with the morning breeze. Sitting by the side of the small Shiva temple, with low din of the river Ganga in the background, the audio visual spectacle is phenomenally beautiful. To the believers, it is simply divine.

A group of mendicants live in the ashram. In the hut on the right corner, which is a little bigger than the rest, lives an elderly person, they call him Swamiji. He is a man of large build, very fair, his head shaven and his forehead having three horizontal sandal paste lines, the typical identity of Shiva devotees.

One of the morning buses from Rishikesh delivers a bundle of newspapers to the tea vendors for the ashram since Swamiji is an avid reader. Swamiji is also fond of music. He has a music system and a sizeable collection of CDs. Swamiji makes it a point to bring new CDs whenever he goes to Rishikesh or any other place. These CDs are not restricted to Hindu hymns/ prayers only. Swamiji likes Jazz and Beatles equally. Besides personal taste, Swamiji has to cater for the large number of his followers coming from the West.

No one in the ashram knows what exactly the background of Swamiji was or of the visitors coming to the ashram, some of them come regularly every year. The only thing known for sure is that Swamiji was Henry Blackwell before he took to oriental spiritualism. Some unconfirmed sources say that he was the CEO of a stock brokering firm and his personal assets had touched the billion mark. His physique but suggests that he might have been an athlete or a marine commando. Story goes that he left his business and donated all his possession to a charity after his wife divorced him and married his junior partner and that he was pained when his son who he loved dearly refused to stay with him. But all these are unconfirmed stories. The known fact is that Henry Blackwell in his second incarnation as Swamiji had came to India about thirty years ago and settled in this ashram.

“I am convinced of one thing; that money can’t buy you peace,” he often tells his followers.

The temple is visited by the local populace on Mondays, the day of Lord Shiva. Between the months of July and August, when Shravan, the Hindu month dedicated to Lord Shiva generally falls, the number of visitors to the ashram goes high.
On the first Monday of the month of Shravan, the natives are bewildered and in fact, enamoured to see a white man carrying a brass pitcher of Ganga water on his head bare foot from the Vyaas Ghaat to the temple. The day has now become a local festival; the locals call it Paani Mela- the festival of (Ganga) Water Offering (to Shiva).
Local drummers and couple of bag pipers with couple of flag bearers walk in front of Swamiji. Behind him are thousands of believers carrying head load of water pots. The Swamiji performs the abhisek- that is chanting of mantras and pouring the water over the Shiv-Linga in side the small temple. The Swamiji then offers prayers and comes out, greeted by large crowd and the drummers. The ritual is then followed by rest the people.

The poverty stricken natives are overwhelmed to be present at the temple to seek the blessings of Lord Shiva through the Swamiji. They are the people of this land of Shiva with their tattered, darned clothes, sweat stained dark- generally black cap and some of them suffering from eczema because of poor hygiene.

The Swamiji says he has no desire or ambition. “We have to forgo all desires. Follow Buddha, the Tathagat, who surpassed grief over worldly losses and happiness over worldly gains.”

The poor natives too have no ambition; they are too humble to have any. They come there to propitiate Lord Shiva for safe return of their dear ones who mostly are in the armed forces, facing enemy bullets or the bullets of insurgents, Naxalites and Maoists. Or, it may be that one of their dear ones is terminally sick and they have come to pray for his recovery in the absence of any medical help. The brutal fact is that they come there with wishful wishing, which prepares them for the worst.

There is a retired school teacher, Satya Prasad who is not an inmate of the ashram but he is there almost every day. He was teaching English in a high school before his retirement. Both his sons did well in school and college and have migrated to bigger towns; in fact one of them is a medical practioner in the USA. After the death of his wife, Satya Prasad is living alone in his village, which is about three miles from the ashram. But he comes daily with a packet of dry lunch and some chutney. He is friendly with Swamiji because he can converse with Swamiji in English and he is proud of it.
Swamiji and Satya Prasad talk often on the purpose of life. Swamiji talks of emancipation, of moksha - the liberation of soul, weaning away your self from material desires.
“Concentrate on the divine cosmic power, the parmatma, leave everything unto Him.”
Satya Prasad yawns and often scratches his body parts. He has sees his folks in the villages where illiteracy, penury, sorcery, witch craft and jealously are the common traits. Satya Prasad believes getting two meals a day is the best definition of moksha.
“Swamiji, are you sincerely convinced that preaching spirituality will redeem these folks and they will have a better life?” He once asked Swamiji.
Swamiji was irritated. “You talk like an unbeliever, an agnostic.

Swamiji tries to explain from the scriptures quoting the verses from Gita and Bhagwat to Satya Prasad without much success. Swamiji preaches equanimity of mind, which he says will bring feeling of equality amongst all human beings and eradicate jealously. Satya Prasad often demurs - he wants it to be translated in to the lives of his people.
“Give them education, give them means of livelihood and that will take care of all other maladies,” Satya Prasad wants to impress upon Swamiji.
“Satya Prasad, it will take you time to understand His ways. We are too ignorant to judge Him and His will. I pray that the realization comes to you soon.” The matter rests there to start afresh on some other day.

Swamiji takes his morning tea that he makes himself in his electric kettle and thereafter he comes to river bed for daily ablutions and then goes into the thicket of the forest where he has made a small hut in woods for meditation.
Late in the evening Swamiji listens to the news. Some of the inmates join him when it is the Hindi bulletin. Mostly, Swamiji listens to BBC or CNN. Swamiji says it is our duty to be aware of what is happening around us without getting involved in it.

No one knows why Henry Blackwell had selected and opted to stay in such a remote place. He says he liked the locale, the view, the serenity, the quietude of the place.

"Can I stay here for a few days?" Henry Blackwell putting on an orange dhoti and a white kurta and with clean shaved head had asked one of the inmates when he had come to the ashram. There were only two sadhus staying in a single hut those days.
"Why not? It is all yours. We will be rather delighted to be in your company. Please share what ever is given by the Lord."
"Blessed be this land and blessed be you both," Henry Black had told them.

That was the beginning of Henry Blackwell’s new life. He himself does not remember when he was rechristened as Swamiji. It has been a long journey.
Swamiji propagates the doctrine of peace, love and Vedic knowledge. For his devotees, he is the ocean of knowledge and fountain of love and piety, divinity itself personified.

II

Swamiji was away on one of his visits to Rishikesh and due to return in the evening. It was late afternoon when a group of visitors came to the ashram and wanting to see him. Swamiji’s reference was enough for the inmates to welcome anyone in the ashram.
Soon the visitors started making enquiries about the personal life of Swamiji, which upset the inmates. There were too many uncomfortable questions.
"Does he listen to radio? Does he get letters from foreign countries? Any visitors, other than local pilgrims?"

The ashramites, ardent devotees of the Swamiji were
irritated by now.
"So many of his followers come here from abroad and
stay with us for weeks, some of them even for months," one of them mustered courage to respond.
“What business do you have to ask such questions? You certainly do not look Swamiji’s friends?" Another inmate questioned the propriety of the team.

"We are from Police, Central Bureau of Investigation. We have orders to enquire in to the conduct of your Swamiji and search the ashram."

That rattled all the inmates and the onlookers.

"You said he goes to forest hut every day for three to four hours," one of the officers asked.
“Yes.”
"What does he do there?
“He goes there for meditation."
“That is non sense. He has been fooling around all these years," said one of the police officers.

"Look, this man, feigning as Swamiji has been charged of murder. He is a fugitive, hiding from American law for last thirty years.”
The inmates were shocked. They couldn’t believe that their god man was a in fact a Satan.
“We respected him and in fact worshipped him,” they broke down.

When Swamiji arrived from Rishikesh by the late evening bus, he was apprehended at Vyaasi and taken to his ashram for further interrogation.

Next morning, as the Swamiji was being escorted to the district headquarters, he saw Satya Prasad on his way to the ashram to spend his day with him.
“I want to talk to this man for a few minutes,” Swamiji requested the senior police officer.
“It has to be in my presence,” The officer told him.
“Yes, of course,” Swamiji replied.

“Satya Prasad, my past has caught up with me. I have been arraigned for my involvement in the murder of my wife’s lover in Florida where I lived before coming to this place. It is true that I wanted to evade the law by remaining in this remote place in the garb of a sadhu. But this ashram became a place of learning for me. Here, I have come to peace with myself. Now I have no fears to face the law.”
Satya Prasad was baffled and so were others present there. No one could ever imagine what Swamiji had confessed.
“Satya Prasad, I have transferred all my money and property in your name for the benefit of the locals. I know you are the best judge of their needs. You know the best way of their emancipation.

Years have passed since Swamiji was taken away by the police. They say he was convicted and sentenced for life. Satya Prasad is no more. There but now remains Swami Henry Blackwell Polytechnic School in the idyllic vicinity of the Vyaas Ashram imparting modern education to the native children.

FATHER, FORGIVE ME THIS TIME

2009-08-24T09:14:00.000-07:00

Young Sudha was lanky, edgy and always defensive, perhaps because life had treated her harshly from the very beginning. Even when her friends played with dolls and shared ecstasies of fairy tales, she had to look after her maimed father, her ailing mother besides her young sibling.

Years back, her father, Mahesh Chandran, a railway employee was discharged on the ground of disability after he met with an accident, losing his right leg and right hand. As compensation, he received a pair of steel crutches and a commendation letter. Mahesh Chandran also received fifty thousand rupees and a paltry pension, which was the only income of the family.

Mahesh Chandran had become a near recluse. Many times he thought of committing suicide. In fact, once he thought of poisoning his wife and himself but his heart went out to young Sudha and his toddler son Anandan.
“What a cursed life you have given me? What sins did I commit to deserve it?” He often grunted while limping past the ‘Meenakshi’ temple near his colony. Mahesh Chandran never entered the temple after he met with the accident. Not that he had turned atheist but a feeling had seeped deep inside him that God existed only for the rich and affluent, those who could propitiate him with elaborate pujas and offerings. Mahesh Chandran hated the sight of huge load of flowers and expensive garlands offered by the devotees to the goddess. He believed God or for that matter Goddess had no time for a poor, mutilated creature like him.
When his wife died after a prolonged illness, Mahesh Chandran was anything but distressed. He felt, he was relieved of the mental agony and his wife of the physical pain she has been suffering for half a decade.
Anandan at that time was five and Sudha merely eleven years old. The young girl was burdened with the responsibilities of looking after her disabled father and the young sibling.

Mahesh Chandran was sore at everything around him. He felt cheated and robbed of the joys of life. He often pitied his young daughter and cursed himself over his helplessness to be of any help to her.

Sudha was developing as a gritty girl with load of family burden on her slender shoulders. Anandan, on the other hand was growing in body, mind and aspirations.

It was indeed Sudha’s machine like efficiency needed to run the traumatized household. Morning breakfast, meals for the day and dinner for night, all came to her mind like a programmed computer. And then there were several sub-routines like helping her brother to get ready, check his books and put all assorted items in his school bag – arranging nearly everything while her father looked on helplessly. And then she would switch-over to a school going lass, taking her breakfast on a run to her school.

Sudha’s teachers had a soft corner for her. In fact, all of them were amazed at her relentless determination and immitigable energy to find time and strength for everything she was expected to do.
Sudha passed her matriculation examination with good marks and this time perhaps lady luck was favourably disposed for soon she got a job in a private firm. It brought a smile on Mahesh Chandran’s face after very many years of anguish and acrimony.

The financial condition and the social status of the family improved with Sudha getting a job. She now engaged a part-time help to assist her in the daily chores of the house-hold. Mahesh Chandran was now less acerbic and at times shared jokes with young Anandan who was in the final year of his secondary examination. Anandan had developed into a fine young lad to whom Sudha was intuitively a mother. He addressed all his problems to her and Sudha helped and supported him to the best of her capacity.

Mahesh Chandran could never muster courage to assert like a father to Sudha. He had succumbed to his helplessness and to her relentless spirit. Sometimes, he talked to her of his dreams for Anandan but never talked about her future even though he knew she had reached the marriageable age. Mahesh Chandran was scared to broach the topic.

In her office, Sudha soon earned a place; her superiors appreciated her work and efficiency apart from her willingness to lend a helping hand to her colleagues.
Madhavan Kutty, one of Sudha’s senior colleagues was absolutely floored by her qualities. He would watch her from a distance but developed cold feet to talk to her on personal matters. Sudha too liked Madhavan but purely on professionally plane even though she could feel that Madhavan wanted to come close to her.
One evening when the two were delayed while working on an urgent project, Madhavan Kutty asked Sudha if he could drop her at her place. Sudha agreed with initial diffidence though she appreciated the gesture. That was the beginning of their friendship. Soon they became good friends.

Sudha one evening invited Madhavan Kutty to her place to introduce him to her brother and father.
The meeting was like pairing of the mismatch. Mahesh Chandran had the sixth sense to understand that there was something going on between the two. He was uncomfortable and sulking while Madhavan Kutty failed to continue any string of conversation with his host. He had to fall back upon Anandan every time he tried to talk to Mahesh Chandran. The meeting ended abruptly after the tea was over.
“What if Sudha decides to marry this guy and go away? What would happen of him and Anandan? Mahesh Chandran was restless and could not sleep that night.
“Sudha, please don’t take a hasty decision; please wait until Anandan completes his graduation,” he pleaded with his daughter.

Sudha knew Anandan needed over two years from then on to complete his graduation and that Madhavan would not wait that long. Her gut feeling came to be true. Madhavan’s parents were pressuring him since his two younger brothers were waiting to get married and leave for the Gulf with their spouses. Besides, the old parents didn’t approve of breaking the queue.
Mahesh Chandran was quite relieved to see Madhavan’s marriage invitation card. He insisted that Sudha and Anandan attend the marriage. For Sudha, it was a heart break. She had come to love Madhavan but reduced to a silent witness of her first love taking a bride before her eyes.
Her relief and her solace lay in Madhavan Kutty soon changing the job. She didn’t have to face him every day.

Soon Sudha was back to her routine. Anandan was in the final year of graduation and had fallen in love with one of his classmates. The girl belonged to a rich, opulent family. Anandan was young and pragmatic and was able to convince his father to let him marry.
“I want to marry her before any one else claims her hands. She is very rich and beautiful and there are far too many suitors wooing her,” he told his father. Mahesh Chandran approved the plan tacitly though he knew Sudha was losing the years.
One day Anandan told his father and Sudha that he was getting married the next Monday and that his father-in-law had gifted him a flat and that he was taking his bride straight to the new house. Sudha was shocked and hurt; she was taken by surprise but she didn’t want to be a spoilsport in her brother’s happiness.

The marriage was a big show, everything being arranged by Anandan’s father-in-law. Mahesh Chandran was happy that Anandan had married a rich girl but he didn’t like his son going away from him. He but realized that Anandan would not listen to him any more.
After Anandan’s going away, it was left to Sudha to take care of her father who was now having an indifferent health.

Meanwhile, there was another development. Really, Sudha had nothing to do with it but she could not stay away from it either.
Ram Chandran, one of Mahesh Chandra’s relatives lost his wife leaving behind a son of three years. Ramchandran had no one else to fall back upon other than Mahesh Chandran who reluctantly agreed that the child could be dropped at his place after the school in the afternoon and stay there till his father picked him on way back from his office.

Sudha had sympathy and then affection for the child. She would leave a lunch packet for the young child despite Mahesh Chandran’s rambling demur. On the days the school was closed, Ramchandran came to Sudha’s place in the morning to leave the child there. On such occasions, they would go to their offices together. Slowly, their meetings developed into mutual liking.
Mahesh Chandran developed creeps whenever he saw them together, talking or smiling at each other. One evening he saw them in each others’ arms and kissing passionately. Mahesh Chandran’s blood boiled. He wanted to tear his hair and shriek but surprising he did neither of the two. The fear of being left alone was rising alarmingly in his mind.

“Who will look after me when Sudha gets married?” The apprehension tormented him and he became hostile towards the child and Ramchandran. One evening when Ramchandran had came to take his son, Mahesh Chandran asked him to sit down.
“I want to talk to you,” he said asking him to take a chair.
“You and your son are parasites, a bad omen for my family and I don’t want its evil effects on me or my family member,” he said without naming Sudha.
Ramchandran was at his wits end. He had never anticipated his uncle using such foul and offensive language for him.
“Listen, looking after your child can not be a life time liability for me or for my daughter. So, make your own arrangements at the soonest possible,” Mahesh Chandran shouted and limped off from the room.

After a week, Ramchandran stopped coming to Mahesh Chandran’s place. Sudha guessed something must have transpired between Ramchandran and her father and it was not difficult for her to guess what that could have been.

As the years passed and grey hair appeared around her temples, there were no suitors for Sudha’s hand. In fact, she had left the idea of getting marriage for she was nearing forty even though she was slim and agile belying her age.

II

A new boss had Hariharan joined Sudha’s office. He was middle age, baldy and with a little paunch. The story went that he was a divorcee.
Hariharan was jovial, somewhat garrulous and believed in taking life as it came. He was affable and shared jokes even with rookies. At times, he pulled Sudha’s leg for her work addiction and her disinclination to join his gossip group.

One day Hariharan went to Sudha’s cabin unannounced and took a chair beside her. Sudha was flabbergasted by the surprise visit.
“Sir, you could have called me to your chamber.”
“No. I wanted to talk to you on a personal note. Sudha, you generally avoid me…… perhaps consider me an unreliable person…. talking nonsense and possibly a flirt, a women chaser.”
Sudha was not prepared for such an outburst.
“No sir, not at all sir….. please don’t think that way …….. it is because I don’t get time from my work ……. believe me sir…. please sir……,” she managed to say.
Hariharan looked in to her eyes and said, “You too believe me. I don’t want to harm or hurt any one in any way.”
Pausing a little, he then added, “I am a lonely person. My wife left me twenty years ago. My only son has settled in the States. After leaving the office I have quiet, dreary evenings. I can’t sleep properly. So when I am in the office, I compensate for it. Believe me, I don’t intend to impress or influence any one. I act boisterous simply to avoid getting crazy.”
Sudha believed his words and after some reservations, the ice broke between them and she started liking Hariharan. In fact, they became friends.

Sudha took Hariharan to her place couple of times. Mahesh Chandran didn’t like him. He felt Hariharan was pompous and crafty; an unreliable man and therefore an evil company for ladies and for Sudha in particular.
To Mahesh Chandran’s discomfort, Sudha over the period got closer to Hariharan. She found him a soul-mate and they often spent their evenings together.
“Avoid that leech,” Mahesh Chandran warned Sudha many times. Sudha listened but did not react.

A couple of months later Mahesh Chandran was taken ill and admitted in a hospital. Sudha divided her time between home, office and hospital. She went to the hospital every morning with tiffin and took dinner for him in the evening. Mahesh Chandran sulked whenever Hariharan accompanied Sudha to the hospital and did not fail to register his disapproval over his presence in some way or the other.
“He is ugly looking and far too senior to you in age. You deserve a much better groom,” he often counseled Sudha.

Hariharan was very accommodating and sincerely helpful. Unfortunately, their companionship became a matter of gossip. Lewd graffiti filled the bath room walls and elevator doors. Rumours were afloat that they were sleeping together after Mahesh Chandran’s hospitalization and they noticed their colleagues avoiding them.
One evening Hariharan and Sudha discussed the situation and decided to get married. However, in view of Mahesh Chandran’s hospitalization, they wanted to make it a brief ceremony in the Meenakshi temple on a Sunday morning.

It was Saturday evening. Sudha got a call from the hospital to come over immediately. She rushed there and met the doctors attending her father and returned home after necessary consultation.

Following morning Sudha was married to Hariharan in the presence of the temple priest and a few friends. It was a brief ceremony, the thin attendance being attributed to the hospitalization of Sudha’s father.
After the marriage ritual was over, Hariharan suggested that they go to the hospital to seek the blessing of the ailing parent.
“Yes, we should.” Sudha whispered.

As Hariharan turned to take the stairs to the medical ward on the first floor, Sudha stopped him.
“He is no more in the ward. We have to go to the mortuary.”

2009-08-10T08:53:00.000-07:00

Acknowledgement from Author:

Dear Friends

Nothing is more satisfying than the feeling that some of you read my stories and in fact send me your comments regularly.

One of my learned readers from Washington wrote last week that my stories remind him of the maestro of Hindi short stories, Prem Chand. With all humility, I must say that I feel elated.

Another reader from East Timor has sent me the following comments after I blogged my last story, ‘Different Strokes’.

“Your Malawian story brought back pleasant memories of Africa. The beauty of the country, the poverty that a large majority of them have to endure and yet the generosity of the people has been brought out most eloquently in Different Strokes. There are so many like Herbert in Africa. People who willingly take over children who lose their parents to AIDs without any complaint and treat them like their own children. I actually find Africans far more generous in this regard than Indians. I like your observation on undercooked fish and chicken!! They like their meat a little rare though not as rare as many of the angrezs!!”

Please do read the stories, feel them and send me a line.

Best Regards

Thapliyal

DIFFERENT STROKES

2009-07-23T10:28:00.000-07:00

We were driving north of Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi, along the west shore of the Lake Malawi to the town of Mzuzu. I was then working in Lilongwe as a doctor in a rural health project. Though I had been in the country for over six months, it was my first visit to Mzuzu.
It was the month of March. Rain was pouring in, now and then like proverbial cats and dogs. At times, the visibility was so poor that we could not make out whether the approaching vehicle was a car or a truck and jumping over the pot holes repeatedly was a painful reminder of my chronic backache.
There were two reasons for me to go to Mzuzu under such circumstances. I had not seen the town of Mzuzu, which was famous for its beautiful forest reserves and wealth of wild life. Secondly, there was a marriage in Herbert’s village. Herbert was keen that I attended the marriage and frankly, so was I.

A large number of Malawis in the north are Christian by faith. The Church however has acted pragmatically, causing least dislocation in their personal lives. It has allowed the natives to follow their animist traits, customs and rituals including long drinking sprees. A Malawian marriage ceremony is a lively soiree over eating and drinking till the stocks last.

Herbert was in his forties but looked more than his age because of his irrepressible desire and capacity to consume alcohol at any hour of the day along with smoking cheap cigarettes. Excessive drinking had made him obese and lethargic. Besides, Herbert was garrulous, often to the point of irritation. His endless chattering at times tested my patience save that my ears were sufficiently trained to accept only what was relevant to the work.
“Herbert, God forbid if you were ever caught in side a building on fire, you will never reach to safety. First, you will start rambling and secondly, you are awfully lethargic,” I remember to have told him once to his dislike.
“Sir, you don’t know, I was in my school football eleven and that too the centre forward. Now, at my age, I don’t have to run around to prove my agility but if a situation demands, I can surprise many like you.”
“You mean you can still play good football?” I egged him.
“That is for the kids now, I can prove it in many other ways,” he said with a mischievous grin.
By then I knew adultery and fornication were the forte of Malawian males. Most of them spent weekends in the bars and the nights with the bar girls, that is if you had enough ‘Kwacha’ - money in your pocket. In fact, I used to find it extremely difficult to sit by the side of Herbert on Mondays when he used to come to the office straight from his weekend revelry. He used to be in crumpled clothes and stinking. Let me add here, Herbert was no exception.

Herbert, I had learnt was the son of a village chief from Mzuzu district. He had seen the authority of his father over his people and imbibed it by instinct. Even though he was a driver, he liked to order around and get the work done from a distance and he would be in the front row to claim credit for a job completed.
The worst of Herbert was his habit of pinching money. I had to take good deal of care to protect my money from him. He would buy grocery for me at double or triple the rates. I had however reconciled to the situation for I knew he was the only driver of the project and I had to bear with him so long as I wanted to work in Malawi.

Passing through the small hamlets, I was pained to see awfully dismal living conditions of the people. One could see men and women with tattered clothes; semi nude, bare foot children playing in the squalor all over. Most of the villagers live in circular huts with mud plastered wall under thatched roofs. They neither have electricity nor water supply and yet they didn’t complain. Malawians are easygoing, complacent people, satisfied with two meals of Nsima, a paste made out of maize flour. Everyone prays for rains during the months of November and December to have a good maize crop. That is the common fate of the rural masses living in the small, beautiful country of Malawi often called as tourists’ paradise.

Malawi derives her name from the word "maravi" which means glowing reflection. The name has been derived from an exalting view of the morning sunrays falling on the lake surface and setting it aglow. The British ruled the country until 1964, which really meant a hold over a large tract of land and its rich flora and fauna. They cultivated tobacco and indentured poor Malawians as labour to the copper and gold mines in Zimbabwe and South Africa. The colonial rulers knew, they didn't have to develop any infrastructure in the country to meet their commercial targets. In fact, it served their purpose best to keep the people illiterate and impoverished.
During the forty five years of independence, various governments have come and gone in Malawi, doing precious little except borrowing from UN bodies, developed countries and donor agencies. The life in the villages where eighty percent of the population lives is simply pathetic.

We reached Mzuzu by eight in the evening. Herbert took me to the forest lodge where a room was booked for me. The lodge was on a rock ledge with the valley spreading towards the foothills of the mountain ranges in the west.
I was tired after eight hours’ rigour. I took a quick shower, had my dinner and went to sleep for I wanted to see the sunrise over the Lake Malawi. I told the watchman to wake me up at five and to make it doubly sure, I put an alarm on my mobile phone. Having come so far, I didn't want to take any chances.

I woke up before my mobile tinkled and switched on the small electric kettle that I generally carry. While sipping my coffee, I put on my T-shirt and half pants and ran out of the guest house barefoot to the rock-ledge just hundred yards away.
As the sunrays surfed over the silken spread of the Lake Malawi, it looked as if the entire lake was aflame. The ripples on the lake surface were breaking in to kaleidoscopic patterns of colours. It was simply amazing, just out of this world. What grandeur of natural bounty! I then realised the meaning of the name, Malawi.
I was sitting motionless, watching intently the noble gift of the nature. Fine cool breeze was caressing and comforting my body and soul. It seemed as if I had reached the pinnacle of peace and comfort leaving behind all travails of life. I had forgotten the wretchedness of the world that we live in.

I was still in my world of romanticism until the watchman brought me back with an apology for not waking me up and wanting to know my choice of breakfast. I told him to leave me alone. For me, those moments were preciously divine and the least I wanted was any distraction in my romancing with the nature.
Herbert’s village was three miles away from the lodge. He was to come and pick me around eleven. The marriage was to take place in the small village chapel.
There was foul smell as we neared the village. Pigs, dogs and ducks were running around and children squatting over the kuchha track leading to a spring, the only source of water. Flies and mosquitoes swarmed as we traversed across the village. No research was required to know why there were large number of cases of hepatitis, cholera and malaria in the country. The inhuman, pathetic plight of Malawian villages is in fact, a slur on the face of civilized societies and donor agencies not tired of tom-toming their contribution in improving the life of the unfortunate natives.

Drinking had started before we reached Herbert’s place. Everyone in the village had come out with his and her best outfit. It was a sunny day and the bright gaudy colours of their dresses were sparkling. The drummers were active and people were dancing around the place earmarked for this purpose. Mindless of the miseries that etched their day to day life, it was gaiety personified that day in that small hamlet in Mzuzu.
Herbert was coming to me off and on and asking whether I was comfortable and enjoying the ceremony. I assured him that I was enjoying every moment of it and that he should not bother.
The marriage party had arrived. The bridegroom was a youngish boy. I was shocked to see his emaciated body and the pronounced limp in his right leg.
On arrival, the bridegroom's side has to give the promised dowry to bride's parents. It had been agreed that the bridegroom’s family will give two goats, five chickens and hundred Kwachas as dowry to bride’s parents. Things until then had gone to everyone's liking.

But now there was an altercation.
Cynthia, the bride was pregnant and the bridegroom was refusing to accept the child as his and claimed that another young man of Herbert’s village was also courting Cynthia and that, though he was still willing to marry Cynthia, he couldn’t pay the full dowry.

The matter was brought before Herbert who by then was in no better condition than the rest after hours of sustained drinking. Some one brought a wooden chair and fitted Herbert in to it with quite an effort.

"Sir, I would like to marry Cynthia but my financial position is very weak. I can not afford to pay the dowry in full," the bridegroom pleaded before Herbert, now acting as the village chief.
"Did you sleep with any other man?" The chief asked Cynthia.
Cynthia apparently was a no-nonsense girl.
"Sir, this man is a speaking the truth. He used to take me to the school after it closed and there his cousin, the school teacher often waited for us. We used to drink before and then make love but that was with mutual consent."
The chief was apparently serious and for the first time I saw Herbert speak solemnly.
"We can not prove the antecedents of the case since the other man is absconding. The fact before us is that this girl is pregnant and the child may come out any time,” Herbert spoke in his typical loud voice.
Then pausing a little he turned to the bridegroom, “You say you want to take this girl as your wife. If so, it is your responsibility to arrange for the dowry. And for that, whether you borrow, beg or steal, it is your problem.”
Everyone lauded the judgement. The bride’s father was simply elated. The bridegroom was visibly depressed.

“Sir, I told you my predicament. I am an orphan and I have no land. I want to marry Cynthia but I need time to arrange the dowry.”
The bride’s father protested to the suggestion. “I wouldn’t allow you to marry my daughter unless you arrange the dowry in full,” he shouted.
The celebrations’ had come to a stand still. The drummers had slumped to ground.

I was a silent spectator. Whose child was in Cynthia's womb? I thought of DNA tests and then laughed within myself. My mind was reeling under these arguments when I saw Herbert pushing the chair and coming out of it and addressing his people.
"I am concerned about the future of this young couple. I don't want this young man to be buried under debt. Debt is like leprosy. Once you get afflicted, it rarely leaves you. I don’t want that to happen to this poor man. I will therefore pay the entire dowry to bride’s father.”

I was startled by Herbert’s announcement and so were the rest. I knew Herbert cheating on small purchases he made for me or for the office. This was a big amount by Malawian standards.
"Wasn’t he the petty, slimy dishonest man I knew?” I was querying to my self again and again but was unable to decide.

The matter having been resolved, the marriage proceedings continued with more eating and drinking. I took leave and as I was taking to the wheels, Herbert came forward and said, “Sir, there will be no dinner in the guest house. The cook is here...I... will bring your dinner in the evening."

Herbert came in the evening with his son. He had brought roasted chicken and fish. Herbert was quite drunk and he had brought a bottle of local brew with him.
"I know you don't like country brew but please try this. It doesn’t stink and gives better kick than whiskey.”
He then shouted for his son and gave him long winding instructions and then he turned towards me, “Sir, I tell you one thing…. every person acts good so long you keep on kicking his arse. Give him a free rope and he is a spoiled man."
I felt inconvenient for I knew I was mild with men working with me and I found it difficult to be curt or harsh. Herbert on the other hand expected men to give him respect. I had often seen him ordering the rest of the staff, including those, senior to him.

We were sitting outside under the clear blue sky. The fried chicken and fish was undercooked but eatable. Suddenly, I asked Herbert, “Wouldn’t you need money to give dowry on your son’s marriage? I mean, weren’t you over magnanimous?”

Herbert took a long sip from his glass and told me, “Sir, God willing, I will be able to arrange the dowry for my son’s marriage whenever required. But did you see the plight of the man, the bridegroom yesterday? He is awfully poor and a cripple. No one even employs him on fields. Who will give him loan? Where can he ever find money to have a wife?”

I was astounded to find a different person before me. And as I kept looking at him, the inimitable mischievous smile was back on his face.

Next day, as I drove back through the beautiful valley, Herbert's words were ringing in to my ears.

MATCHING OF THE STARS

2009-07-08T08:22:00.000-07:00

This is a story from a small town of Paori in the hill district of Garhwal, now a part of state of Uttarakhand in India.
Ram Prasad Mamgain was a primary school teacher in Paori. He had a daughter Shristi. Ram Prasad’s wife suffered from tuberculosis. He had often seen his wife coughing and panting for breadth. He would rush to her with a glass of water and medicine on such occasions and try to keep Shristi away from her. Ram Prasad had kept his wife in a separate room with a separate set of utensils. That was the custom those days; the victims of tuberculosis were kept in isolation. No one even talked to them.
Ram Prasad served his wife with rare devotion till the end came. He was then forty-five and Shristi was merely eleven. Ram Prasad Mamgain didn’t remarry even though in his community, men elder to him would have done so. He perhaps had an apprehension that he might have caught the disease from his wife. He was therefore worried for Shristi. She was a bright student and Ram Prasad after long pleading and cajoling was able to shift her to his brother’s place in Lucknow.
“I am sending you away because I want you to concentrate on your studies. Your mother wanted you to be a doctor and I want her dream to come true. Don’t worry about me for I have lived my life and I too want nothing more in my life than to see you as a doctor. I will be sending money to your uncle every month. Your uncle has agreed to the arrangement.”
Young Shristi listened to her father pensively. Her heart ached to leave her father alone.
Ram Prasad continued after taking a long breadth.
“You will have the company of your cousin. He is your age; reads in an English school. I have asked your uncle to get you admitted in the same school.”

Shristi was studious by nature and her father’s words rang in her ears every now and then. She did very well in her school examination and qualified the entrance examination for a course in medicine.
For Ram Prasad, it was the happiest day of his life when Shristi qualified as a doctor. There were not many doctors from their community. In any case, Shristi was the first lady doctor from her community. For Ram Prasad and his folks, it was a big occasion and even though Ram Prasad had never touched liquor in his life, he allowed it to be served in a lavish scale. Ram Prasad him self had to be carried to his room.

A couple of months later Shristi was appointed as a medical officer at Dehradun District Hospital. Ram Prasad had retired by this time and shifted to his village. His fears had come true. He too had been afflicted by tuberculosis. The village people had ostracized him. They neither went to him nor did they allow him to enter their homes.
Shristi went to her village immediately after assuming the charge of her new job and was aghast to see her father. She insisted that he accompanied her.
“I will treat you, it is a curable disease or else I will consider all my efforts to become a doctor have gone waste,” she told Ram Prasad.
Shristi was an enthusiastic young doctor, always encouraging her patients, bearing a smile even when going was tough. She treated her father with dedication and in a year’s time Ram Prasad was nearly cured. Shristi was delighted to see her father up and on his feet.

Shristi was twenty-seven and Ram Prasad was now keen to get her married. “I may not live long. I want to see you married and settled before I leave,” he often told Shristi. Shristi gave her consent.

“I have only one child and she is a doctor. I want an equally qualified boy from a well to do family and make sure, their stars match perfectly,” he told the family priest.

The search for a suitable bridegroom ended with Arvind, the only son of Kula Nand Dimri, a well-established businessman in Kotdwar. Arvind was never a good student, his interest in books waned as he gained access to his father’s money. After several attempts he graduated in the lowest grade. Kula Nand asked him to join the family business.
The family priest was elated on his find.
“Ram Prasad, this is the best match you could get for your daughter. I have studied their horoscopes. Their stars match perfectly. Your daughter will have a long and prosperous happy married life.”
Ram Prasad was happy with the priest who wanted to impress his client further. “The boy belongs to a rich and renowned family of Kotdwar. They have a palatial house and several servants. Shristi will live like a queen.”
Ram Prasad was quizzed for he had lived all his life in Paori and around. “Which family are you talking about?” He asked the priest.
The priest was waiting for the question. He gave a long drag on the cigarette and pausing a little he said, “It is the Dimri family, the richest family of Kotdwar town.”
Ram Prasad knew the Dimri family and that the family was quite rich though it didn’t enjoy the best of reputation.
Ram Prasad wanted to be doubly sure. He knew the family priest was garrulous and a little dicey. For a few chips from Kula Nand, the priest could be exaggerating.
Ram Prasad made copies of the two horoscopes and took them to another priest and he was quite relieved and happy when the other priest also confirmed matching of the stars assuring a harmonious happy married life for his daughter Shristi.

Kula Nand Dimri had acquired an ostentatious life style. He had started as a menial servant in the house of the District Forest Officer posted at Kotdwar when he had come out of his village thirty years ago. Kula Nand but had a sharp mind and knew how to keep his bosses in good humour. Over the years, he had travelled a long way. He was now the wholesale timber merchant of the district, owned two trucks, a passenger bus and his house, Dimri-Mahal was the prominent landmark of the Kotdwar town.
Kula Nand was happy that his son was getting married to a doctor. He knew Ram Prasad Mamgain was a poorly paid teacher and that nothing could be expected from him in dowry. Kula Nand, a shrewd person had his own plan. He wanted Shristi to resign her government job and start private practice. To succeed in his plan he had greased the priest’s palm sufficiently.
The marriage was only a week away. Knowing Ram Prasad’s financial position, Kula Nand took on him self the responsibility of making all arrangements. Things were moving well but Ram Prasad’s mind was at unease. He remembered his father’s words some thirty years ago. “The priests are a greedy lot. They can lie to any extent to make their clients happy.”
Ram Prasad left for Rishikesh telling his people that he wanted to get the blessing of his ‘Guruji’ before solemnising his daughter’s marriage. “I will be back tomorrow evening, he told his younger brother.
Ram Prasad got the two horoscopes examined afresh for the third time and when his ‘Guruji’ confirmed that it was a perfect matching of stars, Ram Prasad was greatly relieved. He returned to Paori a happily assured person.
The marriage was a grand show. People from the small hill town of Paori were suitably impressed. Ram Prasad was quite happy and so was Kula Nand.
The happiness but dissipated much quicker than any one of them would have imagined. Shristi refused to resign her job.
“You work for a paltry sum. I want to make a nursing home in Kotdwar and you will see money pouring in,” her father-in-law impressed upon her.
Shristi didn’t like the idea and Ram Prasad was in a dilemma for he knew Shristi was proud of her job.
“I have hardly any experience and a nursing home needs specialised treatment. Let me work for a few years and gain some experience. We can take up this project a little later,” Shristi tried to persuade her father-in-law.
“Don’t bother, I will hire good experienced specialists, you only have to count the money,” Kula Nand laughed, pleased with his own sense of humour.

Counting money was not the ambition of Shristi’s life. She resisted the move and joined her duty a week later at Dehradun, annoying her father-in-law. A week later Arvind joined her at Dehradun.

Arvind was up set at the very look of the government quarter allotted to Shristi. The door and window panels were cracked and the paint had faded. On the walls, at several places, bricks were showing as the plaster had peeled off. There were cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and ochre patches of rain marks dotted the wall surface. There was a pungent odour inside the house.
Shristi was pleasantly surprised to see Arvind. She knew Arvind was accustomed to better living conditions. She was apologetic about the state of the quarter but promised to get it done up soon.
“Arvind, I am so busy with my work and father is too old to do anything. Any way, I promise to take care at the soonest possible.”
Arvind didn’t respond. Next day he engaged two hands and got the house cleaned up. In the evening when Shristi returned from her office, she was pleasantly surprised to see the house spruced up.
“Arvind, you must have worked the whole day. It looks different. I will now get the repairs done and get it painted.”
Arvind simply nodded. “You must be tired, let’s go out for dinner,” he suggested. Shristi hesitated for she had to cook for her father.
“Please give me a little time. Let me cook something for father and I have to give him an injection.”
“Ah! That will take the whole evening,” Arvind was put off. Trying hard to keep his temper he asked her, “Why do you strain so much? I mean, why you aren’t amenable to my father’s suggestion. Surely, it would make life comfortable.”
“Arvind, try to understand. As a professional, I look for job satisfaction rather than comfort or money for that matter. I would be reduced to a manager in the nursing home, counting money and that is not my vision of life.”
“What’s wrong in that? Aren’t you doing the job for money?”
“Arvind there is difference in what I am doing here and what you are suggesting.”
“It’s plain bullshit. You are not doing a social service. In the ultimate analysis it is money that matters.”
“I wish I could make you understand,” Shristi said, throwing her hands in exasperation. The evening was ruined.

Arvind noticed Ram Prasad often coughing and spitting phlegm. He had a suspicion. The idea of living with a TB patient petrified him.
“What disease is your father suffering from?” He asked Shristi one evening. Shristi looked at Arvind and replied, “He had tuberculosis but he is nearly cured of it.”
Arvind was shocked and shaken.
“What? Your father has TB? No one told us… that priest is a bastard… and you must have known it earlier. Oh God! What a fate, married in a family afflicted by TB?”
“Arvind, please cool down. It is true, my father was suffering from TB but he is nearly cured. I am personally looking after him. I assure you, no harm will come to you.”
“Shut up you liar. I now realise why you rejected my father’s offer. I cannot stay here even for a day; I am leaving by the morning bus.”
The altercation between the couple upset Ram Prasad terribly.
“Son, I will leave for village tomorrow. In any case I don’t have many years left and I can’t see your life ruined for my sake.”
“You are a bigger liar, a crook and a bloody cheat. I am sure even your daughter has TB and soon I too will have it.”
Ram Prasad squatted on the ground before his son in law. “Son, there is nothing wrong with Shristi. After all she is a doctor. Please don’t go away. I will leave early in the morning.”
“You are going nowhere,” It was Shristi who was quite agitated by now. Then turning towards Arvind she said, “I am damned if I abandon my old and ailing father, the one who gave his sweat and blood to bring me to this position.”
Ram Prasad was still on the floor. “Child, my happiness rests on yours. I know you love me but …please let me go… and… if you still try to stop me, I will jump in front of a train.”
Shristi was stunned but resolute. “You will not go simply because someone cannot bear your presence. It is my decision, jumping in front of a train will be yours.”
Arvind was enraged. He rushed out of the house and went to a telephone booth to call his father.
Kula Nand Dimri heard his son and paused. “Arvind, I don’t think you should leave your wife in a hurry. May be Ram Prasad leaves the place……, I think he will do it for he loves his daughter immensely.”
Kula Nand’s words offended Arvind.
“She was your choice, I would have been happier with an ordinary woman. I cannot risk my life and in any case we are incompatible altogether. She has no place for me in her life… it is insulting …...” Arvind broke down.
“Your ego is higher than the Himalayas, not good for a woman,” Arvind said to Shristi before leaving.
Shristi was hurt. “How could you be so inhuman? Would you have done the same thing if it were your father?” She asked Arvind who stammered some expletives and left the place.

That was the beginning of the parting. “May be, I was too strict with him,” she often thought and yet she was not convinced that she should have thrown out her father. She wanted to write to Arvind and apologise but she could not, something always held her back.
Her miseries increased when Ram Prasad who was quite saddened over the events in his daughter’s life passed away in his sleep. And Shristi then found that she was carrying. She wrote to Arvind and pleaded to start afresh.
“Now that my father is no more, we can start afresh. I am willing to leave the job if that makes you happier,” she wrote.
The reply was very brief, merely a few words of condolences. Shristi wrote again and this time she told him that she was going to be the mother of his child. There was no reply from Arvind.

Shristi wrote to Arvind after a son was born to her. Several letters that she wrote thereafter to Arvind remained unanswered and then one day she received a legal notice of divorce. The charge was adultery. Arvind had disowned the child.
Shristi was shocked. She didn’t contest even though she knew she could prove in the court of law that it was Arvind’s child. The court granted ex-parte divorce.

Shristi named her son, Ram Prakash in memory of her father. When Ram Prakash was five, she put him in a hostel and opted for field duties. “I need some extra money for my son’s education,” she told her senior.
“Is this the solution to the problem?”
“What else?”
“You could make new beginning; you have a long life ahead of you.”
“Perhaps there are too many evil stars barring happiness enter my life.”
“That is nonsense, you should make an attempt.”
“Thank you doctor but the passage of time has not been able to heal my wounds. They are still raw and soar.”

Shristi missed her father and her son. One reminded her of her past and the other raised the hope for future. In the evening after the hard trekking in the treacherous sun when she returned to her place, she felt a vacuum in her life. There was none with whom she could share her sorrows. She knew many of her colleagues were waiting for her to fall prey to their lust. Every one believed that a divorcee was easily accessible.

Depression was mounting in her life. She took to drinking. She would bring the liquor quietly and drink to get over her loneliness. It was only a matter of time that everyone in the department came to know of it.
Shristi knew that Arvind had remarried. It was a coincidence that she had received the invite from an old college friend who was marrying Arvind. She sent her a message congratulating her.
“I would have loved to attend your marriage. I am sure you understand my predicament.”
“It was a mis-match,” she had often heard her colleagues say till they forgot her and her story.

That was twenty-three years ago. Ram Prakash grew in hostel and Shristi spent most of her life in the field.

Ram Prakash is a matured young man, and an engineer now with a decent job. He knows the tormented life his mother has lived and her addiction to alcohol.
“No more field work hereafter,” he said to his mother after getting the job. “We will stay together and that will help you get over the problem,” he added.
Shristi was happy that the ill-luck dogging her life had stayed away from her son. She often remembered her past and felt gloomy.
“Was it my fault or Arvind’s or was it destiny? Perhaps we should have tried to understand each other more rationally, tried to accommodate each other. Perhaps…” She could never conclude.

“Ma, do you have my horoscope?” Ram Prakash asked her one evening.
Shristi gave her son a searching look.
“Nirmala’s folks are insisting that our stars must match before they gave their consent.”
Shristi knew Nirmala was Ram Prakash’s girl friend for couple of years.

She looked up and touching him over his shoulder she said, “Son, I don’t have your horoscope but marry Nirmala if you love her. My father too insisted that our stars matched and matched perfectly …… and you know my life.”

Ram Prakash felt sad for his mother.

Shristi resumed after taking a deep breadth, “Son, it is important that you understand each other. Take my word; it takes more than matching of stars for a marriage to succeed.”

AN ABIDING WISH

2009-05-30T05:32:00.000-07:00

Anand Sharma wasn’t young though he looked young in his mid forties. He had come to Tokyo to attend a six week course on mass communication. It was his first visit to Japan and being a strict vegetarian, he was quite uncomfortable. There was hardly any meal without meat or fish. In fact, most of the preparations served to him in the hotel or in the Japanese Institute of Mass Communication had strong fish odour. He lasted on fruits, cheese sandwiches and salads during the first week and then finally compromised on eating egg preparations.
Generally, the faculty spoke Japanese but the students, mostly from Asian countries spoke English, which was interpreted by the two interpreters engaged by the Institute.
Yuko Suzuki was one of the two interpreters. She was tall and slim and had her education in USA, where her father had practiced medicine for a long time. She was more popular amongst the trainees for her lively, affable nature. The trainee officers felt more at ease in approaching her for their day to day problems.

Anand too liked Yuko and she respected him for his age, knowledge and experience, perhaps in that order. She was however impressed after she had interpreted his speech and a small poem he had composed when the trainee group had called on the Mayor of Hiroshima.
“You write well and speak very well. Your poem, ‘An Ode to Japanese Farmers’ is very touching. I don’t know whether I did justice in interpreting it,” Yuko had told him at the close of the function.
His speech and the poem were published in the local papers next day, with his photograph with the Mayor. Yuko had brought a copy of the newspaper. She gave it to him with a big hug.
“I am so happy for you. Your speech has been received very well and the poem particularly has been acclaimed in a big way. They say you are a genius.”
Anand recalled that he had butterflies in his stomach when he approached the dais to speak on behalf of the trainee group, which was customary. He had noticed a big smile and thumb-up from Yuko while walking to the dais.

Yuko had come to know of Anand’s eating habits and tried to help him to tide over the problem particularly during field visits, which were far too many.

It was the third week of their training. They were being taken to Osaka for three days. It was a hectic schedule requiring frequently quick movements from one site to another. Though instructions about individual food habits had been passed on to the host restaurants in advance, communication gaps still remained making life difficult for Anand.
Anand was awfully surprised when at the close of first day’s programme, Yuko came to his room and handed him a sufficiently large packet of sandwiches with different recipes and cake pieces.
“It will take care of you to some extent. You can supplement it with some thing from the table.”
Anand didn’t know what to say. He mumbled thanks as she left the room.

For reasons best known to the genealogists, people from Indian sub-continent are generally emotional. They are moved by small favours and upset over trivial matters.
Anand was floored by the gesture. Was it a special gesture from Yuko? Why should she have taken the trouble of bringing food packet all the way? Is there anything to it?
He knew it was being crazy. He had two loving sons and a dutiful wife waiting for him back home. It was incredible that an introvert of his like should have fallen in love in a strange country with a girl half his age.

Yuko lived in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo. She had lost her mother in the early childhood and her father, had not remarried. Her elder brother lived in Osaka with his wife. Yuko loved her father immensely and that was the reason that she had been desisting marriage suggestions.

It was Sunday. Anand requested Yuko if she could accompany him to Tokyo Disney Land. Yuko’ father had gone to his son over the week-end. She was free and agreed instantly.
They had a very pleasant day at TDL. Anand was floating over the ninth cloud in the company of his young companion. Anand was now sure that he had developed a liking for Yuko and he longed to be in her company.
Was it infatuation? Was it love? He was not sure. Was it misinterpretation of her charming smile, her pleasant nature and her caring concern? Was it platonic attraction or was it purely physical? He was not sure of that too. He had however told her of his life, his family, of his sons and his job.

Following that visit to TDL, Anand had a restless night. He was enthralled, rather captivated by Yuko’s charm. He kept on thinking of some excuses to be close to her. Next morning he invited her for coffee after the classes.

Yuko was equally fascinated by her new friend. She was aware of his short stay and his family background and yet she felt comfortable in his company. Anand took her to a coffee shop. They talked of religion, politics and of economy, occasionally pecking at personal matters. After the coffee, he escorted her up to her place and left with an invitation to meet at her again the next evening. He was thrilled that this time the invitation was from Yuko at her place.

Anand saw her standing at the balcony. The flowers and a small gift he had brought made her very happy.
“Please come in and take your seat. I will join you soon,” she said before going in to the inner room.

Yuko came out in a pink gown. She had let loose her long hair. Anand was awed by her presence. Her perfume and her curvaceous body were enticing him, stretching his imagination to no end.
She served him a couple of cake pieces, pastries and sandwiches along with coffee. They talked on almost every subject that crossed their minds but in his inner thoughts, her proximity was drawing him crazy.
It was late evening. Yuko offered him to stay back for dinner. He accepted. She took out a bottle of saki from the cupboard.
He knew he was getting bold if not insane after couple of Saki. He held her hands in his and looked at her speechlessly and then he held her in his arms and kissed passionately. Yuko responded. It was a perfect harmony of feelings and desire bringing their hearts and bodies into a blissful fusion.

They met a few more times and every time Anand would vow to avoid being physical and he would fail every time. A brief smile, a friendly handshake and her body aroma would lead him to the temptation. The attraction was too intense to remain platonic.
Days were passing rapidly. Anand was getting panicky as the day of his departure neared. He wanted to spend most of the evenings with Yuko.

She had come to see him off at the airport. Her silent gaze tore his heart. Holding her hands, he promised telephone calls, letters and possibly a visit in future.

“Please do not promise anything,” she whispered. “Unfulfilled promises hurt you more. I want you to stay true to yourself. That is what matters. My love will be with you always. Take care,” she whispered.
Anand pressed her hands and went inside the terminal melting into the crowd.

Time acquires additional wings, sometimes two, sometimes four and at times many more. Conversely, its wings are clipped or crippled, making it drag painfully slow. Ironically, the two contrasting phenomena could be happening concurrently. There is but one simple denominator. If you are standing on the right side of life, good time flies faster. If unfortunately you are on the wrong side, difficult time has its wings inflicted.
Anand was on the right side of life, he was having a good time. After joining his family, he had made a casual reference of his friendship with a Japanese girl to his wife; it meant nothing more to her and he was swarmed by the events in his own world. For Yuko, who was treading on the wrong side of life, the time had its wings clipped.

Anand sent her a letter along with a family photograph. It was prosaic composition, and he knew it. In fact, he was very cautious in choosing his words. Apparently, he had written the letter without any urgency for it was written six weeks after his return.

On that single day Yuko received two communications. The first was the medical report from her father’s clinic and the second was the letter from Anand. The first conveyed the existence of a life with in her and the second was the lifeless letter from an erstwhile friend.
The medical report had not shocked her nor did Anand’s letter cause her any aversion or ill feeling. She felt no malaise towards him. Perhaps she had anticipated things to take turn that way. The doctor-father wanted her to be relieved of the burden, which Yuko politely but firmly refused. “It is my responsibility and I will bear it alone,” she told her father.

Yuko named her son, Akira, which meant brightness.

Time gained some wings for Yuko too. She now helped her father in his clinic. Akira was a bright student. He was eleven years old now. He was slim and tall with dark hair that often reminded Yuko of her past.

Akira was a serious lad much beyond his age. He had come to know the whole story from his grandfather. He never talked of it with his mother though his young mind was agitated whenever he saw his mother sitting quietly in the balcony, looking intently at the sun dissolving slowly into the western horizon.

Akira had completed his school and he was to choose a profession. His grandfather wanted him to be a doctor so that he could take over the clinic after him.
“No,” was the brief but firm answer from Yuko.
“I want him to do Business Administration.”
Pain seared through young Akira’s heart. This woman refuses to think beyond a worthless man who non-existingly existed for her.
“I don’t like business and businessmen,” he shouted.
“You are going to be a successful business executive,” she said in her cool and impassionate voice.
“Be a businessman and go and find out that scoundrel,” Akira shouted in a rage.
“I will do that. Yes I will do that but I will kill that devil with this very knife,” he fumed waving the knife he had picked up from the table.
Yuko was shocked. She could not speak. She was gasping for breath. Tears appeared in her eyes.
It had taken sixteen long years for her to cry and the tears won’t stop. She broke down completely.
Akira was moved. He never wanted to hurt his mother.
“I know you loved him but I don’t know why you still love him and so dearly.”
“Son, we don’t know what compulsions he might be having. For me, it is enough that you are the precious gift of our love. He doesn’t know anything about you. All I want is to have him share this happiness,” she said holding his head against her bosoms.

Akira was appointed a junior manger in a multinational company. He was doing well and his company had asked him to go on a business promotion tour. Akira had opted for India.
Yuko was pleasantly surprised. She saw her wish coming true.
Before bidding farewell to Akira, she said, “Take this my son,” and handed him an old photograph she had preserved so dearly. It was her picture with Anand. Akira had never seen that photograph and he had never seen his mother as cheerful like in the photograph. Akira wished he could bring back those moments in his mother’s life. She also gave him Anand’s business card to help in locating Anand. She had been preserving that card, Anand had given her eighteen years ago.

Akira went to Anand’s office and asked for him. Anand was now amongst the top brass of the company. It was not difficult to locate him but what could a young boy from Japan say about his relation with a man who had been to Japan nearly two decades ago.
“I have a gift for him from one of his friends from Japan. I would like to see him at his residence,” he told Anand’s Secretary who obliged smilingly. The young man must have brought a precious gift for the boss for promoting his business interest, she thought.

Anand had grayed completely but held straight and tall. His wife was no more. Both his sons were living separately.
It was late evening. Anand was sitting in the lawn reading a book. A cup and pot of tea lay on the small table beside him.

There was storm raging inside Akira. His mouth was dry and his voice, a mere shriek.
“Excuse me Sir. You are Mr. Anand?”
Anand looked up. In front of him was a young boy perhaps from far-east.
“Yes. Yes, I am Anand. Please do come in.”

This man oblivious of his sin is not worth any respect, Akira thought. Walking straight towards Anand, Akira extended his hand. Anand offered him a chair lying next.
“Please be seated, and tell me what can I do for you?” Anand then asked his servant to get some tea and snacks for the young man.

“I am Akira. Coming from Shinjuku district of Tokyo,” Akira said.
“Nice meeting you. I had been to Tokyo once and I remember that area.”
“Yes, I know you had been to Tokyo. And do you still remember Dr. Shibata of Shinjuku district?” Akira asked him.
Suddenly, dark clouds appeared before Anand’s eyes. He became pensive, colour fading from his face. He paused and then said, “Yes. I remember Dr. Shibata. He lived in the yellow building next to the children park. I remember, he lived with his daughter; very nice people.”
“The yellow building and the Children Park are no more. A tall sky-scrapper has replaced them.”
“Oh!” Anand sighed.
All these years, whenever Anand remembered his stay in Tokyo, he identified it with the small park, the yellow building next to it and the people living in it.
“You know Dr. Shibata and his family? How is he? Must have grown old,” Anand asked Akira.
“I am grandson of Dr. Shibata,” Akira said icily.
“What a pleasant surprise! I am really happy to see you. I remember now. Your father lived in Osaka. I never met him though. I knew Dr. Shibata and your aunt only.” Anand tried to compose himself.
“Dr. Shibata is no more and I am Yuko’s son though she never married. She is still alive. I don’t know why but she is still alive,” Akira whispered staring at Anand.
Those looks had questions, anguish, contempt, grief and pity.
Anand was shaken. His voice quivered. “Oh God! You are the son of Yuko? Son of Yuko! Oh God!”

An era had passed. Was it two decades? Was it a millennium? All he had done was to write an innocuous letter and forgotten the past conveniently. Suddenly he remembered Yuko’s words.
“Please do not promise anything. Just try to be true to yourself.”

He had been untrue to himself and to Yuko who loved him so dearly and to whom he had many so many promises. Guilt and shame had wrecked his conscience.
“Please stay with me to night,” he told Akira before entering the house.

It was a quiet dinner. Anand had still not recovered from the shock. After dinner, they sat in the living room with coffee. Anand was fidgeting with a magazine and Akira was glancing through a newspaper. Both of them were choking with emotions. There was a lot to be said and a lot to be heard. But words were failing both of them.

Anand then took Akira’s hands in his and asked, “How is your mother?” And after a long pause he said, “I have sunk so low that perhaps my voice may not reach you. You know …… you are.....” and he could speak no more.
“Yes, I know father. I know everything,” Akira said and kissed Anand’s hands with his quivering lips.

“My mother knows that this moment I am with you. It was her only wish that I come here and see you. She has no other wish in life. In fact, she has been living for this moment. She may now die peacefully.”
“Please don’t say that, please …… ” Anand cried.

After a while Anand took Akira to the adjoining room.
“Go to sleep my son,” Anand said after a while and sat on a chair near Akira’s bed. He was looking at Akira and revisiting his past. His fingers were caressing the soft hair of his son as he remembered the moments he had spent with Yuko.
Suddenly Akira sat on the bed.
“Father, please give me your passport tomorrow. Next week, we are flying to Tokyo to see my mother,” he said gleefully.

THE BLOOD RELATION

2009-04-27T08:58:00.000-07:00

She was a Hindu Brahmin girl who had married, in fact eloped with her one time class mate, Parwej Qureshi, a Muslim boy. Nothing was considered a bigger stigma for a Brahmin family than the fact that its young daughter had married a Muslim boy. Had they been caught within the village borders, her father, Ram Kripal Mishra, an army sergeant would have had no second thought in shooting them down to salvage his family honour.
Ram Kripal Mishra commanded great respect amongst his people by virtue of his large landed property and rank of Subedar in the army. He liked to be addressed as Panditji though it was a strange coincidence that like Parwej’s father, Ram Kripal Mishra too was a carpenter by trade in the Corps of Engineers of the Indian army. Notwithstanding Ram Kripal’s carpentry trade in the army, Parwej Qureshi, a teacher in a school was not acceptable to the Mishra family as its son-in-law basically.

It was about twenty five years ago that Sumita and Parwej were in the same school and in the same class in a small town of Kalka in the foothills of Shivalik ranges. Parwej’s father had a small carpentry shop under a tin shed on the road side while Ram Kripal Mishra was posted in the Movement Control Unit of the Army at Kalka Railway Station.
Parwej was a handsome and intelligent lad. Sumita had developed a liking for him, though she was too cagey to express her feelings to Parwej or any of her friends.
Those days in a small town school in India, there were separate rows for girls in the class rooms and if playgrounds existed, boys played around and girls clustered at one end watching them. Sumita watched only one person, her eyes followed Parwej, whatever he did and wherever he went. Her feelings for Parwej, her desire to be near him was getting intense by the day though she was conscious of the deep community divide.

Ram Kripal Mishra had completed more than three years at Kalka. He was due for posting to a different station. The change was expected any time. In fact, his tenure had been extended on his request to let him stay at Kalka until his daughter had taken her secondary examination. Sumita knew it and the very thought upset her. The fact that it would take her away from Parwej pained her. Her heart cried but she had none to share her pain for she was too scared to give words to her feelings.

“My father has been posted to Udhampur,” one evening she mustered courage and told Parwej while returning from the school.
Parwej looked at her; he was baffled but said nothing.
“We will be shifting to our village near Karnal after the examinations are over.”
The developments were too sudden to unsettle even the cagey young man.
“You never mentioned it earlier.”
“I wanted to… but I was not sure whether you would be interested.”

That was true. Parwej had never tried to come close to her even though he had not failed to notice her looking at him attentively and doing small odd favours to him.
The impact of impending separation on the adolescent minds was reverberating.
“Sumita, I know you have been very nice and caring and believe me I always wanted to talk to you … somehow I could never pick up courage. You see, your folks would have never approved of it,” he said, his voice faltering.
“I don’t know if we will meet in future…. I will always remember you,” Sumita whispered.
Parwej was dumbfounded; he didn’t know what to say. They looked at each other silently.
“Parwej, will you reply if I write to you?” She was desperate but bold, wanting to be in touch with him.
“Yes I will, I promise….”
Sumita was overwhelmed. “Thank you Parwej. Please give me your address.”
Parwej paused for a while and said, “Sumita you know there is an insuperable religious barrier between us. Even though I could guess your feelings towards me, I deliberately behaved indifferently. At times, it was difficult and I cursed myself for it. But I wanted to avoid putting you to discomfiture of any kind.”
“Parwej, I am happy you feel that way. Perhaps, sometimes words are not required if the feelings are sincere. Thank you, thank you very much,” she said.
Parwej saw the tears rolling down her cheeks. They stood there frozen looking at each other. Parwej then took her hand in to his and pressed it softly.
The sun behind them was going below the skyline as they took the separate lanes for their homes.

For the rest of the week they tried to steal few minutes off and on exchanging some inane words expressing their feelings but apprehensive of spelling them. They both knew that the Mishra family would never approve of their marriage. In fact, both of them were aware that even a mention of it might cost them their lives.

On the first day of the final examination, Parwej came to Sumita and gave her a fountain pen. “It is a small gift from me. I wish this pen brings you good luck in the exams,” Parwej told her.
“Thank you. I know you will do very well. God bless you,” she said and then added after a little pause, “I will preserve this pen to the end of my life.”
Parwej saw her holding the gift between her palms and kissing it passionately.

Five years. They could not meet but they kept their promises. Sumita wrote to him as when she could manage stealthily and she had asked Parwej to write to her at the address of her trusted friend. Their friendship during this period blossomed steadily even though they were physically separated.

Sumita’s parents didn’t want her to continue her studies further.
“Matriculation is enough for you. You should now develop sewing, embroidery and culinary skills, which is what your in-laws would expect from you,” her father had told her. Her mother and the rest of the Mishra family had endorsed the view.
Parwej during this period had completed his graduation and soon thereafter got a job of a teacher in a private school. Sumita’s father who by this time had retired from service was looking for a suitable match for Sumita from his caste.
Sumita wrote to Parwej of her father’s plan. “Let’s meet early before it is too late,” she urged him.
“You know, your parents will never agree to our alliance. We have to take our own decision. Now it is for you to decide. I promise to be loyal to you all my life,” Parwej wrote to her adding that he will come to her village on hearing from her.

Sumita knew their move was dangerous but she wanted to see Parwej. The desire was intense relegating all diffidence to the side line.

“Come by the last bus on coming Sunday and when you get down, you would see an ochre building on the right. It is the village school. I will be waiting for you in the backyard.”

They met with the ferocity of hungry, starved lovers. The fire that was dormant all those years burst uncontrollably making them oblivious to all fear and apprehension. Their souls, minds and bodies had fused like molten lead losing the sense of any other existence beyond theirs.
When they returned to the physical world, they were unable to converse. They were breathing heavily and words would not come out. There were hundreds of big and small matters that Parwej wanted to tell Sumita and she wanted to tell Parwej. They had forgotten everything.
“I must leave now but tell me where will you stay tonight?” Sumita asked Parwej, setting her dress in order.
“I will walk back to the railway station and sleep on the platform.”
“Railway station is ten kilometers from here,” she said, worried.
“That is not the problem or the issue. What is important is that you have to make up your mind. If you are willing, we can leave the village right now and get married.”
“Please give me some time to think over,” Sumita said holding his hand and kissing it.
“Sumita, I can do nothing more than waiting. You know my mother had died young and my father has no time for me, he is busy with his new family. Please remember, I will be always by your sie whenever you want..”

As they were coming out of the school gate, to their utter horror, the watchman of the school appeared from nowhere. He knew Sumita quite well and was surprised to see her in the company of a young man at that odd hour. He gave them a searching look.
“He is a distant relative of ours. I brought him here to show the school,” Sumita said walking past the glaring eyes of the watchman who smiled maliciously at the uncalled for information.

“Parwej, we are in serious trouble. In couple of hours, the whole village will know of my inexplicable presence at this isolated place at this hour and that too with a stranger.”
Parwej didn’t know what to say.
“Parwej, please run away as fast as you can, take lift from any vehicle going to the railway station and catch the first train to your place,” Sumita pleaded with Parwej who refused to leave her alone.
“Parwej, there is but one justice in this part of the world. That you, from a different community have been seen in the company of a Brahmin girl is reason enough to kill you and kill me. It will be a humiliating, insulting brutal death. Please run away … I will face whatever the fate has ordained for me.”
“It is our fate and we will face it together. I am not leaving you alone,” Parwej said holding her hand firmly.

The lovers finally decided to run away from the imminent danger vowing to face the world together. They had a streak of luck. A Petrol tanker gave them a lift up to railway station. They took the first train leaving the station and reached Rampur next evening, the place of Parwej’s work.

The school watchman lost no time in spreading the news of young couple found in the school courtyard. Soon the Mishra household was on fire. The women howled in side the four walls as men ran in every direction to catch the culprits.
Next morning, everyone of the village knew of the humiliating episode. In the afternoon there was a village panchayat and justice was remitted instantaneously. The errant couple was condemned to death by hanging publicly. The Mishra family was admonished and fined for not keeping a watch over their daughter. The penalty collected from them was given to a search party to trace the couple.

It was the most humiliating day in the life of Pandit Ram Kripal Mishra. He wished his daughter and her lover were caught and brought before him; he would have hacked them to pieces and burnt them.
Away from the Mishra household in a small dingy lane in Rampur, Parwej married Sumita in the presence of a Maulavi and a few of his friends.

II

Sumita missed her folks. She wrote a few letters to her father seeking his pardon. There was but no reply. Two years later they had a son. They named him Arif. Arif’s birth brought her happiness in half a measure for her parents were not there to share her happiness.
Sumita’s string of woes was not over for it was for sometime that Parwej had felt pain in his abdomen. He often missed his work. One evening when the pain was unbearable, Sumita took him to a hospital. The doctors after few tests told her that Parwej was having cancer and advised her to take him to a bigger town.
Sumita had no money. She wrote once again to her father and her brothers. “Parwej is dying for want of treatment. I need you at this moment. Please help me, come to my rescue.”
The reply from her father was brisk.
“For me, you died the day you brought shame to the family. We have already performed your shradh ceremony (performed for the deceased relations) and we all went to Hardwar for a bath in holy Ganga to absolve ourselves of the sins committed by you.. You don’t exist for us any more and sooner the better if the man you are living with also dies.”

It was a long painful wait and she waited helplessly, watching Parwej grimace with pain and vomit blood, life oozing out of him and then one day Parwej died leaving her alone with a small child of three years.

Sumita decided to leave Rampur and move to Delhi for she wanted to get lost in the anonymity of the big city. There was only one thought in her mind.
“I will do anything and everything to bring up this child, give him good education and make him a worthy citizen like his father.”

Her first day in Delhi was horrible. For the whole day she went from house to house asking for a job.
In big cities people are suspicious and apprehensive. Carrying her child from one place to another, she was tired and her legs were aching. She was exasperated, didn’t know where to pass the night for she knew she may be picked up by the police or the vagabonds and she dreaded both the prospects.
She purchased a loaf of bread and entered a nullah on the side of a road, which lead to a depressed ground and then to a cemetery. She saw a hand pump and sat there and then took out the loaf of bread, which she shared with her son. She drank water from the hand pump and poured some in her son’s mouth.
It was dark and she could listen to the whizzing of the mosquitoes and echoing toad calls. She put her child on the ground next to her and rested against a tombstone. The fear of ghosts, which haunted her all her life had suddenly disappeared from her mind.

Next morning she collected her meager belongings and holding her son in her arms she went around the colonies seeking a job. For three days she went from door to door pleading for a job.
No one would trust her.
There was no money left with her. She had not been able to feed her son for two days. She then decided to beg. Her heart cried when she got two stale chapattis and left over vegetable.

“What would my father do if he were to see me begging and eating the leftover, filthy food,” the thought suddenly crossed her mind and then putting a morsel in her son’s mouth she smiled wryly.

That night she could not sleep. She remembered Parwej and she remembered her father and her mother who once loved her dearly. The night passed as she watched her son blissfully sleeping close to her chest.

Next morning she walked towards the slums along the nullah looking for some idle space. The sun was hot and she felt very weak. She could not walk any more and sat down near a garbage dump. The stink was unbearable but her legs were failing. Looking at her pale, listless son, at times she thought he was dead and then she would feel his pulse and place her hands over his nostrils. Fatigue and hunger finally took the toll, her eyes were hazy, her head reeled and she lost consciousness.

“You have fever and your child is also in very bad condition. Take some water,” she heard an old man and noticed that she was inside a small thatched hut.

Sumita hesitated.
The old man looked at Sumita and stretching a helping hand he said, “I will stay with the neighbours. You can stay here until you find some alternative shelter.”

Sumita was startled by the offer from an unknown person. She was amazed further to see everyone in that slum keen to help her. No one asked her past, her religion or her caste. It was selfless, spontaneous help for a fellow being. The old man on learning that she was an educated woman arranged a job for her in a private clinic. The neighbours helped her raise a hut.

It began with cleaning of floors and other menial jobs. Sumita was not disheartened; she took it in a proper stride. Over the years, she was given better jobs and finally made an office attendant. She had put Arif in a school. As he grew, young Arif watched his mother toiling for his bright future.
“You must work hard to uphold the name of your father,” Sumita often told Arif who even as a young child was determined to do so. He did very well in the school, qualified for a scholarship followed by a career in medicine.

It was nearly twenty years ago that Sumita had come to that slum colony. Arif was now a doctor and had taken up a job in the same clinic where his mother was now the Office Supervisor.
Sumita often remembered her past and she remembered her parents and her days with Parwej. For all these years she had been isolated from her folks physically though mentally she could not help.

One evening some one brought an old man to the clinic. He had fallen from a bus while getting off. He was seriously wounded and bleeding profusely.
The nurse on duty came running to Sumita and told her that there was an accident case and that the patient was sinking and that she should inform the police since it was a medico-legal case.
“Take him to OT. I will call Dr. Arif,” Sumita told the nurse as she picked up the phone to call the doctor.

That night and the following day, the patient was in the ICU after an operation. Sumita did not leave him even for a second despite the nurses telling her to take some rest. Dr. Arif noticed it and guessed that the patient was someone his mother knew and was perhaps close to her.
The patient was old, very weak and anaemic. Dr. Arif felt that he needs blood transfusion immediately. He was amused to learn that the blood group of the old man’s and that of his own was the same. Since no donor was available and the matching blood was not available in the clinic, he offered to donate his blood for the patient.

When the patient came to his senses he asked for water.
Sumita picked a glass of water and brought it to his lips. After a couple of sips, the patient opened his eyes. It was Pandit Ram Kripal Mishra looking at his daughter, Sumita.

Ram Kripal Singh was in a very weak condition. Sumita had told about him to her son. Dr. Arif and Sumita were taking care of him personally. Slowly he gained health and was now in a position to walk around.

“Sumita, my child, I know I have been harsh to you. You see, I could not have defied the panchayat.”
He paused for a little and then added, “Later, I didn’t help you when you asked for it since I could not reconcile to the fact that you, a Brahmin girl had married a Muslim. You see, there are social norms and traditions, which we must uphold lest there was a social anarchy ……. hope you understand.”
“Father, lets not talk of bygone days. Perhaps God willed it that way. I am happy that I was of some service to you.”

Ram Kripal Mishra wanted Sumita to accompany him to his village. “People have forgotten the episode and your mother is no more. Besides, here you are living a lonely life.”
Sumita declined the offer politely.
Ram Kripal Mishra was unhappy at his daughter’s decision. He was now keen to return to his village. He told Sumita, “But for you and that young doctor, I would have not survived. He is a highly skilled doctor. Besides, his blood is running in my veins. I will remain obliged to him forever.”
Sumita remained quiet.
Ram Kripal continued, he was quite enthused, “The doctor is very handsome ………. looks like a scion of a royal family…….. Do you know anything about his family?” He was inquisitive.
Sumita looked at the emaciated old man and then said in a low voice, “He is Dr. Arif Qureshi, the son of my ostracized Muslim husband.”

THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE OF GOTARU

2009-03-27T10:02:00.000-07:00

Author’s Note: It is now 60 years that India got its political independence. Surely, there has been economic development in the country. The per capita income has gone up, child mortality has decreased and literacy percentage has increased and so on. These are but statistics bolstered by government slogans like Garibi Hatao (Poverty Alleviation), India Shining, Bharat Nirman and many more. The reality is that life has not changed much for the rural poor. Distribution of wealth in the country has been acutely uneven. Stark poverty still exists amongst millions who have neither shelter over their heads nor are they fortunate enough to have daily meal and it is a deprecating irony that in this very country there are privileged few spending millions on personal amusement and recreation.

In the sands of Great Indian Desert in the Jaisalmer district of Rajasthan, there is a small village called Gotaru. The dusty outskirts of the village now form the international boundary. The population is a mix of Bhils, Gujjars and Meenas, the backward castes among Hindus and Muslims. They are however identified by their professions such as cobblers, carpenters, masons, blacksmiths and other such trades. Lure of money has now added occupations like pimping, stealing, bootlegging and smuggling to the list. However, the most unfortunate development in the past half century has been the division of the people on religious basis, which the old men and women say didn’t exist in the pre-independence days. The divide is the gift of politicians, the modern destiny makers of the poor people.
In fact, in good old days, religion for the people of Gotaru meant following a few common rituals on the occasions of birth, marriage and death. Id, Holi and Diwali were celebrated collectively by Hindus as well as Muslims. Firewood being difficult to get, even the Hindus buried their dead. Survival in fact was the essence of life.

There is an earthen mound on the east-end of Gotaru. The mound has a cave facing east. Perhaps it was a temple since the half-buried and withered pillars have yakshas and Kinners carved on them. No one knows when the structure was constructed and by whom? The people call it mati-tillah. In the past, the cattle and children of the village soiled the place, and there never was any feud over its ownership. Instigated by politicians and religious leaders, today it has become a bone of contention between the two communities.

Hakim Sah is an old man of the village. He is one of the five panchs of the village panchayat. He doesn’t know his age.
“I may be seventy, may be eighty, may be less, I really don’t know and really come to think of it, how does it matter?” He says feebly.
Hakim Sah was a tall man with broad shoulders, which were now drooping because of age. In his young days, he had a camel and was engaged in ferrying goods. His entire life is a saga of oppression, exploitation, persecution, hunger, pettiness and crime. He has killed strangers for few silver coins and he has acted as a pimp without any compunction. But today, he is infirm and helpless, unsure of his next meal.
Pherumal is a contemporary of Hakim Sah. Both of them have spent their years in and around Gotaru. Pherumal was a blacksmith by profession. They were close friends who had shared happiness, pain, sorrow, liquor, stolen booty and prostitutes.
Pherumal is no better than Hakim Sah in terms of health and worldly possession. He lives under a perforated tarpaulin stretched between two mud walls, secured to a Neem tree on one side and a keekar bush on the other.

1942 was the year when Congress Party workers wearing white khadi had come to Gotaru. It was the year when Quit-India Movement had stormed the entire country. The party workers were carrying the tri-colour flags. There were Hindus, Muslims and Sikhs in that group. All of them were shouting Inquilab. The people of Gotaru don't remember the details. They only remember that the group talked of freedom from the British rule and that they promised better life for every Indian after the white men were driven out of the country.
Hakim Sah squints when you ask him the difference in his life after the white men had left. His face gets distorted with the wrinkles. He is circumspect, perhaps flabbergasted by the relevancy of the question.
“What change? A Raja is a Raja and the Praja is Praja always. The former is born to rule and the later, to be ruled. What difference does it make whether the Raja had a white skin or brown skin? We will always remain the Praja, the servile,” he laments.

The year 1947 changed the course of the history of the Indian sub-continent. It was a difficult year for the people of Gotaru. They were told that half a mile away, from the other side of the village nullah, a new nation of Pakistan had been created. The people of Gotaru could never conceive the prudence of the decision. In fact, the Tangia, a village on the other side of the nullah with identical population composition was now part of Pakistan. Apart from poverty and hunger, which were common on either side, the people of Tangia and Gotaru were related to each other by marriage. Besides, the masons from Tangia and the carpenters and painters of Gotaru worked in both the villages and even beyond. The division of the country had curtailed their movement, making life more difficult.

Hakim Sah was once caught and severely beaten by the border police. He thereafter discontinued going to the other side of the nullah. Over the years, his body strength drained out and he could not bear the treachery of the sandy tracks.
Hakim Sah had two children, a son and a daughter. His daughter, Sabina was married to Sahnawaj, a camel rider from Tangia village. Sahnawaj unfortunately died in a clash with his own people over a land scuffle leaving behind a daughter, Sakina of two years.
Life became difficult for Sabina and her daughter. Sabina was in her early thirties and when an elderly cousin of her husband proposed to her, she married him even though her new husband had six children and two wives. Sabina was not welcomed in the new family. The senior wives of her husband often insulted her and her daughter Sakina was always last to get meals. About a year later, her husband's amorous interest in her waned and he considered Sabina to be an unnecessary additional mouth to feed. One day he took unsuspecting Sabina to Karachi and sold her off to a brothel keeper.
When Hakim Sah came to know of it, he went to Tangia and brought his grand daughter, Sakina to Gotaru.

Hakim Sah's son, Aftab didn't like his father. The dislike was mutual. Aftab disliked the look of a camel and refused to accompany Hakim Sah on his business errands. Aftab became a rebel and finally turned in to a petty thief and a bootlegger. He was caught, beaten up by the border police several times but the habit didn't die. Whenever he got some money, he spent it on liquor and prostitutes. Today, Aftab is mentally and physically diseased. Children tease him and you can see him loitering and begging in Gotaru and adjoining villages.

Pherumal too had a daughter and a son. The son joined his father when he was eleven. Working on a furnace in the blazing desert is understandably a very tiring job. Pherumal after day's work would find relief in a bottle of country liquor, which he often shared with Hakim Sah. Pherumal’s son soon adopted his father's passion for drinking and smoking and in the prime of youth he became a victim of tuberculoses. He often suffered chest pain followed by vigorous bouts of coughing. On such occasions, Pherumal would give him liquor to bear the pain. The battle didn't last long. One day when pain was acute and he was heavily intoxicated, the young lad vomited his lungs out. Life deserted him with black fluid oozing from his mouth. Pherumal's son died at the young age without any descendent.
As time passed and Pherumal got over the grief of losing his son, he became sad for not having a male descendant. Pherumal wanted to have one, at any cost. One night he entered the hut of his son's widow. The young widow resisted but failed and capitulated to Pherumal's irresistible desire to have a male descendent.
Pherumal was happy over his triumph. His wife as well as his daughter-in-law had succumbed to his desire. Everything was working to his liking, unaware that the widow but had her own plans. One day, the young widow left the village for some unknown destination. Pherumal was disappointed, not for losing his daughter-in-law but for losing all hopes of having a male descendant.

Pherumal's daughter, Kajari was married to a young man from the adjoining village, Tanot, which was a tehsil of Jaisalmer district. Kajari’s husband was in the service of Thakur Kripal Singh, the landlord of Tanot village. The Thakur owned five hundred acres of land tilled by bonded labourers. Apart from money, Thakur Kripal Singh also liked wine and women. He had more than a dozen Goli-maids in his harem to satisfy his carnal desires. Kajari was initially employed as farm labour. One day Thakur Kripal Singh saw her and he was stuck by her bewitching beauty and figure. He immediately ordered that Kajari be added to his harem as his new Goli.
It is the duty of a Goli to serve the master and to satiate his sexual desires. A Goli's husband has no right over her body and it was sacrilegious for the husband to touch or desire his wife. The Goli and her husband were however duty-bound to accept the children sired out of the companionship with the master but children from a Goli had no right over the property of their biological father.
Over a period, Kajari was pregnant and was removed from Thakur's service. To her ill luck, one evening she was seen in the company of her husband who could not resist the charm of his wife. The inevitable followed. Kajari was paraded nude in the haveli and beaten till she fainted. Thakur Kripal Singh then ordered to throw her outside his haveli.
No one ever saw Kajari's husband. The story goes that he was hacked to death by Thakur's men and pieces of his body thrown in to a dry well.
Pregnant Kajari came to her parents who refused to accept her. Living behind her parents' hut, one night she gave birth to a son. Two weeks later, Kajari kept the newly born son below the cot of her father and left Gotaru in search of a new life. Nothing was heard of her thereafter.
Pherumal reconciled with his fate and accepted his grandson from Kajari. He named the young child, Panna.

Pherumal and Hakim Sah had grown old and infirm, unable to continue their profession. Pherumal’s family inherited a little knowledge of herbs. Unable to work at the furnace, he now practised as village quack. The two friends would sit together in the evening and talk of the bygone days and their miseries. Hakim Sah would bring his hookah. They would make a small fire out of dung cakes and smoke hookah, coughing phlegm now and then. In the winter months they would sit on the mati-tillah whole day, smoking and lazing around in the sun.

II

Young Panna, the grand son of Pherumal, was extraordinarily sharp. He didn't want to be a blacksmith. When eleven, he ran away to Jaipur and got the job of a dishwasher in a road-side restaurant. A couple of years later, he was employed by a retired army officer who had turned to politics. There, Panna had the opportunity of observing sly, deceitful, lascivious and hippocratic lives of the political leaders. He was amused watching politicians changing colours faster than the legendary chameleons. It was a training ground for Panna and he learnt the art with amazing alacrity.
Panna often went to his village and gave some money and small gifts out of his savings to his grandparents. Pherumal was very proud of his grandchild.

Panna was distressed to see the pathetic living conditions of his people in Gotaru and around. He felt that the upper caste landlords were ruling the country, exploiting the vote bank of the poor and down trodden. Pherumal and Hakim Sah were worried by Panna’s views, which he propagated openly. They always advised him to lie low. “We are Praja, destined to be ruled; they are Rajas.”
“That is a deep rooted fear instilled in you by the upper castes. They are the people who have made the rituals establishing their superiority. No other society anywhere in the world has such discrimination. It is time that we revolted against social persecution,” Panna often told the young boys and girls of his community.

Panna knew that democracy was the virtue of multitude. He wanted to harness this power, which he knew rested in his people. But the response from his people was far from encouraging. Centuries of servility and impoverishes, ridden with domineering rituals to respect the upper caste had left them timid and meek.
Panna wanted his people to realise that power belonged to them if they mustered courage. He was undeterred by their diffidence. He cultivated young men and women from his community and developed a network of volunteers to take up people’s problems with the district authorities. In couple of years, Panna became a known entity in political circles and consequently an eyesore to the upper caste political leaders.

The elections for the State Assembly had been announced. Panna was busy running from one village to another with his young friends. He had gained a lot of ground, which prompted almost every candidate in the fray to take him on his side. Panna declined all such requests and sent across messages to his people wait for his word until the eve of the election.
One evening Thakur Kripal Singh who was the District Chief of a political party called him to his haveli. Panna anticipated such invitation.
. "Look, you are a Hindu. In fact, your mother was in my employment. I suppose you understand…. I mean ….. ,” Thakur Kripal Singh was feeling uneasy to explain the relationship. With a little pause, he continued, “Why don’t you join us and work for me? If you garner all Hindu votes, I will surely win and for that you will be amply rewarded,” Thakur Kripal Singh was forthright.
"Thakur Saheb, you have been winning the Tanot seat for last thirty years. Please tell me what have you done so far? People go twenty kilometres to fetch water. There is no hospital here and in the absence of roads, the patients die before they can be taken to district hospital. The school is without teachers and its building is in a dilapidated condition.”
Thakur Kripal Singh was not prepared for such outburst but he didn’t want to precipitate the situation.
“Look, I promise to bring all these facilities to the villagers. I do realize that I should have been more attentive to these problems of the people but I assure that hereafter these public demands will be my priority.”
“Thakur Saheb, I see no specific reasons in your change of heart. The fact is you have been exploiting their ignorance, miseries and poverty. And now you are playing communal card. I want to tell them that if they remain united, the power belongs to them. I want them not to be swayed by your communal propaganda. I want to tell them that irrespective of our religion, all of us belong to the oppressed caste.”
The Thakur was infuriated. It was an outright insolence. It was an insult from the man whose mother was once his Goli.
He left the meeting in a huff.
"I don't want to talk to that bastard. Keep a watch over him and find out his weaknesses. Do something to keep the son of a bitch silenced," he told his cronies.

Panna continued with his campaign relentlessly. Slowly he was getting the attention of his people. The number of people coming to hear him was increasing. Thakur Kripal Singh was getting the alarming reports from his party workers. He decided to remove the thorn once for all.
One evening Panna and couple of his friends went to Tanot to attend a marriage. The host treated Panna and his friends reverentially and served them liquor in a separate room on a lavish scale. The drinking spree came to an end with Panna and his friends vomiting blood. A couple of hours later they died writhing in pain. The police declared it a case of death caused by consuming spurious liquor and closed the case.

For Pherumal it was a stunning blow. He could never recover from it. Hakim Sah was sad for he loved Panna but he couldn’t muster courage to go to Pherumal to offer his condolences.

Thakur Kripal Singh once again won the Tanot seat. Years have passed by without anything changing for the people of Gotaru.

III

It was the month of June. Sun was at its nadir. The wells had dried. People had to go long distance to fetch water, which was highly contaminated. There was an outbreak of cholera in the region. Death stalked every home. Children were dying every other day and those alive, were worst than the dead, their famished bodies looked awful.
Thakur Kripal Singh, the MLA had no time to come to Gotaru. He was in fact busy mustering support to stake his claim to become a minister.
In Gotaru, people's strength and courage was failing. There was no succour coming from any quarter. The government dispensary was twenty miles away. The village road made by the government agencies had vanished under the sand dunes.

The villagers all went to Pherumal for he was their last hope for some treatment of the dying. Pherumal had no children left in his family after Panna had died under mysterious conditions.
"Why have you come to me? What is left of my family that I should treat your children?" He shouted in anguish but his heart told him to save the children.

Pherumal had seen children dying in last few days. After every death the village was getting re-united. Everyone went to the bereaved family irrespective of its caste and creed. Pherumal with his shaking hands was administering the herbs to the children, writhing in pain and dying.
Pherumal remembered Panna’s words, “Our strength lies in our unity. Remember, no one will come from outside to help us.”

After six decades of independence, Gotaru is still a cluster of dilapidated huts. Withering mud walls supporting tattered tarpaulins mark the landscape. Children with running noses and perennial layers of dust on their body play with chickens, goats and dogs. The school, six miles away from the village is mostly inaccessible due to scalding sand or marshy patches during rainy season. The doctors seldom remain the in the dispensary, which is twenty kilometres away from Gotaru. Men in the pursuit of livelihood cross the border and are often caught, beaten and at times maimed or even killed.

The life of the people of Gotaru still remains a tale of unmitigated miseries, poverty, neglect and oppression in modern India.

THE SOLITARY COMPANIONS

2009-03-05T08:54:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: Friends, HOLI the festival of Colours is nearing (10-11 March). I wish all my readers A COLOURFUL TIME WITH HAPPINESS OF ALL HUES.
This is a story of an old couple living a secluded life, a situation now becoming common even in the oriental societies. Hope you like the story. I look forward to more followers and comments.

It was the month of November but the weather had suddenly become cold for Delhi. It was a gloomy morning because of cloudy sky. Sudha had just recovered from a bout of fever but the old age ailments persisted along with perennial arthritis. A day earlier, she had taken out her woolens. For Delhi, it was rather unusual but she felt she as well as her husband needed them.
She asked Vijay Mohan her husband, a retired government servant who was still cozying in side a quilt if he wanted another cup of tea.
“Coffee,” he said not taking his eyes off from the newspaper. Reading paper in the morning was his favorite past time, rather the only past time after retirement.
Yes, passing time after retirement from a government job needs great deal of adjustment. Thirty five years with government leaves you indolent and inert. It is like an ox, suddenly set free from his burden. Suddenly, there is nothing to hurry about, no urgency and no one asking for you or shuttling around you.

It is difficult to grade how successful a government servant has been. Promotions come with years; good placements and postings by appeasement and recognition by pretences – seldom by substance. Vijay Mohan had a share of all. A middle path addict, one who always played safe - no overdrive, generally that is what most government servants come to be.
For his wife Sudha, Vijay Mohan has always been a lazy person, which was now a blessing in disguise- it helped in easy transition to the new life with fewer activities.

“Some time, I wonder how you would have lived without me. You always needed coaxing, someone to goad you. Basically, you have been a lazy man,” she had told him the previous evening.
“Not in all matters,” he had replied with a broad grin.
“You are incorrigible.”
Vijay Mohan reflected and then told her, “Tell me, didn’t you, somewhere from deep inside you, want me to be lazy? To be dependent on you, to be always running around you.”
“That is grossly unfair”
“I know it was out of love in days gone by and empathetic affection now.”
“You always like to win.”
“Of course, I do.”
She waited for a few moments and then said in a somber tone, “I never tried; in fact, I never wanted to win over you for I knew it would hurt you.”

The remark had touched him to the quick. Suddenly, it was a revelation coming to him after thirty-five years of marriage. He was shaken. He always thought her to be a simple, dedicated wife, seconded to him, heart, mind and soul with no opinion of her own. If what she said was true then he had lived under an illusion. The thought perturbed him.
Sipping coffee, he became pensive. Yes, now he remembered. Whenever there were arguments between them, she conceded. And if his judgment went wrong, she never reproached him.
“Never mind, things could have happened either way. Let’s forget about it,” she would tell him on such occasions.
“How easy it has been to fool myself and naïve of me to have continued with it for perpetuity,” he now pondered.

“Sudha, you make good coffee,” he said trying to get over his ugly mood.
“If that is a compliment, you repeat it too often,” Sudha tried to humour him.
“My dear, I was never parsimonious in complimenting. I have a vast reservoir of compliments not utilized to its full potential. It is like an un-utilized, idle capital,” he said with a sardonic smile.
Sudha ignored the remark.
“Now, get up you lazy bum. You have to go to the bank today.”
“Yes, I remember but give me another cup of coffee before I move out”
“No more coffee for you.”
“Half, no?”
“God, you are impossible.”
“Sudha, if that is a compliment, you repeat it too often,” he said with a broad grin.

That was the life Sudha and Vijay Mohan lived, spread over a narrow canvass. After Vijay Mohan’s retirement they were living in a small flat in South Delhi. Their daughter, Anita, and son Arun, were both married and settled. Arun had in fact, shifted to Bangalore a couple of years ago on transfer though Vijay Mohan and Sudha always suspected that Arun had managed it on the bidding of his wife to stay away from them.
Vijay Mohan had laboured hard in grooming Arun during his school days and spent his entire savings to get him an MBA seat in a reputed private institution. Sudha and Vijay Mohan were elated when Arun had qualified and was offered a position in a renowned multi national company.

Arun was now an awfully busy and ambitious like all middle level business executives. After hectic office hours, he generally had busy evenings. He liked developing contacts and partying with an eye on furtherance of his business prospects. Arun’s contact with his parents was mostly over phone or during a snap business visit to Delhi.

Their daughter, Anita lived nearby, at a walking distance. She was a teacher in a public school and her husband was an army officer who was posted most of the time on border. Vijay Mohan and Sudha took care of Anita and her son. They would often take their grandchildren to the nearby park in the evening and watch them playing. Those were the blissful moments in their life.
Anita was busier when her husband came on leave. During those days, she would leave her son with her parents. It used to be a big melee in Sudha’s place on such occasions. The children would run around, jump and shriek in the small flat, which at times irritated Arun though he never expressed his discomfiture.

Years rolled by. Arun and Anita were busy in their family matters and their children had grown up with their own circle of friends and they had no time or empathy for their grandparents. In fact, it was a painful realization for Sudha and Vijay Mohan that their grandchildren often avoided them.

A few years later Anita’s husband took voluntary retirement from the army and started a travel agency. He was not good at it and soon his entire investment was eroded. Besides, his flare for socialization left him short of money. The only option left was to wind up his business, which required clearing the outstanding liabilities. He pressurized Anita to ask for some financial help from her Anita knew that her parents had some savings in the form of term deposits. She was reluctant initially but he pressure from her husband mounted every day. She broached the subject with her mother. Vijay Mohan felt it was an outrageous suggestion but finally yielded and gave most of his savings to Anita.

It was the month of January. For a lonely old couple, days in winter are short and evenings are long and gloomy. Sudha was down with viral fever and virtually bed ridden. They could not come out for over a week.
Vijay Mohan had always been a bad attendant. He could never locate any article for he never remembered its normal place nor did he ever place a thing back at its original place, which made re-locating it a difficult and long drawn process.
“This house is in a mess,” he would shout but grin when Sudha found the item he was looking for.
“How did you manage in your office?” She once asked him.
“I had efficient people around me to take care of everything.”
“You are a thoroughly spoiled, un-redeemable gone case. But, to be honest, I am to be blamed for this.”
“Are you taking credit for looking after my needs?”
“No, I take blame for spoiling you.”
“Hope its not self complimenting?”
“No, it is rather a confession,” she said and smiled.

The doctor, attending Sudha told her to avoid exposure to cold. “Keep you woolens on. It helps in arthritis. The change in weather makes it worse,” the doctor had advised.
Vijay Mohan was nervous as was his wont. He always got perturbed by trifle issues. Of late, this tendency had increased. If laundry man did not turn up on the fixed day and the hour of the week, he would worry to no end. If Sudha didn’t return from market at the expected hour, he would get panicky with ominous thoughts haunting him.
Sudha on the other hand seldom lost her cool. She would take care of the house, the guests and all house-hold chores. Vijay on the other hand would lose his nerve if he found too many people in the house.

Vijay Mohan remembered the by-gone days as he handed over the tablets and a glass of water to Sudha. Yes, there used to be children and guests in the house, and Sudha handled matters deftly. In fact, she made things go smooth and problems overcome un-noticed. When required, she would give medicine at scheduled hour, prepare tea and snacks for the visitors and attend to rest of the house-hold without any hassle. Vijay Mohan admired his wife tacitly for these qualities.

Sudha knew Vijay Mohan’s predicament. “Why don’t you ring Anita? She can come and give you a helping hand.”
This infuriated Vijay Mohan. “You are laid down with fever for over a week now. Couldn’t she ring or send some one to find out whether we are alive or not?”
Sudha said nothing.
“It is a bloody selfish generation. I remember how you cared, days and nights for their comfort and look, today they don’t even think of us; have not even a minute for us.”
“That is the way of life. We looked after them as our children and they are doing the same for their children.”
“You mean children need not reciprocate?”
“Please give me a pain killer,” Sudha said trying to divert his thoughts.
“You spoiled them,” he said with a gruff.
“Yes, I spoiled all of you, I own it,” Sudha said managing a thin smile despite acute pain.
“There is milk in the refrigerator and there is bread and there are eggs. Make an omelet for your self,” she said trying to soften his ruffled feathers.
“What about you?”
“Give me corn-flakes with hot milk and try your skill in making coffee.”
Vijay Mohan gave her a stern look and moved to the kitchen. Sudha smiled again briefly.

Arun rang from Bombay and told him to take care when Vijay Mohan informed him of Sudha’s indisposition. It sounded a casual suggestion. Vijay Mohan was enraged. He took out a magazine and sat beside Sudha.
Then the door bell rang.
It was Anita’s son.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” The young lad said switching on the lights. “And why didn’t you come to us?” He said looking at his grandparents and then noticing that his grandmother was lying on his bed, he continued.
“What is wrong with you, grandma?’
“Age, son, it is age.”
“Don’t talk riddles. You have not been coming to us and do you remember; you had promised to buy me a cricket bat. Next week is our school match and I must have the feel of the new bat.”
“Oh, I am sorry. You see I have been bedridden for the whole week. But I promise, I will get you one soon.”
“But I have to practice with it. Why don’t you give me the money? I will buy one my self.”
Vijay Mohan was incensed by the suggestion. Sudha cool as ever asked Vijay Mohan to give five hundred rupees from her purse to the young lad.
“Do well in the match,” she said briefly.
“I will and thank you grandma,” he said, picked up an apple from the fruit basket and ran away with the money.
Late in the evening, Anita rang up. “You should have given me a ring,” she told her father.
Vijay Mohan growled and handed the instrument to Sudha.
“Why shouldn’t it occur to them? They want others to do everything for them. Shouldn’t it worry them if they don’t hear from their old parents?”
“Vijay, take it easy. And now that she is coming to us in the evening, please stay cool.”

It was Sunday and Sudha’s birth day. Vijay Mohan always took great deal of interest in celebrating Sudha’s birth day. In the olden days, it used to be a hectic day for the family. There were phone calls and in the evening they would go out for dinner and make merry. Life then was full of mirth and joy.
That day they waited all morning, sitting close to the telephone, expecting their children to call. There was none, not even from their grandchildren. Sudha didn’t expect her son Arun to ring her for he had been often forgetting their birthday. It was always a belated greeting from him.
Sudha was sad and Vijay Mohan was anguished within but he didn’t want to spoil her day. There was whole day ahead of them and they did not know what to do.
Suddenly Vijay Mohan said, “Get ready, we will go out. We will drive to Sohna Lake.”
“You can not drive that long”
“We will hire a car. It is less than two hours drive and I remember you like the place. Let it be an exclusive picnic, birth day gift from me.”

Sun was mild and the breeze was pleasant. Vijay Mohan took a room in the motel and ordered lunch. They took the table overlooking the lake and had a quiet lunch. In the evening they came out and went to the lake and hired a boat. Sudha had brought coffee in a thermos and couple of cups.
“Additional cup of coffee, a yearly bonus for you,” she said handing him the cup.”
Vijay Mohan was moved.
“Sudha, I am very lucky to have you as my life partner. Today, I concede, life would have been terrible without you. Thank you darling for everything you did for me,” he said, overcome by emotion.
Sudha looked at him. She knew that he had been sincere to her all his life and that the words had come from his heart.
Tears welled in her eyes. She took his hands in hers and pressed them softly.

Vijay Mohan was then critical of his children.
“All our life, we strived for their happiness, tried to give them comfort even at our own cost. Shouldn’t they think of us? It is Sunday today. Anita could have come over or at least given you a ring. It is merely a sense of belonging that we look forward to.
“Vijay, you are over sensitive and that is your problem. You want everyone to be an idealist, which is a utopian situation.”
Vijay Mohan smiled. It was his typical cynical wry smile.
Sudha understood his feelings.
“You know I am often reminded of a saying –the cool far-end of a log doesn’t realize that the fire will reach it sooner or later - it is only a matter of time. What they are doing to us today, a day will come when their children will do the same to them.”
Vijay Mohan was dazed by her words. “I understand what you mean but it pains me that our children don’t realize that they have a duty towards us.”
“Look, let’s not bother. What matters is that we understand each other and make a perfect company.”

They walked along the lakeshore, hand in hand. The sun was going down, its golden arch making the lake surface aglow. The cool breeze was making fine ripples and there were little beautiful birds chirping around the green bushes.

THE ASPIRATIONS OF A BUDDING PLAYER

2009-02-13T09:39:00.000-08:00

The compound wall of the school is quite high, higher than any wandering vagrant can jump. All visitors have to pass through an iron gate manned by brusque security guards. All students, staff and faculty members have been issued identity cards, which they show to the security guards to enter the school premises. Others have to get one made to get in side the school. It is one of the most reputed public schools in Delhi and most of the boys come from affluent families.
Cricket is the most popular game amongst the school boys. For many years, the school has been winning the state inter-school cricket trophy. The school cricket team practices regularly after school hours. The cricket team is the pride of the school, a cricket blazer is a rare honour.

Kunwar Sein, son of an army officer was the captain of the cricket team and Gurpreet Singh, son of a rich businessman was one of the probable players. Gurpreet spent good deal of money on Kunwar Sein and the team mates. It helped him to retain his place in the team. Kunwar Sein being the captain of the team received special attention from him. In fact, it was a matter of envy amongst other aspiring players.

There was another boy who watched all these players enviously. Whenever a ball was hit over the nets, he would run to get it. At times he would return the ball with a bowler’s action. The regulars did not like it as they noticed the stinging pace of the ball. This boy was Mohan Singh, the son of late Ranbir Singh, the former bookseller of the school.
Ranbir Singh died of tuberculosis when Mohan was only seven. Those days, suffering from tuberculosis was a social stigma, its treatment was ineffective and generally the patient and the family were ostracized. After the death of Ranbir Singh, the school management gave the school bookshop to Mohan’s mother on compassionate ground, which was the only source of livelihood for the widow and her son. Mohan’s mother sold books and stationery to the students and they lived in the servant quarter behind the school building.
Mohan read in a municipality school, which was run in tents like many other government schools. In the summer months, the tents were hot like ovens. There were no fans or other facilities in the school. The uneven small school ground had weeds and pot holes all over and the sports facilities were conspicuous by their absence.

Mohan was tall and well built. He loved cricket and often dreamed of playing for the state and the country even though his mother often told him that dreams seldom came true. He simply loved the game and loved watching Kunwar Sein and his band playing cricket. He often spent his evenings standing on the periphery of the ground and fetching the ball.
Over the period, the players had come to recognize Mohan. He had become their errand boy. Besides picking the balls, bats and the kit, he attended to their other needs like bringing water, tea, snacks or cigarettes for them.

"Can I bowl you an over," one day he requested Kunwar Sein who was ready with pads on, waiting for the bowlers to come to the pitch.
“OK, but don't throw the ball in my face,” he said feeling magnanimous.

It was for the first time that Mohan bowled as a regular bowler. His maiden attempt was more than Kunwar Sein had expected. It had pace, length and bounce, better than the team’s regular bowlers and much too uncomfortable for Kunwar Sein to handle. The captain was visibly shaken.
“You should practice with us. You can become a good pace bowler,” Kunwar Sein told him. Mohan was overwhelmed.

That opened the doors of the game of cricket for Mohan. Thereon, he put all his heart and soul in practising the game. The school coach saw the potential in him and started guiding him. In couple of months Mohan was the ace bowler of the squad. There was but one snag, he couldn’t have played for the school team.

The state cricket championship was only a couple of months away. That year, they expected tougher competition from their traditional rivals. Kunwar Sein could not think of defeat during his captaincy nor would it have gone well with the school authorities.
“Our chances to lift the trophy can brighten if we have Mohan in our team. We badly need a pace bowler of his calibre. Please talk to the Principal,” Kunwar Sein pleaded with the coach.

The matter was discussed in the school management committee. Should Mohan be given admission in the school? There were divergent opinions.
“We should be discreet in the matter. After all playing food cricket is not the only qualification to get admission in our school,” some of the members opined. Others were more explicit.
“He is the son of a widow, earning her livelihood by selling books and stationery in the school bookshop, which was given to her on compassionate grounds. How do you expect the young lad to be comfortable in the company of the rest?”
The varied arguments continued but the prospects of losing to the rival school cast gloomier feelings, which ultimately weighed in Mohan's favour. He was admitted in the school and granted sports scholarship.
It was a dream coming true for Mohan.

Mohan was soon the best attack bowler of the school team. He practised relentlessly for hours together. His mother was very happy for him but deep in her heart she had some premonition. She had a foreboding that things happening to her son were too good to last.
The school lifted the state championship trophy that year. Mohan’s contribution was commendable in achieving the honour. There were accolades for him but he had earned some enemies as well.
Gurpreet was not a happy person for he had lost his place in the team to Mohan. This was hurting him and his father felt insulted whose annual donation to the school benevolent fund was the highest.

That year the school decided to send its cricket team on a foreign tour to a neighbouring country. It was a rare opportunity for the players. Gurpreet, like any one else was keen to be included in the squad and that would have been possible only if Mohan was excluded.

Unfortunately for Mohan, his mother was not in good health. She could not keep the long hours of the bookshop. Mohan didn’t have time or inclination to work in the book shop. In fact, he felt it humiliating to work in the bookshop selling books to his school mates.
The bookshop was therefore not opened regularly and on time. The matter was reported to the school management. Gurpreet's father who had a major say in the school management committee decided to use the situation and get the matter raised in the management committee meeting.

“The woman should realize that the shop was given to her on compassionate grounds. She can’t take it for granted. Either she should observe the timings laid down by the management or quit.” Gurpreet’s father was unequivocal on the matter and the rest of the members had no reason or will to oppose him.
A notice was served on Mohan's mother conveying management’s displeasure over irregular functioning of the school bookshop. It read, “Irregular functioning of the bookshop is harming students’ interest. You are given a month’s notice to improve its functioning; adhere to the prescribed hours failing which you should vacate the school bookshop.”

For Mohan, the notice was no less than a death warrant.
“If only I were not poor, if only my mother were not sick …….. I would have gone with the team and played on a foreign land. That would have brought him money and fame.”

“The bookshop gives us bread and shelter. If they take it away, what will we do? Where will we stay? We will starve and die in the open. Son, I know how much you love cricket but it is your misfortune that you have to forgo your love for the game and instead run a bookshop,” his mother said in a feeble voice.

Mohan took the notice in his hand read it several times.
“Mother, I understand the gravity of the situation. I had only aspired for a bright future by excelling in the game. Perhaps it was not my destiny … perhaps it is a curse to be born poor. I am a better player than most of the team members but…,” he couldn't continue.
He knew he had come so near his goal and yet he was so far away.

That evening he wept in the lap of his ailing mother. He decided to stay away from the game and help his mother in the bookshop. That night, his mother wept more than she had wept on the death of her husband.

Mohan now opens the bookshop before the classes start and remains there till his mother comes to replace him. He rushes to the shop during recess and immediately after the last period. Consequently, he has been removed from the school team for not attending the practice sessions and Gurpreet included in the final squad. Gurpreet’s father has in the mean time made a magnanimous offer to pay for the team’s entire kit and blazers. Everyone has lauded his fine gesture.

These days the players are practising enthusiastically in a training camp arranged specially before the tour. Kunwar Sein, the captain feels that the team lacks a good seam bowler but he is not inclined to discuss it with the coach. He realizes that Gurpreet will be a better option to have by his side while shopping.
Standing in the book shop Mohan some times listens to the shouts coming from the cricket ground.
“A good shot or perhaps a good ball claiming a wicket,” he imagines and then with a little pause resumes his work.

THE CONSCIENCE KEEPER

2009-01-23T23:45:00.000-08:00

It was past eight in the evening. Sylvia was waiting for her husband Hemant who had promised his family to take them out for a dinner. It was nothing new for Hemant to promise and then forget and Sylvia knew it. This was but a different occasion; it was their daughter Jayanti’s twenty-first birthday. Jayanti had gone out with her fiancé in the afternoon and returned early to prepare for the evening.
“Join us at Taj, Papa is taking us there for a dinner.”
“That is you and your family, how do I come in?” Patrick teased her.
“Shut up and be there at eight, OK?”
“Do I have a choice,” Patrick said and winked.
“Of course not,” she had said.

Jayanti and her mother were waiting impatiently for Hemant. She was feeling uneasy for she knew Patrick would be there at Taj sharp at eight.

Patrick was a major in the Indian army. He knew Jayanti and her family for many years, in fact since his childhood. Jayanti’s father and his father were colleagues. After Patrick’s father died in a road accident, they had moved to Mysore and settled there.
Jayanti and Patrick were in love and Jayanti had given him an indication that perhaps her father may announce his consent formally over the dinner. In fact that was the plan and therefore it was a special day for the family. Sylvia had discussed the matter with Hemant and hoped that keeping the importance and solemnity of the occasion in mind, he would remember and be at home in time.

“Ma, please ring him again, it is half past eight now.”
“You should have known your father by now. Why don’t you ring him this time?”
Jayanti knew it was of no use for her father had said a couple of minutes back that he was going to minister’s chamber. “I will ring you as soon as I come out,” he had told Sylvia.

“Jayanti, take the car and go to Taj and take Pat to dinner. You have to handle the situation tactfully. I know it is quite embarrassing but you can’t sit here indefinitely waiting for your father,” Sylvia suggested.
“If he comes in good time, I will ring you,” she added.
Jayanti was upset. It was nine and Taj was at least thirty minutes drive from her place. Patrick, she knew was quite punctual and she was debating within her self whether he was still there or not.

“Pat, I am awfully sorry,” she said as she saw him walking towards her.
“What happened?” Patrick asked noticing the anxiety on her face. “Where are your folks?”
“Papa could not come out of his office, busy always- you know how serious he is about his work.”
“Oh! I see…… if that was the case, you should have brought your mother…… not left her alone.”
“Pat, Ma has to wait until father returns home. She is very sorry and she has sent her apologies.”
“Will you shut up? What apology? It’s not her fault.”
Jayanti didn’t know how to continue. Then she saw Patrick looking at her and smiling.
“I say, I am damn hungry, it is nearly ten now,” Patrick said pulling her towards him.
Jayanti felt relieved.
“OK, let’s go to Bukhara,” she suggested for she knew it was Pat’s favourite restaurant.
“Great,” Patrick said and led her to the restaurant.

“You still seem to be up set,” Patrick said, holding her hand.
“Pat, I am in a dilemma. You took me out in the afternoon and now again……. will it be OK if I stand the dinner on behalf of my parents; I mean the invitation was from them.”
“Come on honey, I wouldn’t like to upset you any more. It is fine with me. Let’s enjoy.”
Jayanti looked at him; not trusting his words for she knew Patrick had never allowed her to pay.
“It is the privilege of the officer escorting a lady, if he is one,” he had told her every time she wanted to pay.
“I say Jayanti, is whiskey in the offer-list?”
“Anything,” Jayanti said smiling back.
“You, sure?” Patrick asked with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.
“Shut up, you are supposed to be a gentleman dating a lady.”

Sylvia was waiting. It was past twelve. In fact, she now waited for Jayanti and Patrick more than her husband. Hemant had rung her up and told that he had to work late night for the minister was keen to finalize the policy document and make an announcement next morning in the parliament.”
“Damn you and your bloody minister.”
“Sylvia darling, please try to understand, it is a very important document…… the government wants to get political mileage in the coming elections.”
“Let the ruling party rot in hell with you in attendance,” she said and put the phone down.

Sylvia had decided to arrange Jayanti's engagement a week later on Wednesday since Patrick was returning to his unit on following Friday.
“Can’t rely on this man….… I better things myself,” she mumbled within.

She saw Jayanti driving in with Patrick. From behind the curtains, she saw them running in to each other’s arms, hugging and kissing passionately. She was relieved, made a cross and whispered, “God, be kind to these children.”

“Pat, I am sorry I couldn't join you…… Jayanti must have explained.”
“No problem dear aunt. There must be some serious and urgent matter holding back the old man, I can understand.”
“Thank you son. Please sit down, I will get you some coffee,” Sylvia said feeling a little comforted.
Jayanti had in the mean time changed. She looked pretty in the blue silken gown, which Patrick had gifted her earlier in the day.
“Excellent, I say, superb” Patrick said sipping the coffee.
“Gown or I?” It was Jayanti, her face beaming.
“Coffee, I say, it is real cool coffee.”
“Being discourteous towards a pretty young lady; that is unbecoming of an officer.” Jayanti hit back.
Sylvia looked at them and smiled briefly and then told Patrick, “We are arranging a small party on Wednesday. Please ring your mother. I want a brief engagement ceremony, only family friends.”
“You mean our engagement! That is great, thanks a lot, a million thanks dear aunt…….. I have been waiting for it for so long. Didn't this dumb head tell you ever?”
“She did,” Sylvia smiled as she saw Jayanti punching Patrick in the stomach.

Hemant was tired. It was one in the morning. He had to rewrite most of the document as desired by the minister who before leaving had asked him to keep the final print ready.
“I want it to be placed before the next cabinet committee meeting.”

Hemant De Costa had put in thirty-two years of service in the government. He was known as an honest and capable officer; had worked conscientiously all through his career.
“Why do you slog so much? Isn’t there an equitable distribution of work in your system?”
“Sylvia, there is everything but you know how some people work in the government.”
“Yes, I had known it and now seen it for myself. There are unbridled horses and there are mules, all lumped together. Ironically, even the mules innovate reasons to appear satisfied with their lot.
“You are making an overstatement. If everyone had the same outlook, tell me then who will work?”
“That is exactly my point. Why should everyone not do his work? I never see any of your friends staying back late and not getting promoted along with others.”
“There is some thing called conscience? If I accept a work, I want to do it diligently. It is my commitment to my profession, my humble contribution and notwithstanding your perennial chiding, I am proud of it.”
They often had those arguments but Sylvia was always careful not to reach the flash point for she knew Hemant was hypersensitive and vulnerable to high blood pressure. She would divert her attention to house hold chores and towards young Jayanti besides her job. That saved the situation and kept her busy.

Over the years, Hemant was engrossed in his office work more than ever leaving hardly any time for his daughter and wife. Often he would be in his office on Saturdays and Sundays or be on tours. Nothing allured or tempted him and people around him knew that. Hemant was aware that many of his colleagues were dishonest, their ostentatious life style showed it but he never deviated him from his chosen path.
“Sylvia, I am answerable to my self and to God thereafter. I am not doing anything that would make me feel ashamed of myself nor am I tempted to follow others. And I know, I can not stop others, it is each to him self.”

Years passed by. Sylvia had learnt not to argue with him now that he had diabetes and high blood pressure. She sometimes noticed that he looked very tired and exhausted and yet after dinner he would go to his study and start working on the files he brought from office.
“Hemant, if you leave these files in the office, heaven is not going to fall. On the contrary if you keep on working like this, something untoward is bound to happen.”
“Sylvia, give me my medicine and let me work peacefully,” he would tell her and she had to resign.

On the all important Wednesday Jayanti was to be affianced, Hemant managed to reach home on time. Till that day, he had never realized that his little daughter had grown up and that she was ready for marriage. Tears welled up in his eyes as he saw Patrick and Jayanti exchanging rings.
“Where has that little Jayanti gone?” Suddenly he asked himself. He was looking for his little mischievous Janie, as he used to call her.
“My God, I have been having a fixation for my office, never had time to be with my daughter. I never noticed her growing until this day,” he whispered to Sylvia.

Jayanti and Patrick were to be married three months later on the 24th of October. Patrick had been selected for the prestigious Command Course in the Staff College at Wellington, which was to commence from the first week of November. Patrick was keen that Jayanti accompanied him to Wellington.
As expected, Sylvia was running around, Jayanti helping her to the extent she could.
“I know you don’t trust me but you can ask my secretary for arranging matters, he is very efficient,” Hemant told Sylvia sheepishly.
“It is Ok, I can manage things my self. Only one request - please make sure you are present on the wedding day.”
“Have a heart Syl, am I so bad a father? She is our only child,” Hemant said and added with a wide grin, “I will take a week’s leave before the marriage.”
“I wish you did that,” Sylvia said going away to attend to some other chores.

It was second half of September. The minister was keen to finalize a tender before the impending elections. He was putting great deal of pressure on Hemant to lead the delegation to evaluate the offers of the short listed bidders at London, scheduled in the second week of October. Hemant wanted to avoid it and told the minister of his predicament.
“Sir, my daughter is getting married on 24th October. You would appreciate, my presence at home during this period is quite necessary. Perhaps Mr. Manoharan can lead the team.”
The minister knew Manoharan too well to allow that. He knew Manoharan would not only extract a pound of flesh from the supplier but also seek reward from him as well.
“Look, the delegation would be back by the morning of 23rd October. You will be back before the day of marriage. The routine works can be taken care of by your people and your personal staff.”
Hemant was visibly annoyed. The scoundrel thinks my daughter’s marriage is a routine job. The minister sensed it.
“Mr. De Costa, these are important matters of the state. You have to rise to the occasion. You know government’s stake in this project. It is going to revolutionize the whole telecom sector in the country. Even the prime minister is personally monitoring this project.”
The minister waited to see the impact of his words. The reference of prime minister had suitable effect. Before Hemant could say anything the minister interjected, “Look, I want this deal to come through and you alone can do that. I will be too embarrassed if you back out at this stage.”
Hemant knew what “minister is embarrassed” meant in bureaucratic parlance. He felt there was no choice left. He agreed reluctantly and left the minister abruptly.

Hemant could hardly reach his room. His head reeled and vision blurred. He slumped in to his chair and told his secretary to put the red light on. “No phones, no visitors.”

Hemant was restless. He took a BP tablet and stretched over a sofa.
“How can I explain it to Jayanti and to Sylvia of all the persons? How do I convince them that the minister says it is national interest and I can not avoid it?” He knew it would sound phony.
What then? Was it lack of courage, cowardice, the corrupt minister or was it his ambition? He couldn’t decide.
Hemant was deeply dejected and depressed. His heart went out to his daughter and his wife. He pitied his wife and cursed himself and he didn't know how to break the news to them.
That evening when he did spill the words, Jayanti was in tears, Sylvia was dumbfounded and both of them left him quietly. Hemant finished the whiskey with a long gulp and went to the study. “What a cursed life is this?” He whispered before digging in to the files.

It was the evening of 19thth October. Hemant was leaving for London on an important mission.
“Sylvia, I know my words have lost meaning if ever they had any. But please believe me, my heart cries in leaving you and Jayanti …… even though I was hardly of any use, I know it is an awful and unforgivable act on my part to be away at this juncture,” Hemant said holding her hands.
“Take your medicine in time,” Sylvia said and withdrew her hands.

Hemant rang Sylvia and Jayanti on reaching London.
“Yes it is cold but nothing to worry. Things are fine over here” and then like a child seeking approbation, he added, “I have taken the medicines.”
“Take care and don’t worry. Here, all arrangements are going on well.”
“Thank you Syl, thanks a lot. I am sorry,” he whispered, his heart crying.

Hemant was busy next two days visiting sites, attending presentations, discussing technical details with his team in the hotel. It was always midnight before he could call it a day. He often remembered his wife and daughter but never had time to
ring them and he forgot to take his medicines in time. There was only one thing in his mind and that was to complete the negotiations by 22nd evening and take the night flight to reach Delhi by 23rd morning. He had therefore kept the final discussions with the bidders on 22nd morning.
The minister had rung him during these days couple of times, giving him sufficient hints of his interest, which was perturbing him in a big way. He was aware that the firm, the minister was interested was not the best in terms of technical suitability in Indian conditions and that its offer was the costliest.
After the final discussions with all the three bidders he held an internal meeting with his team to ascertain their views. They all had an unanimous view.
“Thank you gentlemen. Please send me your comments in writing in an hour’s time,” he told them and then rang up Sylvia to tell her that he was leaving that night and will be with them next morning as per schedule.

Late in the afternoon of 22nd October when Hemant was summing up his report, there was a call from the minister. Hemant could make out that the minister was annoyed and it didn’t surprise him that the minister had detailed knowledge of the deliberations with the bidders and the recommendations of the team members.
“You have not looked in to environmental hazards and corresponding costs to remedy them in the case of the lowest bidder and please have a look at the special package that one of the firms is offering. Adequate weightage should be given to that,” the minister told him. Hemant knew that it was also the key argument of the firm, which the minister wanted to help.
“Sir, we have taken every factor in to account. The member finance has worked out detailed cost analysis.”
The minister was apparently irritated.
“Mr. De Costa, I suggest you meet all the three firms again tomorrow. Perhaps a fresh look is required keeping these aspects in mind.”

That was the fear deep inside Hemant.
“Sir, you know my daughter is getting married on day after tomorrow. In fact, I came here since you insisted. I have already booked my passage for tonight.”
“I am sorry; you can not leave half-way. The job has to be completed,” the minister was brusque.
Hemant was dumbstruck. The minister knew that he had made the kill. “Mr. De Costa, the opposition and the press are waiting to pounce on us. Let’s do a foolproof and complete job.”
Hemant listened. The minister changed the stance. “I know it is rather unfair to hold you back but the implications of leaving the negotiations mid-way will be very serious.”
Hemant was still quiet. The minister shot the last arrow, “How can I justify before the parliament that the team has returned leaving the job incomplete because its leader has a private engagement back home. Aren’t we accountable to the people? The press, you know will lap it.”

“The son of a bitch, talking of parliament, people and accountability,” Hemant lost his cool for the first time.
“I will stay back but I am damned if I let the rascal have his way. I will make sure that the firm which serves the country’s interest best gets the contract; come what may,” he told to himself.

Hemant then wished he could talk to his wife, not on the mess he was deeply in but simply about Jayanti, of his years with her, of the preparations going on at his place or about anything else in the world, just simple idle talk to sooth his agitated nerves.
But he didn’t have the courage to ring Sylvia. He took two sleeping pills and slid in to his bed.

Next morning there was a call from Sylvia. She sounded very worried. “Where are you? Are you all right? Why didn’t you ring yesterday evening?”
“I am sorry Syl. Things here are in a mess. I can not explain it over phone. I will ring you as soon as the matter is sorted out.”
“What do you mean? Aren’t you reaching today?”
“No, no. It is not like that… but I am not sure as yet. I will ring you. Please bear with me… please Syl… please.”
“Hemant, I know what it means,” she said and snapped the line.

Next day Hemant met the bidders once again and asked his colleagues to give him their opinion. He was happy that all of them were of unanimous opinion that no new point was made by any of the bidders. He summed up the report recorded the verdict in favour of the best offer and took the night flight to India.

He couldn’t sleep in the flight. He changed the time in his watch, bringing it back to Indian time. All spent the whole night watching its hands moving and thinking of the events going on at his place.
It was nine by his watch. That was the time Hemant was supposed to take his daughter to the altar. What a proud moment that would have been? God! What have I done to deserve this punishment? Even if Sylvia and Jayanti forgive me and perhaps out of their love for me, they might but I will never forgive myself. His heart ached and his eyes burned with remorse. It seemed to him that he had betrayed his family, committed an inexcusable sin.

He reached home late in the afternoon. By then, Jayanti and Patrick had been pronounced as husband and wife. There was a reception party in the evening. Patrick had taken Jayanti to the beauty parlour. Sylvia just said hello to him and left him alone.

Hemant got ready for the party. Sylvia was waiting for him in the living room. They reached the banquet hall without exchanging a word.
As he received the guests many of them were curious to know why he was not there in the morning for the marriage. He simply smiled for he was too tired to give a plausible explanation.

He saw Jayanti and Patrick enter the hall. They looked charming and happy. Words wouldn't come to Hemant as he looked at them. He was feeling foolish and embarrassed.
Patrick saved the situation for him. He came to him with a bottle of Champaign. “Papa, take it easy. All of us know how much you would have loved to be with us,” He said and then handing him the bottle he added, “You have to open it.”

Hemant’s hands were trembling. He looked over his specs and saw Sylvia standing at the far end of the hall talking to the guests.
Hemant walked up to Sylvia, shook the bottle and let the wire go. There was a bang and the wine swashed out, reaching the ceiling.
Then he poured the Champaign in a glass and offered it to Sylvia.
“Syl, this is for you darling. For all that you have done for me and the family. Please accept it for the sake of our children, Jayanti and Patrick ……for old time sake …and… please …forgive me … if possible,” he could speak no more. Tears rolled down his eyes blurring his sight and choking his voice.

Sylvia looked at her husband, the broken man standing in front of her.
“All his life this man has been sincere to his family and to his profession. He may have been mild but he has been honest altogether,” she told to herself.
She smiled and accepted the wine from Hemant. Taking his hand in hers she said, “Darling for your happiness,” and took a long sip before going in to his waiting arms.

THE SEARCH OPERATION

2009-01-01T06:26:00.000-08:00

He was young and ambitious like most young service officers. He had been promoted as a Major and posted to Jammu and Kashmir region. For nearly three months he was commanding a company deployed in the Baramula district of Kashmir. His men were highly vulnerable due to their proximity to the Line of Control with frequently unprovoked firing by the enemy troops. There were villages on either side of the porous border and it was an open secret that the insurgents received help from the villagers living on either side of the border.
He was fast learning the ground truths that human sentiments had hardly any space in the life he was subjected to. He had a miraculous escape when he was attacked by a young man whose father he had helped. In fact, he had taken the bleeding old man who was hit by a speeding truck to the hospital and given his blood to save his life. The victim’s son had expressed profound gratitude and vowed to eschew violence. For a young idealist having great respect for human values that was a moment of personal triumph.
A week later, the young officer was ambushed while returning from a recce and it was a rude shock for him to find the young man as one of the assailants and when he was brought before him for interrogation, he saw no trace of remorse on his face. Worse, the officer was in for a rude shock when the old man whose life he had saved was equally stubborn and refused to talk to him. It was a new experience and he knew he had to adapt it.

He had received an intelligence message that the terrorists were meeting in Khusbag village, which fell within his area. He was now cautious and sceptical and less emotional -all essential attributes for survival. He planned the search operation carefully and alerted the commander of the adjoining post to be in readiness for any support if required.

At mid night, he moved out with his men encircling Khusbag village. All routes were blocked and troops were positioned to ambush any one entering or getting out of the village. Under the dark clouded sky, in the cold April night, he and his troops waited to kill or to be killed. In a counter-insurgency operation, one with an alert mind and swift action was the winner and the survivor.
Suddenly they noticed a light. It was a thin, pale light, perhaps of a lantern. He alerted his troops to wait for his signal.
“Let the bastards come closer. I want none of them to escape the cordon,” he whispered to his junior.
The light was coming nearer and they could hear the footsteps now. Perhaps they were three or four. They knew insurgents moved in small groups as a matter of strategy. And then he could make out that one of the voices was that of a woman. That was a bit surprising.
As the group came closer, their nerves were strained and tension mounted high. Suddenly a soldier pressed the trigger. And then it was a mayhem, all weapons spilling fire. Then they heard the group shrieking and shouting.
“Please stop firing. Please stop firing. We are from Khusbag village going to get a doctor.”
Another trick, he thought but intuitively he signalled to stop firing and shouted.
“Come out on the road, hands up and no mischief; you are surrounded from all sides.”
After few tense moments full of apprehension, they saw a young girl coming on to the road, her hands raised and a lantern resting on her head. Behind her was a small boy. The third person fearing punishment suddenly took a plunge into the bushes. A volley of fire followed in his direction. It was difficult to make out whether the man was hit or otherwise.
“Keep a watch; we will search the area after the daybreak. Shoot anyone trying to escape,” he ordered.

He then started the process of interrogation.
“Where are you going at this hour of the night? Who is the man who has vanished? Are there any outsiders in the village?” He had to know the answers before deciding the further course of action.
“Sir, my mother is seriously ill and we were going to the next village to get a doctor. This is my younger brother and the man who fled out of fear is my uncle. Please leave us,” the girl told him crying.
“Shut up, you bloody liar,” he shouted. “I will kill both of you if you don’t come out with the truth,” he said pointing his revolver at the young boy.
“Sir, my mother is on the deathbed. Please let my brother go at least. They are waiting for the doctor. Sir, you can find the truth by coming to the village with us.”
Going to the village at that hour meant falling straight in to their trap. He lost his cool and slapped the girl so hard that she fell down.
“Tie their hands and feet and put them in the jeep. Keep a close watch and be very careful. The terrorists may attack any time to rescue them,” he briefed his men and passed a message over the wireless to the adjoining units to close in.

The sunrays were breaking the skyline. The search had begun. Every male member over the age of six was asked to stand aside. The huts were searched inside, around and below. Men, women, and children were identified with the help of family identity cards. Apparently there was no outsider in the village unless someone was hiding in the fields.
As the search was going on, he called the girl, apprehended in the night and asked her who was the other person accompanying her.
The little girl didn’t know what to say for she feared for the life of the man who was her uncle. That made her a suspect in the eyes of the officer.
“Tell me the truth or I will put all of you behind the bar,” the officer shouted at her.
The young girl was frightened.
“Sir, he was my uncle and has been hit by a bullet. He is lying in the barn, scared of you.”
The officer ordered his men to get the man before him.

The frail man had his right leg bandaged by linen and the officer could see it was soaked in blood. The man could hardly stand on his feet.
“Keep a watch over him,” he ordered his men and then asked the girl to take him to her hut.

There were a few sheeps outside the hut barricaded with bamboo fence and on the other side was a big oval shaped bamboo basket in which few chickens were incarcerated. The animals and the poultry were protesting for being kept under detention at the hour when they normally enjoyed their freedom.
There was a typical smell of raw flesh, tobacco and kerosene stove inside the hut. He hated that smell and for that matter he hated to enter any hut. But he had to establish the truth of the story given by the girl.
In the grim silence of the hut, a human figure covered with a sheet of cloth was lying near the hearth. A woman perhaps, as he noticed the long tuft of hair spread on the floor. She was alone, her husband must be outside for the identification, he thought.
“She is my sick mother,” wailed the girl as she bent over her to uncover her face. And then she shook her violently, coaxing her to say a few words to vouch for her story. She wanted her to speak to save her brother and her uncle who were now in the custody of security forces. A word from her mother was very important.
The human figure rolled over. The words wouldn’t come, the woman was dead.

The girl was dumb as she sat near the body of her mother for whose sake she had risked the life of her younger brother and her uncle. The officer was shaken once again. “I am sorry,” he said as he came out of the hut.
“Close the search,” the officer ordered and then he called the father of the girl who was still waiting for identification.
“Go to your family and take this money, you may need it,” he said handing him some money.

There were tears in the eyes of the man. He hesitated but the officer insisted.
The man then raised his head and said, “Shukriya Janaab. With this money, I can at least give her a decent funeral.”

GREETINGS

2008-12-26T21:32:00.000-08:00

DEAR READERS

IT IS NOW SOME TIME THAT YOU HAVE BEEN READING MY STORIES. THANKS A LOT. I HOPE YOU ARE LIKING THEM. WISH SOME OF YOU LEFT YOUR COMMENTS. THAT HELPS.

WISHING YOU ALL THE BEST IN 2009 (AND PRAY I GET A PUBLISHER!!!)

MUKUND THAPLIYAL

THE INDOMITABLE QUEST

2008-12-13T22:30:00.000-08:00

Author's Note: I served as IMF Treasury Advisor in Georgia in 1994-96. It was the time when the soviet economy had crashed and was replaced by the philosophy of open market economy enunciated by the Western Bloc. The conditions in Georgia were pathetic, its people going through tough time. It was a heart rending experience to see surgeons, scientists, professors and Olympians working as drivers, cooks and maids. The transition was malevolent if not cruel.
This story is dedicated to the loving people of Georgia.

It was the month of November of the year 1994. Winter had set in and power and gas supply in Tbilisi was conspicuously absent. It was the same story last year since Turkmenistan, one time ally and a sister State had refused to supply gas to Georgia because she could not pay for it at international - open market rates. New economic philosophy with emphasis on commercial considerations had overtaken friendly ties of several decades. The common man felt miserable and lamented, “Is this the price of freedom? What freedom is this where life is reduced to drudgery and a burden? Weren’t we better off in earlier system?”
There were no jobs. Most of the factories were shut down. There was no gas for the factories and there was no money with the government to pay to labour, doctors, engineers and teachers. The government was being compelled to privatise utility companies, health centers, medical and engineering colleges. There were no takers.

Dr. Anna Salaridze was a lecturer in the Center for Linguistic Research in Tbilisi a couple of years ago. For every Georgian writer it was an honour to be a member of the Institute. In fact, every Georgian writer of repute was on its roll. The Institute was proud of having published several volumes on genealogy of the Caucasian languages. Anna’s paper was greatly appreciated in the Conference of Soviet Writers’ Union held a few years ago in Kiev. She had felt good. Her father, a renowned painter was proud of her and accompanied her to the Conference after selling his car. He felt the price paid was worth it since after the award ceremony, his family was accepted in the elitist circles of Georgia.
Then came the ideological, political and economic emancipation aided and abetted by the West. Anna’s institute, which survived on government grant, was in the first list to be axed. The unabated inflation in the country had reduced the Rouble to a piece of paper. It was only a matter of time that many of the lecturers got the sack. Anna’s family had to depend on the salary of her mother who worked in the government bakery. In fact, the sword of Damocles hung over her job also since the government had been asked to privatise the bakery.

In earlier days, Anna’s father had never bothered about household matters. That was left to his wife and Anna. He used to spend most of his time in his studio and with his friends. Long discussions, lengthy dinners with liberal supply of Georgian wines was the way of life. All that had changed.
Like every other artist, Salaridze had no money and was going through the bad patch. Most of the Georgians known to have a penchant for the fine arts were going through abject penury, which was evident from the household paintings, carpets, crockery, cutlery and show-pieces placed for distress sale in the flea markets.
Salaridze, lamented over the trivial inadequacies he was subjected to and cursed everyone until his last breadth, which came suddenly. He was run over by an army truck; both his legs had been crushed.
“I always thought there was a lot to do in life. As an artist I was ambitious and I had lot many dreams, which I wanted to paint on canvas. I know my hands are OK and I can hold a brush but in the present conditions of our country, I wish to go,” he had told Anna a day before his death.

Professors, engineers and doctors were working as drivers with the international agencies and women intellectuals were engaged as maids in the houses of diplomats. It hurt their pride but there was no alternative. Anna had accepted a maid’s job in the house of a German family who was quite impressed with her work and punctuality. They never thought of asking her about her academic background.

Yes, it was a cold November evening of the year 1994. Anna was waiting at Saburtalo Metro. She had come to buy poultry and grocery items for her employer. That was one of her duties. It meant carrying back two big bags from the market to the Metro, hurling herself into a compartment and then carrying it to the seventh floor apartment in the Rustaveli Street where she worked. The job did not tire her as much as it hurt her.
She had been waiting at the Metro station for over an hour. Metro services in the town were quite unpredictable due to power failures. Suddenly there was commotion on the platform, which was a sign that the train was coming. Anna struggled with the bags, preparing to enter the train when some one, came to her.
“Can I help you?”
That was strange and Anna noticed that the person was not a Georgian, perhaps an Asian. She wanted to ignore the offer but the man with an unassuming look, took the two bags and they entered the train.
She looked at him. Yes, he surely was an Asian. His dark complexion, black eyes and his features confirmed that. But that didn’t matter.
“Thank You,” She said feebly not looking exactly at him.
“Arapris”[1] He replied with a friendly smile.
That surprised her a little. “For how long are you living in Georgia?”
“Three years.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Well, I am a research scholar. Learnt Georgian for two years and now I am working on the phonetic evolution of the dialects of nomadic tribes of western India. You know it is very interesting,” he said and then suddenly stopped, giving her a second look.
Perhaps she was a common housewife and the subject may not be of any interest to her, he thought.
“That is surely very interesting. Georgia will give you enough evidence of Euro-Asian transitory culture. You must have noticed the similarity in the musical notes in the folklore of Georgia and those of the nomadic tribes of India. The closeness is simply amazing....” Anna spoke unmindful of her status and then she too stopped suddenly.
Both were quiet, looking at each other. The stranger was surprised.
“Well, I agree with you.” He said and then paused and looking at her bags he added, “I presume you are interested in linguistics.”
Anna kept quiet. The stranger continued, “My name is Suman Das. I am from India and I am staying in Ossati Street.”

Suddenly the train stopped with a violent jerk, throwing the passengers off balance. It was pitch dark, the power supply had failed, which was not unusual. Anna collected herself and stretched her hands to feel for the bags.
“Please wait until your eyes get adjusted and don’t worry for your bags. I am holding them,” her newly found companion assured.
“Thank you,” She said.

Georgians are heavy smokers. Soon there were cigarette lighters glowing in the compartments. Luckily, the front end of the train had reached the Rustaveli station. People started surging through the compartments, brushing each other.
“Let me help you,” he said lifting the bags without waiting for her response.
As they came out of the station, Anna said, “I am sorry. It has been a bad day for you.”
“Not at all, on the contrary I am happy; I met a person of common interest.”
Anna said nothing. They walked silently up to her apartment. Anna felt as if her wounds had been opened.
As Suman was about to leave, Anna said, “I am Anna, Anna Salaridze. Didi madloba,[2] very sweet of you.”
“Arapris,” he said smilingly.”
“I am sorry I cannot ask you to come in. I am a house-maid here,” she managed to say but failed to check the tears rolling down. Suman knew the conditions prevailing in Georgia.
“Please don’t bother. Perhaps we can meet at my place. I live in 10, Ossati Street. Easy to remember, no?” He tried to humour her.
“Na Khawamdees[3],” Anna whispered as she saw him walking down the lane. Then she suddenly recollected. 10, Ossati Street was the house of her friend, Natia.

Anna reached home after finishing her work. She was badly shaken. It was her academic interest that had cost her marriage. Her husband could not bear her digging in to books, refusing to accompany him to parties and not joining his friends in drinking sprees, a typical Georgian trait. The marriage did not last long. Her dedication to the research work and her marriage could not co-exist, it ended in two years.
She never regretted the decision. The reward came when she was nominated to the Union of Soviet Writers. It was a landmark achievement but the dissolution of Soviet Union had disrupted her life and her ambition.

Anna did not talk to her mother and went straight to her study. There lay the old volumes, now covered with dust. She took out some of her research papers and started looking through them. She remembered that she had done some work on the subject the Indian talked about. Anna told her mother not to disturb her. The ageing mother knew Anna’s ailment, she knew Anna’s mind and soul were hungry.
Anna was looking through the papers and making notes. A little later when her mother brought her dinner, she looked up and stray thoughts crossed her mind.
“Why should I bother myself? It was nothing out of sort that he had done. In any case, I didn’t ask for help. Why should I wreck my brain for him? Let him do his work … he can not share my destiny.”
Yet she kept on working till dawn, making notes for the person she did not know. When the clock struck five, she could not believe it and she still wanted to continue. She was tired but there was an unmistakable glow on her face.

Next day she rang up Natia and asked if she had taken an Indian as a paying guest.
“Yes. Anna, you know the conditions as they are. But how do you know? Where did you meet him?” Natia asked with some apprehension.
“I met him yesterday at the Sabartalo Metro. His subject of research is one that I was working some years ago.”
“Oh! I see. Too much of coincidence,” Natia said in an icy tone. Anna ignored it and continued, “May be, I will come over in the evening to give him some of my reference papers.” And then she added, “Please don’t tell him anything about it.”
Natia, once a rich woman was not happy at the prospects of the meeting. Anna was not the best of her friends. For one thing, Anna was a bright and popular student and she was beautiful. She was tall with remarkable agility and an appeal; no one could miss even at the first sight.
But that was several years ago. How many? Anna and for that matter Natia didn’t remember. Now they were too occupied to think of matters like personal beauty.

Anna worked as housemaid for three days and on other two days, she taught piano in a private school. Life had become like an old spinning wheel. Whining, creaking, shaking but moving nonetheless. Sometimes, she entered her favourite bookshop, gazing at the new publications and magazines, which she could not buy in her present position.
Knitting was her past time. After the day’s work when she entered her room, she would sit in her rocking chair, take the needles and look vacantly through the shelf of books, which once took all her time. Her hands knitted and her mind wandered restlessly.

As Anna walked to Natia’s place in the evening, she felt as if she were once again the good old research scholar. A whiff of air blew her hair and she remembered her days in the college. A smile appeared on her lips.
Even before she could knock at the door, Natia opened it and took her to the living room. “Mr. Das will come here. I have told him that a friend of mine was coming to see him,” she said and then added, “You know, you have to be very careful with the foreigners.”
“Yes, I know,” Anna said briefly.

Suman Das entered the room holding a magazine in his hand, not anticipating that it would be Anna sitting with Natia. It was a pleasant surprise.
“Good evening… Gamarjuba...Gamarjuba[4]…” He was fumbling with words to wish her when Anna said, “Gamarjuba! Mr. Das.”
“Gamarjuba....Gamarjuba! He repeated, still unable to contain his excitement.
Anna came to the point, as was her wont.
“I was doing research on the subject close to one you were talking yesterday. You see the conditions in our country have changed and I have abandoned the project.”
“I am sorry.”
“It is OK. We have compromised with the conditions.” Then trying to control her self she added, “I have these papers by two noted anthropologists and these are some of my notes. May be you may find them of some use,” she said handing over the bundle of papers to Suman.
“Thank you very much. What luck it was to meet you Miss Salaridze. I have no words to express my gratitude. If carrying bags for a few steps can bring such an invaluable treasure, I can not but thank my stars.” And then with his inimitable smile he added, “I am going to be at the Metro every evening.”
“Thanks if you really value them. They are of no use to me. I thought, perhaps you may like to go through them.”
Suman while glancing through the papers noticed that the notes looked very fresh. He could not resist asking her, “It seems you have been working through out the night.”
Anna did not reply. She noticed Natia’s contracting eyes and got up to leave. “It is getting dark, I must leave,” she said to Natia and then looking at Suman she added, “Mr. Das I wish you good luck.”
“Let me come up to the bus stand,” Suman told her.
“Oh! Please don’t bother. It is quite cold outside. Moreover, we prefer to walk these days,” Anna said with a wry smile.
“I must come some distance, nonetheless,” Suman insisted following Anna.
As they walked down the street, Suman asked her, “Is it possible to meet you and discuss some of these papers?”
“Mr. Das, I wish I could help you more than this. I work five days a week and I have several other responsibilities at home. Really, I would have loved to help you but... ” Her voice trailed off.
Suman was not put off. “I can not insist but if you can spare some time on Sunday mornings. I could come to your place and discuss your work ...if you will allow me.” And then he added, “I will cook Indian food for you while you talk,” unarming her with his typical smile.
“Well if you insist.”
“Yes, I do.”

They met on Sundays and after couple of meetings on Saturdays and then nearly every day. It was now only six months for Suman to make a dissertation before the Academic Council of the State University of Georgia. There was still a lot to do.
“Suman, I suggest you shift to my place. There is a lot to do and you lose so much time, going up and down. Moreover, we can work until late in the night. You can use my father’s room,” Anna told Suman one day.
Suman was in a dilemma. He had already paid Natia for the rest of his stay. His scholarship was barely enough to survive. Anna read his mind.
“You don’t have to pay me anything. I shall explain it to Natia. It is necessary that you complete your work in time,” She said in an assertive tone.

Suman thereafter was a busy man. At daytime he worked in the University, making notes and discussed them with Anna in the evening. Anna worked with him every evening. For her it was a return of her academic days. Knowledge was her passion and in Suman, she had found a dedicated and intelligent student. The work was getting in to shape.
Anna’s mother was relieved to see animated Anna but dreaded the day when Suman would leave.

It was the last week of Suman’s stay in Tbilisi. He was enjoying the luxury of a beer as his mind raced through his stay in the country. He had come to love the town. “I would miss this city and the people,” he often thought.
He had observed Anna closely all these days, working with him relentlessly. At times, he could smell her and feel his blood rushing at the touch of her body.
Her silky, flowing blonde hair and her big blue eyes swayed Suman to height of passion but he knew she was an enigma, a cold ocean he could not fathom. They would look at each other on those occasions and then resume the work.

“What was in it for Anna? How could I ever repay her? Were words adequate to thank her? Was it destiny that he met her?” Suman pondered as he sipped his beer. He had no answer for any of the questions.

“I wish I could come back again with leisure,” he said adjusting his papers.
Anna had reverted to her knitting. She did not respond. Suman was sad and pensive. He wanted her to speak to him, talk something, like a woman to a man.
“I have ironed your shirt and the suit and there is a matching tie. You should go properly dressed before the Academic Council. These things matter,” she said after a while.
“Anna, some coffee for you?”
“No. We are not going to work any more and you must look fresh tomorrow. You better go to bed.”
“Aren’t you going to sleep?”
“No,” she said without raising her head from the knitting.
Suman could bear no more.
“Anna couldn’t you behave like an ordinary person? Like a woman, at least once, for these few moments,” he spoke holding her hands.
She didn’t reply.
“Tell me, after a couple of days when I go away, how will you keep yourself occupied? You have been working so much for me, for what? What did you get in this?”

Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell on his hands. She broke down, the armour had come off. The emotions choked for years had inundated the hard exterior.
With her voice shaking, she said, “Suman, I too have a heart. I too had the weak moments.... but every time the thought that your work came first, never left me. For me it was the most important thing, rather the only important thing. Tomorrow, when you present your thesis before the Academic Council, can you imagine my happiness?
Suman looked at her, dumbfounded.
Pausing for a few moments, she continued, “For a scholar, pursuit of knowledge becomes an obsession leaving no time for other matters. Working with you gave me a new life… for me it was like resurrection.”
Suman’s heart wept for her as he looked at her lankyl trembling frame.
Controlling herself, she added, “I was alive all these days but ...death stalks me, waiting for you to leave.... I should instead thank you...” And then resting her head against his chest, she broke down.
Suman lifted her face slowly, waved aside her flowing blonde hair and kissed her.
“Annino, you have an indomitable quest for knowledge that even death can not overtake,” he whispered.

PS: May I request all my readers to spread my blog reference amongst all their friends.

Foot Notes:

[1] Please mention not.
[2] Thank you very much.
[3] See you again
[4] Greetings on meeting a person

LIVING IN FEAR

2008-12-04T05:02:00.000-08:00

Little away in the south of Adampur village in Midnapur district of West Bengal, there is a small bazaar of half a dozen shops. There is an old banyan tree little away from these shops with its ropes hung like matted hair of an old maid. Next to the banyan tree is a Muslim cemetery and in between there is a thatched hut. Zeenat lives in that hut.
People around say Zeenat is a mentally retarded and unpredictable. It is difficult to guess her age for she is unkempt, malnourished and shabbily dressed.
Zeenat enters the cemetery everyday and sits near a grave for hours together. That is the grave of her mother. She dusts it everyday and whenever she gets hold of wild flowers or incense sticks, she lays it on the grave.
There are several stories about Zeenat. That she has mastered a jinnee who obeys her orders, she can cure any disease, make you rich overnight or bring miseries to you in seconds if you annoy her. No one has seen it happening but people of Adampur treat her cautiously out of fear.
“Aren’t you afraid of living alone near a cemetery and that too under a banyan tree?”
“Isn’t it true that you talk to ghosts living on the banyan tree?”
“Do you control a jinnee, what if he killed you?”
People ask her questions but most of the times, she smiles without answering them. She moves around to adjoining villages and comes back by nightfall to her hut.
Zeenat never enters Adampur which was once her village. A faint smile comes on her face at the mention of Adampur.

Let’s go back a little.
Murad Ali, Zeenat’s father belonged to Adampur. He worked as a carpenter in the government ordnance factory in Midnapur and stayed there in a room of a dilapidated house at the end of a narrow street. An open drain divided the house and a garbage dump. The stink from the drain and the garbage was strong enough for a new comer to collapse but Murad Ali like others had got accustomed to it. Since his parents lived in the village, Murad Ali would come to Adampur on week-ends to meet them and his wife Zameela.
Murad Ali was fond of music. He had acquired an old harmonium and a set of tabla, the percussion instruments, which he kept at his village for there was hardly any time to play them while in Midnapur. When in his village, he would often invite his folks and friends to his place and organize musical evenings. It cost him dearly but Murad Ali liked to show off. He liked people talking about him and his initiatives.

Zeenat was Murad Ali’s first child from his wife Zameela who was now expecting a second one. Zameela was very frail and weak but there was hardly any rest for her from the house-hold cores. Despite her best efforts, her mother in law was never happy and cursed her all hours of the day. And the worst was that with her indifferent health and fatigued body she was not able to satisfy Murad Ali who had an insatiable desire for sex.

“What for is a woman if she can not keep her man happy? I toil day and night for the family and come here for only one night and she makes hundred excuses,” he would tell his mother. His parents could neither defy his authority nor disagree with him. Zameela was thus coaxed and cursed by her mother-in-law and pushed in to the small room where Murad Ali would be waiting for her. With sufficient liquor and good meal and fired by the fantasy of nautch girls and film actresses that he would see in Midnapur, his libido would be escalated to the peak.
For Zameela it would be another submission forced on her. Murad Ali would neither be in a position nor interested in knowing her woes.

It was one of the weekends when Murad Ali had come to Adampur. Like any other night Murad Ali was waiting for Zameela and cursing her for delaying in coming to him. And when she did come, he preyed on her like a blood hound, unaware that Zameela was soaked in blood and had fainted.
Having scattered his seeds Murad Ali was soon snoring. After a while when Zameela got to her senses, she felt choked and thirsty. She managed to drag herself along the floor and reached the kitchen for water.
By day break, Zameela had severe pain and high fever. Everyone in the family was worried for she was in the advanced stage of pregnancy. The mid-wife was called who saw her condition and told Murad Ali’s mother to put her in the barn and boil some water. Murad Ali was upset and went away to neighbour’s house. Zameela suffered cruciating pains for another three hours before the mid-wife could press out the baby, a dead one. There was mourning in the house, Murad Ali left for his job same day.

Zameela was drained off of all energy if there was any left in her. She was pale and sick, could hardly walk and fever never left her. Her mother-in-law found her a burden. For next five months, Murad Ali neither went to his village nor did he send any money. “I have to repay the creditors for the loan I had taken for my last visit,” he had written to his father.

Then a word came from a relative who also worked in the ordnance factory that Murad Ali had kept a woman in his house. This was a great shock for the old parents, not as much for Zameela’s sake but for the fact that Murad Ali was their only bread earner. It was obvious that with a woman in his house Murad Ali would not support them.
The family discussed the matter and decided that Zameela and her six year old daughter, Zeenat should go to Murad Ali and plead with him.

Murad Ali was enraged to see his wife and daughter.
“Are you my family members or my enemies? I would have come to village sooner or later. Couldn’t you have a little patience? What if I lose my job?” He shouted at them.
The poor father and Zameela realized that there could have been such possibility and that it was indeed a hasty step on their part. They apologised.
“Please forgive us. We were so worried, not hearing from you for so long,” Zameela pleaded.
“Shut up you bitch or I kick you right here. I know it must have been at your instigation, the worthless female,” Murad Ali fumed giving Zameela a dirty look. Then muttering curses at Zameela he gave a ten rupee note to his father and said, “Have tea and wait here,” and then returned to his work.
Walking to Murad Ali’s place in the evening was not comfortable either. They had taken only a cup of tea whole day. Zameela could hardly stand on her feet which irritated Murad Ali further more. He slapped Zameela with such a force that she fell on the ground and rolled over.
“You bitch, you can’t even stand on your feet but devil in you brings you miles away from home.”
Zameela had no courage to argue and no strength to stand. After a little while, she caught Zeenat’s hand to stand and then used her shoulder to help her walk.
For Zeenat it was the first glimpse of manly authority over a trembling frail woman.

Nadira, the new woman in Murad Ali’s place was expecting her man. But it took her sharp mind fraction of a second to place the persons accompanying him. She was furious. “Look, either these urchins stay with you or I stay. I can not stand them even for a minute.”

Nadira, a free lance sex worker was young and voluptuous and a skilled seductress. Murad Ali was crazy about his new find and therefore wanted the matter to be decided at the soonest possible. He promised to send money to his father regularly and suggested that they return to Adampur the next morning.
The old man knew there was no veracity in such promises. “Son, your mother and I both love you very much. You are our only son, and our only hope. But we are not going to live forever. Take care of your wife and your daughter in the manner you want and leave us on the mercy of the Almighty.” Then raising his hands towards the sky, he said, “I want to take the night bus for the village.”

Murad Ali was flabbergasted. His pleas with his father to stay back or at least have his dinner failed.
“I will not have a morsel of food in this house. I am leaving this very moment for the village.” The old man was adamant.
Murad Ali was not prepared for such a turn of events. “Abbu, I can not drive Nadira out of this house, I have had Nikah with her. But if you insist, Zameela and Zeenat can stay here and I will send you money every month as in the past.”
The old parent said nothing. He touched Murad Ali’s shoulder and left his son’s place.
Murad Ali did care for his parents. It was true that he was indifferent towards Zameela who was sans any appeal. Nadira on the other hand was young and sensuous. Murad Ali was in the state of dilemma and he wanted to satisfy all of them but for his limited income. It indeed pained him that he had abandoned his old parents.

It was decided that Zameela and Zeenat will sleep in the kitchen and will not disturb Murad Ali and Nadira who would sleep in the room. But even after a week, the two women could not agree on the division of house-hold chores. Zameela was still in a very bad shape and Nadira was infuriated at the idea of cooking for the wife and daughter of her husband.
“Look, I am here only for your sake and not these wretched women. If they have to live here, they should share the work. Besides, your income is not good enough to feed so many mouths. This sick woman does nothing but sleep. I can find a job for Zeenat. What is the arm if it supplements the family income?”
Murad Ali’s first reaction was that it was good suggestion. But Zameela raised hackles. “How can you leave an innocent young girl to work amongst unknown people? Wait for a few days. I would then take up some job.”
Nadira saw her move falling. She started shouting at the top of her voice using filthiest abuses for Zameela and Zeenat.
“May Allah’s curse fall on you. You useless female, you and your daughter are a burden on Murad Ali. Why don’t you go to a brothel along with your daughter and leave us in peace.”

This was far from what Murad Ali had envisaged. Pouncing at Nadira he slapped her with such a force that she fell on the floor, blood oozing out of her mouth.
“You bitch, how you dare say such vile things for my daughter and wife. You bitch, instead, you return to the brothel, the place you belong to. Get out of my house right now or I will kill you.”
Young Zeenat stood at the corner of the room, shaken and traumatized.

Nadira left Murad Ali same evening. “I am leaving. But you, son of a bitch, you will come to me on your knees and seek my forgiveness. And I will see that these whores land up in a brothel.” Nadira left with a warning.
Next day when Murad Ali got ready for his factory, he threw twenty rupees at Zameela and asked her to get some rations and vegetables. “Don’t wait for me,” he added before going out of the house.

Murad Ali did not return that evening. Nor did he return the evening after. Zameela was scared to no ends. She did not know what to do and she didn’t know anyone in Midnapur. Nor could she trust any stranger with young Zeenat by her side. She didn’t know where to look for Murad Ali. Any thing could have happened to him. Frightening thoughts were crowding her mind.
“Allah, the all merciful, have pity on us, the helpless in this city of unknowns.”
And then she remembered the mazaar of Peer Sabir Ali Sah out side the village cemetery.
“I will offer a chaddar at your mazaar when my husband returns home safely. I, the sinner seek your mercy. Take my life but return him to his family,” she begged of the peer.
It was the fourth day but Murad Ali had not shown up. This failed Zameela’s courage. She had not eaten all these days despite Zeenat pleading with her. “Not until your Abbu returns,” and then waiting for a while she added, “We shall go to the bus stand tomorrow and take a bus to our village. I want to offer a prayer at the mazaar of the peer.”

The women, overcome by fear were huddled together with the room bolted from inside. It was mid night. Zameela was lying wide awake, her mind restless with all kinds of apprehensions. Suddenly there was loud thumping on the door. Zeenat woke up and shrieked. It was Murad Ali shouting at Zameela asking to open the door.
Zameela thanked the almighty for returning her prayers. “You are the merciful. Now give me strength that I do not go back on my promise.”

That fateful night young Zeenat saw her estranged father return home after four days in a drunken state. He was abusing her mother for ruining his life. And then suddenly he pushed Zeenat aside and dragged her mother in to the room and raped her.
It was a horrifying spectacle for Zeenat.

Zameela had succumbed but she could not bear the beastly ferocity. She lay on the floor of the room unable to cover her half naked body. Zeenat wanted to cry but she could not. She sat there frozen out of fear. A few minutes later, Zeenat saw her father snoring. The beast in him was satiated.
Zeenat came over to her mother and covered her body with her clothes. Suddenly, she noticed her mother gasping for breath. Her throat was parched, perhaps she wanted some water. Zeenat ran out and brought some water from the pitcher and poured it in to her mother’s mouth.

Before leaving for work next day Murad Ali threw a twenty rupee note at Zeenat and told her to get the grocery from the nearby shop. He didn’t bother to check the condition of his beleaguered wife.

Little Zeenat went out and brought a tonga and took her mother to the bus stand and then helped her take the bus to Adampur. Late in the afternoon they reached Adampur.
Zameela by this time was totally exhausted. She looked at her daughter with hazy eyes. Zeenat helped her mother get down and brought a glass of water for her.
Zameela took a sip and with great difficulty she managed to say, “Allah listened to my prayers. Tell your dadu to put a chaddar on the mazaar of Peer Sabir Ali Sah.”
Those were Zameela’s last words. Zeenat was dazed d as the shackled soul was emancipated.

Zeenat has not entered Adampur after the burial of her mother. She doesn’t remember the number of years passed since then. Her grandparents are no more and Murad Ali they say is living with Nadira at Midnapur.

Zeenat likes to live in isolation. Sometimes when in lighter mood, she says, “I am comfortable in my hut and I am not scared of ghosts, they harm no one. In fact, I live here because I am scared of men. They are mean and ghastly.”

THE GIFT

2008-11-22T05:29:00.000-08:00

I had come to Kasauli on an official duty and was staying in the Government Tourist Home. Surrounded with pine trees, beautiful flowers all around, and with lush green lawn in front of it; the ambience was simply fascinating. A rare display of nature's gift blended with human efforts. Coming out of dusty crowded streets of Delhi and its smoggy skies, the location of the guest house was very soothing to my fatigued nerves and tired soul.
Next day, after the official engagements, I hurried back to the guest house and asked the attendant to take out a chair and a table for me to sit in the lawn. I wanted to enjoy the scenario, which was dancing in my mind even during the meeting. I declined all offers to be taken around the town, preferring to sit in front of the guest house and relish some beer.
It was warm comfortable sunny day with cool breeze. I was enjoying the music on a portable radio cassette player that I normally carried during the tours. I was reading a book and I was enjoying the cold beer. In fact I was enjoying every moment of life in that sylvan surrounding. It was like romancing with my self. It seemed as if the heavens of mythological world had descended there.

The attendant and his wife were there, providing me the creature comforts. I asked them to prepare some good dinner. His wife suggested a local preparation of trot fish. I agreed.
Later in the evening, I came out for a walk up to the town market. The market was very small with only few shops. I couldn't find any gift for my wife and for my sons.

I picked up my evening quota of drinks and was back to my dreamy surrounding. It was already dark and cold. On my return I saw the room done neatly and beautiful flowers in a vase adoring the centre table. It was a few words that I had spoken in the afternoon of my love for flowers that the couple had reciprocated with such a fine gesture. The wall bukhari was on, making the room warm and pleasant.

In few minutes, the chowikidar's wife came in with a tray of tea and hot pakoras. What an ideal snack in the cold weather! And I thought of the consideration that these simple souls had for unknown guests.
Were they equally nice to every visitor to the guest house? I thought it must be so. After all I had returned their courtesies in no way other than a few pleasing words, typical of urbanized culture. But I was quizzed. Shouldn't I reciprocate in some way? A small tip of few rupees was of too little value and I felt myself belittled.

I was enjoying the fish curry, the drinks and the music. This time I was listening to the local radio station broadcasting some folk songs. Being from hills my self, I love flute and hill folk songs. It might have been a mere coincidence that the songs being played were of my liking.

Then I thought; what does one seek from life? Was there anything better than this? The comfort of heaven must have been conjured out of such moments. Benevolence, love, affection, food for body and enthralling music. No ill will and being in love with every thing around; that is my concept of heaven wherever it may be. For me it was there.

By now I had picked up the names of hosts. The attendant was- Piplu and his wife was Shahane. I could see Shahane singing the song. Perhaps she liked the song as much.
I was eating and the two of them were serving me hot delicious food. Suddenly Shahane asked me, "Sir, this radio must be very costly?"
I stopped for a few seconds and then replied that it wasn't much expensive.
"No Sir, it may not be for you but for people like us it must be very costly," she said in a low voice and then added with a little pause. "I have been telling Piplu to get me a radio and he says he can't afford it."

Piplu was visibly annoyed. He hissed some words in the local dialect and Shahane hurriedly left the room. I was a trifle upset. I finished my dinner, washed my hands and went to my room telling Piplu to come to my room along with Shahane.
When they entered my room I spoke few nice words to them and then asked Shahane if she would like to have my radio set as gift from me.
"No Sir," Piplu snapped.
I told him to keep quiet in a terse tone and put the small radio in the hands of Shahane. "Please keep this as a gift from me, I will be very happy," I said to her.

I could see the strains on Piplu’s face. He in fact used harsh words for Shahane.
"She is greedier like a bitch. Please forget whatever she said. I will buy her a radio set as soon as I can."

I didn't like the demur for I didn’t want my heaven to crash so soon.
"You hurt me with such words. After all it is a small gift and I thought she loved music,” I told Piplu. Shahane accepted the radio set and I went to bed though not very happy yet satisfied that I could give the couple something worthwhile.

Next morning I got up early and took my breakfast hurriedly to catch my return train. I was carrying with me the memory of some unforgettable moments.

I settled the bill and gave some tip to Piplu with a few words of thanks from the core of my heart. As I was getting in to the taxi Shahane came with a small basket of flowers which were more than beautiful. I was moved by the gesture.
"You love flowers," she said handing me the basket. I wanted to thank her but the words failed. The taxi moved and I was sad to leave the place for no logical reasons.

As I was feeling the soft touch of the flowers, I felt something was there below. It was a small packet wrapped in a beautiful silk scarf with fine embroidery. As I un-wrapped it, I found the radio cassette player, which I had gifted to my hostess.

A pain sheared through my heart. I looked at the scarf and the radio set for a long time. And then I looked up. The taxi was running away leaving behind the valley and the heaven I had conjured.

KEEPING A PROMISE

2008-11-05T05:40:00.000-08:00

Auditor's Note: I had an opportunity of working in Tbilisi for nearly two years, coinciding with the period of the story. During my stay in the country, I moved around a great deal on personal and official business. I feel, there are not many communities in the world, that can match the Georgian cordiality and hospitality. This story is dedicated to the beautiful people and the place.

It was the month of November and the year 1991. There was chill in the air but it was not unbearable. People in the small town of Mtskheta were enjoying the Sun and beer. Natia Peradze having lost her parents in a road accident lived with her uncle who was the priest of the Mtskheta Church.
Father Peradze was an anxious man. He had received a message that his mother living in Sukhumi was not keeping well. Since he could not leave the church, he told his niece Natia to go to Sukhumi, a small beach town on a short vacation and bring the old lady to Mtskheta. He wanted to send his mother to Tbilisi for proper treatment.

The old lady was living in Sukhumi, a part of Abkhazia region, which was a part of Republic of Georgia in the former Soviet Union. Abkhazia has pretty beaches of Gagra and Sukhumi and it was considered a privilege to have a vacation in any one of these beaches. The Soviet Union leadership ruled its republics with iron hand and no one had the temerity of raising demur of any kind. But soon after the disintegration of USSR, dissent of all sorts raised its head. It is an irony that the mighty Soviet Union disintegrated without a drop of blood while smaller regions are shedding blood to enforce further disintegration.
Liberty with its union with multitude some times breeds dissent. Abkhazia is one such example. Problem started after Georgia became an independent nation. Abkhazians, a community of less than three hundred thousand heads whose history dates back to Turkish occupation of Georgia want a sovereign status outside Georgia. The inevitable has been a bloody conflict, gruelling battles resulting in loss of life.

The Abkhazians proudly call it a War of Independence. There has been mindless massacre of affluent Georgians by the Abkhazians who envied their ostentatious opulent life style. Once considered as most beautiful beach resorts of Soviet Union, Sukhumi and Gagra beaches today are desecrated and deserted.
Thousands have been killed in the civil strife, majority of them being the young Georgians. Unlike Abkhazians who are ferocious stay all time war pitched, the Georgians are soft, friendly and easy going, happy to stretch their dinners over local wines through whole nights.

It was this time that Miss Suzan Brown, a doctor by profession had come to Tbilisi, the capital of Georgia as UNHCR volunteer after a temporary truce was called between Abkhazians and Georgians to take care of the casualties. She was to head a team of four volunteers: the other three; Dr. Arnold Gustafsson, a local doctor and a male nurse were to join her at Tbilisi.

The team remained busy in briefing sessions on local conditions in Tbilisi for two days apart from collecting medicines/ equipment etc. and left on the third day for Kuthaisi.
Kuthaisi is four hours drive from Tbilisi. The highway was deserted, road-side kiosks were mostly closed and from the withered looks of their hearths, one could make out that they were closed since long. After an hour’s drive from Tbilisi, they reached Gori, the birth place of Joseph Stalin.
The civil strife in Abkhazia in a way can be attributed in some way to this iron man of Russian history.
Joseph Stalin had inducted Georgians during his time in to Abkhazia to create demographic balance in favour of the Georgian Christians over Abkhazian Muslims and handled the rebels with an iron fist. But the disintegration of Soviet Russia rekindled the aspiration of the Abkhazians to have a nation of their own and to achieve it, they revolted and revolted with ferocity.
The Georgians, easy going by nature were not prepared for the onslaught. The Abkhazians didn’t even give them time to flee with their wealth and assets. Fleeing Georgians were chased and if caught, robbed and done to death.
It was with this background that UNHCR had stepped in and established a refugee camp at Gali region, the neutral land mass between Georgia and Abkhazia.

Suzan and her team had a brief halt at Kuthaisi. They met the local health authorities and took the road to Gagra. The road from there on to Gagra is through waste land and forests. The region is infested with Abkhazian marauders who prey on travellers with impunity. The vehicular movement was therefore made under escort of UN troops.

The condition of the refugee camp was awful. There were men women and children in nearly half dead condition. Their wounds were festered and stinking and several showed the sign of gangrene. Several of them were lying on the floor for want of beds.
Dr. Suzan and Dr. Arnold had worked in refugee camps for over fifteen years in Cambodia and Sri Lanka and were witness to atrocities perpetuated by warring groups on each other. The situation in Gali camp was no different. They saw children with twisted and hacked limbs and they saw young women and even tiny girls raped and mutilated. And they realized that the life saving drugs they needed badly were not available and even other medicines were in short supply.
Suzan and Arnold knew the first thing was to clean and dress the wounds to stop further infection. The team of four worked non stop whole night before they could think of a break. There were nearly two hundred victims of the satanic barbarism in the Gali camp.

Natia’s vacation turned out to be a nightmare. The atmosphere was tense and she was advised not to go to the beaches. A day after her arrival in Sukhumi, the Abkhazians declared Abkhazia as an independent country and waged a war on the State of Georgia. Suddenly, everything changed for the comfort loving Georgians. They lived in fear. As evenings approached, the Georgian families huddled together in groups in one house, changing the house every evening, fearing Abkhazian raid. Homes were looted and burnt, women dragged out and raped and men young and old massacred. It was a religious divide between the one time friends and neighbours, which had taken a brutal, horrendous shape.
The bus service between Sukhumi and Kuthaisi had been suspended. Passage by private means was highly unsafe.
Georgians were advised to stay in close groups. On that fateful night several families had gathered in Natia’s grandmother’s place. The Abkhazian soldiers had come to know of it and at the dead of night, they raided the place.
It was mayhem. Unarmed Georgian men and boys were separated and hacked to death. The women were then raped and molested. The old woman while trying to save her grand daughter was attacked and hit with the butt of a rifle and when she threw herself over the poor little girl, two soldiers tore her dress and raped her while others took turn with the young Natia who by then lay unconscious.
The Abkhazian soldiers were still not satisfied. They jabbed their victims by their bayonets before leaving. Natia and her grand mother and many other victims were found unconsciousness in their cottage the next day by the rescue team.

Among the wounded and mutilated victims lying before Dr. Suzan and her team were young Natia and her grand mother, both in severely critical condition. Suzan knew that only chance of their survival lay in evacuating them to Kuthaisi or Tbilisi for want of better facilities.
At the day break, Suzan asked the camp commander to arrange for an escort team to take the patients to Kuthaisi. She asked Dr. Arnold to take care of the camp and asked the local doctor to accompany her.
“I want to leave early in the morning and after handing over the patients to Kuthaisi hospital, collect medicines and other supplies and return by late afternoon.”
Dr. Arnold knew Suzan had worked the whole night and it was tough on her to undertake the mission but he realized that that was the only chance of saving the lives of the two patients.

Dr. Suzan and the local doctor started for Kuthaisi in the wee hours. It was a tough going on the rough road. Condition of the old woman was deteriorating by the minute. There was nothing much they could do but to put her on oxygen. They couldn’t even think of stopping en-route for fear of the Abkhazians guerrillas.
On reaching Kuthaisi Hospital, Dr. Suzan asked for immediate attention to the two patients. She knew Natia and her grandmother needed blood transfusion if they were to be saved. Unfortunately, there was no blood available in Kuthaisi Hospital. It was frustrating to be helpless. The only possibility that remained to save their life was to take them to Tbilisi.
The condition of the old woman deteriorated in the night. She was breathless and perhaps wanted to convey some thing for she was making some gestures. Suzan asked the local doctor to find out what the old woman wanted to say.
“She wants us not to bother for her life for she says she has already lived a long life. She is pleading for saving the life of her grand daughter, the only member left in her family.” The doctor interpreted the essence of his talk with the old lady to Suzan.
Suzan knew the condition of both of them was equally precarious and there was nothing much that she could have done. She assured the old lady that she will do her best to save the life of both of them.
“I know I will not live for long. But you must save Natia, this grand daughter of mine. Her uncle is the priest of Mtskheta Church. Please contact him when you pass through the Church and tell him that I failed to take care of his niece. She had come to me on vacation and was to return to him before Christmas. But for this war, she would have been dancing in the streets of Mtskheta.”
Suzan could bear no more. She took the hand of the old lady and pressed it softly.
“Promise me that you will take her to her uncle so that I can die peacefully.” The old lady conveyed her last wish through the local doctor and a little later succumbed to the beastly torture inflicted on her.
Dr. Suzan left for Tbilisi next morning with Natia and the local doctor. Natia was in the state of delirium. Suzan had put her on sedative and oxygen. She kept on asking her Georgian colleague as to how far they were from Mtskheta Church.

They had reached the outskirts of the Mtskheta town, the ancient capital of Georgia. She could see the steeple of the eleventh century church. The Georgian doctor told Suzan that the Mtskheta church was known for it unique architecture in the entire region and attracted large number of tourists.
They entered the church lawns. Suddenly, Natia had a severe bout of hiccups and then everything subsided.
Suzan asked for Father Peradze who was preparing for the evening service. She told him the story in brief and asked him to take over the body of his niece.
“My niece loved this Church immensely and she helped me in Christmas preparations. She had promised to return from my mother’s place before Christmas to help me this year too.”
Suzan expressed her condolences to the priest and told him that she wanted to return to Kuthaisi.

“Didi Madlova - I am very grateful to you, doctor. You brought my niece back to me,” and then pausing for a few seconds he added, “She has kept her promise to return in time for Christmas. It will be of great help to feel her presence around.”

GRATITUDE

2008-10-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

Author's Note: Generally, an impression goes around that present day generation is insensitive towards the sacrifice of their parents in bringing them up. I feel this is surfacial for I feel every child carries the impressions of parental love and affection deeply imprinted on his heart and soul.

There was a long queue in front of the elevator. It was office time and everyone seemed to be in a hurry. Anita was looking at her watch every few seconds. There were still ten minutes and yet she was worried. As soon as the elevator came up to seventh floor, she ran out of it to the amusement of some. This was her first appointment and she needed it badly. She was panting when she reached the desk of the receptionist who was expecting her.
"Hi, I am Anita."
"Welcome. I am Supriya Pant." A buxom lady, in her forties greeted her. Anita tried to regain her breadth. She whispered thanks, inaudible but Supriya understood it.
"I believe this your first job," Supriya asked her looking at her tall beautiful figure.
"Yes, it is."
"Congratulations and good luck."
Anita thanked her once again, this time it was quite audible.
"You will be working with the Chief Accountant. He expects you after half an hour. Here is your security pass. In the meantime, let me take you around."
"Thank you Mrs. Pant."
"Supriya, OK? Just Supriya."
"Thank you Supriya," she said and followed her.

Prime Movers & Builders was a top notch real estate firm with offices all over India. It was the corporate office of the firm in Delhi where Anita was appointed as practising chartered accountant. It was a challenging job with high perks but it had been a long arduous journey for Anita to reach there.

Anita's father, Joseph Kutty was a small time farmer in a village near Kochi, a coastal town in the state of Kerala. Joseph and his wife Karuna were school time friends, passionate young lovers and devoted couple. Unfortunately, Karuna died young of cervical cancer. Joseph was then in his early thirties and Anita was hardly three years old. There was lot of pressure on him from his relatives and friends to remarry. Joseph refused. He loved Karuna dearly and he considered Anita as a parting gift from her. He wouldn’t thus trust to leave her in anyone else’s care.
While walking around his village, Joseph was haunted by the memory of the loving moments he had spent with his wife. He couldn’t concentrate on anything but at the same time he was aware of his responsibility to take care of Anita and provide her good education.
He decided to sell his house and small property and go to Delhi. Some of his community people had promised to help him establish there. He sold his house and land and shifted to Devli, a small village on the outskirt of Delhi. He rented a small house in the nearby unauthorized colony and established a small grocery shop on the ground floor of the house. It was a slow beginning, the income from the shop was barely enough to survive.
Joseph worked hard. After closing the shop and putting Anita to sleep, he worked as a night watchman of the colony and he volunteered help to the church, which also ran a school for the children. When the Father of the school admitted Anita in the school, Joseph was a much relieved man.

Anita saw her father toiling mostly in one of the two pairs of trousers he had and the little girl was aware of the hard work her father did to meet her needs.
“Papa, why don’t you ever buy anything for yourself,” Anita had asked her father many a time.
“Surely, I will, just wait a little, sweet heart,” he would tell her.

Little Anita sitting in her room above the shop often dreamed of having lot of money and buying gifts for her father.
"Papa, I am not going to work in this shop. When I grow up, I am going to earn a lot of money and we will close down this shop."
"What are you going to do my child?"
"I am going to be a chartered accountant. They earn lot of money. Then I will buy clothes and gifts for you."
Joseph who doted upon his little girl was quite moved.

Joseph’s hard work was yielding results. He had extended his shop and with little help from friends added a soft drinks and ice cream counter with a telephone booth. He kept the place neat and tidy and soon it became a favourite joint of the young crowd. Joseph had now a new problem at hand. His expanding business required that he had to file a tax return.

It was Christmas Eve. Joseph had bought a beautiful dress for Anita. The young little girl was annoyed.
“Why only for me. Will you always remain in these worn out trousers?”
“Anita dear, don’t you bother for my trousers. Don’t you know this is the fashion in vogue?” He bantered.
Tears rolled down the little Anita’s cheeks. She couldn’t speak and ran in to the waiting arms of her father and sobbed bitterly.
Joseph caressed her hair and whispered, “I will buy myself a three piece designer’s suit on the day you join a decent job.”

One day Joseph told Anita, "The worst part of my work is to keep accounts and you know I have no clue of accounts. But for Jacob, I would have been outside the tax office every day."
Jacob Mathew was a young clerk in the tax office living with his parents in the neighborhood. In his spare time, he helped the small businessmen in keeping their accounts and filing their tax returns for a small fee.
"Wait until I qualify as a CA. Then you wouldn't have to depend on anyone,” Anita assured her father.

"Dear, Jacob is a great help. So far I never had any problem in filing the tax return. You know how complicated the tax laws are and how greedy the tax people are."
"That is because you neither know accounts nor the tax-laws."
"OK! I give up but Jacob stays until you are ready to replace him."
Anita often had such arguments with her father who resolved them all in lighter vein. Anita but knew that her father was wholly dependent on Jacob and that the latter helped him with all sincerity.

Ill luck was still following the family. One evening when Jacob was returning from church, a speeding truck overran him. Jacob who was accompanying him rushed him to the nearby hospital but it was all too late.

The people in neighbourhood knew Joseph’s store was doing well and that Anita neither had experience nor inclination to run the shop. They were curious to know her future plans. Some of them either asked her straight or they approached Jacob, who they knew was close to the family. They would come to express their condolences but come around the issue one way or the other.

“I hate these people who come to offer condolence with scheming minds. It hurts when some of them slyly suggest or try to find out if I had plans to sell the shop," she told Jacob.
"That is the reality of life, dog eating dog.”
"My father toiled hard to raise this shop. I will never sell it though I don’t know what to do next," she told Jacob.

"Anita, you are at the critical stage of your life. You must complete your CA before you take up anything else in your hands,” Jacob advised her.
"Jacob, I have hardly any choice. I can not afford to continue my studies. You know how expensive the books are. Moreover, you have to work long hours to qualify the CA examination whereas the shop needs all the time."
"Please don’t leave your studies at this stage. Let’s hire a help for running the shop. I will keep a watch over the daily transactions.
"Jacob! I appreciate your kind gesture but I am not in a proper frame of mind to continue my studies. It needs total concentration, which I find difficult altogether."
"You remember it was your ambition and your father always wanted you to become an accountant."
"I remember everything but I find myself unable to continue.”
"The best tribute you can pay to your deceased parent is by completing your studies and qualifying as a chartered accountant, which you promised during his life time."

Anita knew it and she knew her father’s soul would not rest in peace till she succeeded in achieving the avowed objective.

The last four years were tough. Anita worked very hard dividing her time between her books and the shop. Late in the night, she would go through the sales figures meticulously, which kept the new manager on his toes. Jacob stood by her all these years. There was an indomitable determination in the young girl to forge ahead. She felt that she owed it to her father. Anita qualified as CA with distinction.

Supriya was garrulous by any standard. Anita found it difficult to match her pace of rapid-fire questions. Some questions she replied well but she was nearly incoherent replying to others. She was aware of it and felt awkward but it really was helping her to get over her nervousness.

Anita was sitting before her boss. Mr. Garg received her with the air of a boss. Anita soon realized that the boss wanted to floor her with his knowledge. That in fact raised her confidence for she prided her knowledge and the self-esteem in her got over the initial inhibitions.
"I am going to let the guy have it," she decided.
Soon she was a changed person, a well-informed professional. Mr. Garg was surprised by her knowledge of accounting laws and their legal implications.
"Anita you will make a good accountant and we will make a good team," he said rising from his chair and shaking hand with her
"Thank you sir, I will do my best," Anita said, coming out of the room.

Jacob was waiting for her out side her office. He could see Anita’s beaming face.
"Congratulations, Anita. I wish your father was here today. He would have been very proud of you."
"Yes, I know,” she said and then after a little pause she continued, “Jacob, thanks for everything. You have been a great help. I remember the evening of my father’s funeral. It was so depressing and I had lost all hopes. But for you, I would have never reached this position."
"I am happy for you. Let's go out for dinner. It is on me. I want to celebrate the occasion."
Anita kept quiet for a moment and then told him, "Jacob, I am sorry I can't go out today. I have an important engagement this evening."
"What engagement?" Jacob was hurt by her brusque reply.
"May be, some other day, please."
Jacob didn't insist but he was very disappointed.
"As you wish," he said and left her outside her new office.

Anita came home, took a shower and put on the dress her father had given her on her birthday, the year he had died. Then she went to the nearby florist and bought a bouquet of roses.
Looking at the flowers she told the taxi driver,
"Please take me to the Christian cemetery."

THE REVENGE

2008-10-05T01:35:00.000-07:00

Kareempura is a small village in the Lahore district in Pakistan. In fact, it is the last village on the Pakistan side bordering with India. The village is known for its special variety of mangoes and basmati rice. The people there say, “If you have tasted the mangoes and basmati of Kareempura once, you will decline a royal invitation to taste it again.”
There is lot of truth in it but Kareempura’s picture will remain incomplete if it were not added here that the people of Kareempura are very warm and hospitable.

It was the year 1943.
Jagir Singh was the zamindar of Kareempura. He was a happy go lucky fellow, generally amorous but generous with his subject. He liked good things of life and organized cultural activities like qawali, music and muzra in the lawns of his haveli, which was thrown open to the public on such occasions. Though the income from the zamindari was not much, Jagir Singh seldom complained.
In the winter months, the farmers after sowing ravi crop have a little respite. That is the time for social, cultural activities. In villages, the groups of nomadic mirasi tribe, the singing and dancing troupe, move from village to village entertaining the peasantry. Normally open to men only, some elderly women do sneak in or watch the performance from the roof top of the nearby houses.

Karishma was a member of such small troupe. She was young and beautiful and had a melodious voice. When she rendered gazals, men were moved and when she sang from Bhulesah, women could hardly hold back their tears.
Jagir Singh was captivated by Karishma’s talent and charm. He wanted her to stay back in Kareempura and he knew he had to pay a price for it. Jagir Singh made a deal with the head of the troupe for one thousand silver coins to keep Karishma in Kareempura. It was a fortune those days.

Jagir Singh gave Karishma enough money and a house and spent most of his evenings with her. His wife accepted the situation without much demur but his two grown up sons were not happy and they made it known to their father. Jagir Singh ignored all protests for he knew it was common those days for the rich landlords to have such relationship, which in fact was a status symbol. The family resentment came to surface again when a son was born to Karishma two years later. Jagir Singh was very happy but worried at the same time for Karishma and his newly born son.
“I should leave some property for them to survive when I am no more,” he thought and decided to give a piece of land to Karishma.
"I am giving the tract of land on the other side of the canal to Karishma. I have a responsibility towards her and her son. You will still have far more than you need. Hope you have no objection," he asked his sons.
His sons knew that their father had the legal right to do so. Moreover, it was a small piece of arid land away from the village and they still had over seventeen hundred acres of land between them.
"Do as you wish," they said with a sly smile.

Jagir Singh called the Patwari, the land revenue officer to prepare a deed transferring the land to Karishma. As was the requirement, the deed was written on a court-paper, which was then to be registered in the District Court of Lahore.
Was it because of procrastination, or was it providence, nothing can be said for sure. The fact was that the deed remained unregistered. It at times worried Jagir Singh but Karishma was happy with her son and satisfied with whatever she got from Jagir Singh.
"Allah, the merciful has placed me in to your care. He will take care of my son too," she often told Jagir Singh.

In the year 1947 India was partitioned with the creation of a new state of Pakistan. There was mass exodus of population from either side, which history had not seen before. Loss of land, property and dear ones angered all who were incited by maullvis and pundits. There were riots, arson and bloodshed of unprecedented scale on both sides of the border.
Jagir Singh was forced to leave Kareempura and along with that, his land, his haveli, his wealth, his love and his newly born son. The family decided to go to Amritsar, the nearest town on Indian side. They took all they could carry and decided to leave in the night. All movements had to be made discreetly since people in that area knew of his wealth and many envied him. He told his sons to move in separate groups and reach the army camp, which was set up seven miles from Kareempura towards Vagha village, now the international border post.

"You people go ahead, I will join you soon," he said and sneaked out of the house.

Jagir Singh wanted to give some gold coins and money to Karishma and he wanted to see his son, whom he had named Iqbaal, meaning, power and fame.
The separation was painful for Jagir Singh, as it was for Karishma. He held her passionately against his trembling body. Karishma took a black thread, which she had brought from the mosque and tied it around his arm. "Allah will protect you from all evil forces," she whispered. Jagir Singh kissed Karishma and his son several times and promised to come back as soon as the situation came under control.
“I must leave both of you in the hands of Wahe Guru,” he said handing her the gold coins and money he had kept for her in a separate packet. He hugged Karishma for the last time and kissed his son and stepped out in the dark. Karishma raised her hands in prayers for his safety.
It was still dark, but far on the horizon, there were signs of daybreak. Jagir Singh was petrified as he realized that he had very less time to cover the seven miles to safety. He heard the shrill shouts of the marauders who cried death to Kafirs. He ran as fast as his aging legs would allow him but fate had ordained otherwise. The group spotted Jagir Singh, the benevolent zamindar of Kareempura and speared him to death, on the piece of land, he had given to Karishma.
Jagir Singh’s family reached the army camp safely and they had managed to carry the gold and jewelry that once belonged to Jagir Singh. They waited for him anxiously until the army officer threatened to leave them behind. The family, unaware of the fate Jagir Singh had met was taken in a military truck to Amritsar along with other refugees. Jagir Singh’s family had a feeling that Karishma might have used some black magic to hold him back or got him killed for the gold sovereigns he was carrying on his person.

Karishma and her son Iqbaal were left in Kareempura. A couple of days later, she learnt of Jagir Singh's fate. She saw the rotting corpse but there was nothing she could have done for she herself was suspect in the eyes of the locals. Her heart ached for her lover and benefactor who she knew had staked his life to secure her future. She went to the village mosque and prayed for his soul.

The government of Pakistan decided to allot the land belonging to Hindu and Sikh families to the Muslims arriving from India. The piece of land Jagir Singh had wanted to give Karishma still remained against his name in the revenue records and therefore included for distribution amongst the refugees. Karishma’s protest and wailing didn’t help. Faiz Ali a prosperous farmer of Kareempura, who envied Jagir Singh, connived with the land revenue authorities and got the land allotted to his cousin, who had migrated from India.

Ten years. Karishma had used all the gold and money that Jagir Singh had left for her. She now worked as a housemaid and her health was failing. She often told Iqbaal the stories of the good days she had spent with Jagir Singh.
“Son, I may not live long. We have lost the land that your father had left for you. Learn some craft to earn your living.”
Iqbaal would but retort and swear at Faiz Ali. He was annoyed that Faiz Ali had usurped his property in a fraudulent manner. He had turned a rebel, no one in Kareempura wanted to employ him.

Iqbaal started working as a barber. Shaving the beard of his clients, he often fancied running it down the throat of Faiz Ali and his children.

The land deed that Jagir Singh had signed was not traceable for several years until Iqbaal requested the land record munsif who was his regular client to help him in the matter. Several other men of the village also told the munsif that they were aware of such deed.
The papers were finally located under a pile of old records. Faiz Ali but argued that since the deed was not registered in the district court, it had no validity. The court accepted this plea and that closed the matter for all time.
Iqbaal was frustrated. “There is no justice in this world. Justice is what you can get for yourself and I am going to do that,” he vowed.
It was not very long thereafter that Karishma died, leaving behind Iqbaal to face the world alone. During her illness, she talked of her youth, of her admirers who stayed back until daybreak, listening to her songs and she talked of the land that Jagir Singh had given her. When the funeral was over, Iqbaal vowed to take revenge.

Iqbaal was a tall lad with broad shoulders. He supported a beard and wore a turban like Jagir Singh, the former zamindar of Kareempura. People laughed at his back and some mocked at him. Iqbaal was but impervious.
It was a wintry night. The sky was clouded and people were tucked in their quilts other than those who had to use canal water for irrigating the Ravi crop. Iqbaal knew that that night it was Faiz Ali’s turn to use the canal water. He was standing outside his thatched cottage, waiting for him with bated breadth.
It was Imtiaz, Faiz Ali’s elder son going towards his fields. He stalked him as the track passed through a mango grove. That was the spot Iqbaal had chosen to kill his victim. He increased his pace. The hatred that raged in side for years was about to burst like a volcano.

“I want to shoot the bastard from the front. The son of a bitch must know that it was I, son of Karishma who killed him,” he muttered.
Suddenly, he heard Imtiaz Ali shouting, “I am dead… I am dead… a cobra has bitten me. Some one please save my life.”
Iqbaal jumped close to Imtiaz who was lying on the ground pointing a torch light at his ankle. Imtiaz saw blood oozing from his ankle.
“You sure it was a snake?”
“Yes, I saw it.”
“Don’t worry, you will be all right," Iqbaal said tearing a piece of cloth out of his turban. He twisted it with his hands, tied it tightly above Imtiaz’s ankle and sucked it hard and spat the blood on the ground. He repeated it until he felt giddy. All this time, Imtiaz was looking at him dazed.
A little later, Iqbaal dragged him to the edge of the canal.
“Put your foot in the water and let the blood flow. Have a heart now. Nothing will happen to you. I will go to the village and send your folks.”
Imtiaz had regained his wits and he was feeling better. Then he realized that presence of Iqbaal at that place and hour was strange but providential.
“Iqbaal Bhai, don’t you think Allah the merciful only sent you here at such an odd hour to save my life?”

Iqbaal looked at him and smiled wryly. And then throwing the pistol at Imtiaz he said, “You know, I had come to kill you.”

PREJUDICE

2008-09-26T05:56:00.000-07:00

Javed Akhtar was working for Care International as an agrologist, specializing in hybrid groundnut cultivation. His beat comprised all South Central African countries with headquarter at Lilongwe, Malawi.
It was the month of May. He was travelling for the first time to Lesotho, a small kingdom country within South Africa.
Javed was entitled to business class on official travel. His travel agent had given him a business class return ticket for Lilongwe-Johannesburg-Lesotho though the airline used a smaller plane on Johannesburg- Lesotho sector and the flight was treated as economy class.
Since the flight to Lesotho was after three hours, Javed decided to relax in the business lounge.
“Mr. Akhtar, I am sorry you can not use the business lounge.” The receptionist, a white lady told Javed.
“Why? I am travelling business class and I have been directed here by the transfer desk.”
“The flight to Lesotho is economy class and I can’t help if you have paid business class fare. That is between you and your travel agent. And the transfer desk is wrong in directing you here.”
Javed didn’t like the curt remarks. He gave her a second look. She was skinny, in mid forties and she had a hardened pale face.
“Look, this is funny. I pay business class, have to travel economy and can’t even use the lounge.”
The lady ignored his comment, which irritated him.
“Madam, are you suggesting that the girl at the transfer
counter is ignorant?” Javed asked her icily.
“Well sir, she should not have directed you here and if you will now excuse me,” she said turning away to other passengers.
“You are being difficult and I certainly don’t like your way of talking to me.”
She gave him a hard look but kept quite.
Javed noticed her reaction. It annoyed him further. “I would like to talk to your superior.”
After an unduly long pause she rang up and a young black officer appeared on the scene.
Javed explained the situation to the officer and that having been told to use the lounge by the transfer desk he now felt insulted.
The young officer apologised and told Javed that he could use the lounge.
“But this is no way of treating people. I am sure she would have not behaved in the same manner with a white man. I want to make a complaint,” Javed told the officer.”
The officer looked at the receptionist and then requested Javed to leave the matter at that.
“No, I want her to get the message, right and proper. I am convinced, the insult was deliberate.”
The officer threw his hands up and as he was about to leave, Javed asked him, “Officer, where can I find you?”
“Please leave it with her, if you insist,” the officer said and left.

Javed entered the lounge. He felt hurt. He took out pen and paper from his brief case, wrote the complaint and after putting it in an envelope, he went out and gave it to the lady who had spoiled his day.
“I hope it reaches the right quarters,” he said giving her a caustic smile. The woman received the envelope quietly and kept it aside without reacting.

Those were the days when South Africa had just come out of the apartheid regime. Sitting in the lounge, Javed tried to go through a magazine but his mind was restless.
“Old habits don’t go easily… bloody arrogant whites,” he muttered.
Javed took another magazine but his mind was racing back and forth to the annoying episode.
“Why had she to be so nasty, asking me to check out from my travel agent?” Then he remembered her face, it was pale and emaciated.
“These skinny females are eerie, good for nothing, not even in bed. Bloody cussed hacks,” he said and then smiled. He felt better and avenged after heaping the insults.
He picked up a coke from the vending machine, had a long drag and then he thought, “Why can’t one be nice to others? What does one lose in using polite words?”
He took another long sip, shook his head and soon he was lost in the office notes putting the ugly incident behind.

In Lilongwe Javed was generally busy in his work. His social circle was limited to the project-colleagues even though Lilongwe was full of people from his country. Unfortunately, Javed was not comfortable in their company for he had often seen them ill-treating the locals. It hurt him when they addressed the natives using filthy and abusive language.
“These blacks are dim-witted and lazy bastards. Never trust them, and with money, never.” That was the common advice his fellow countrymen had given him when he had landed in Lilongwe.

One day Javed was invited to dinner by a local business man of his community to his farm house. On reaching the place, Javed found the gates closed. He knocked at the iron gates several times and shouted for the watchman without any response. Finally, Javed phoned his host, which hurt the ego of the latter. The host was infuriated further to see the young watchman lying on the ground and snoring.
Javed was stunned to see his host kicking and abusing the lad. Not satisfied, the host asked for a cane and started beating the watchman till he was tired of hitting him. In all those horrific moments, the hapless boy, lying on the ground wailed and cried for forgiveness and mercy.
The host, on the wrong side of fifties was now panting and using foulest language Javed had ever heard. “These filthy bastards understand no other language,” he tried to convey to the guests who had gathered there.
Javed was not a regular visitor to the mosque but he believed that Allah, the merciful has made all men equal. That Islam preached kindness towards fellow beings. He couldn’t bear the cruelty.
“It is unfair and inhuman. How can you treat a human being like this? Even animals deserve better. It is barbaric. And don’t forget it is his country where you have made your fortunes. Don’t you forget, what were you when you landed in this country?”
The host didn’t take it kindly, nor did Javed find any support from the other guests. “You are new to the place, hardly know them. These blacks are conceited bastards, deserve such treatment,” the host retorted.
“Your dollar salary has made you arrogant,” one of the guests remarked.
Javed couldn’t bear any more and left the place without taking his dinner.
Soon Javed acquired the reputation of a phoney idealist amongst his people. He was but impervious to the allegation.

Professionally, Javed was known to be an efficient and successful project manager. Over a period, he was promoted as project director and posted to Johannesburg. He was reluctant to leave Malawi for he had developed a good team in Malawi and achieved commendable results. He loved Malawi, a small beautiful country, quiet and peaceful unlike the crowded metropolis of Johannesburg. Besides, he knew the law and order situation in South Africa was still pretty bad.

Javed had to start afresh. Luckily, he knew Paul Brown, his new deputy at Johannesburg. Paul was blithe and lively person who looked young for his fifty years. His love and compassion for the blacks impressed Javed and soon they became goods friends. Javed had also heard a lot about Mrs. Brown, the head of UNDP Rehabilitation Center for Juvenile Delinquents. She was held in great esteem by the black community for reforming several misguided young lads.
A couple of weeks later, Paul invited Javed to dinner at his place. Javed was happy for he was eagerly looking forward to meet Mrs. Brown.
“Martina, my wife,” Paul said and then added, “Mr. Javed Akhtar is the new project director.”
“Welcome, Mr. Akhtar. Hope you have settled down. Please feel free to ask for any help, we can be of,” she said with a brief smile.
“All is well with your able husband by my side. Thanks for your kind words.”
Suddenly it came to Javed that he had seen the lady somewhere. His mind started racing through the memory lanes and finally he remembered. “Oh yes, she was the woman he had met in the business lounge of the South African Airlines five years ago. Yes, I can not forget her emaciated pale face.”
The recollection gave him an uneasy feeling. He however kept his cool and the evening went off well. Martina was warm and polite and quite active for her age. Paul told him that at times she worked ceaselessly for twelve to fourteen hours and that she was very popular amongst the inmates of the rehabilitation center.

Javed was not sure if Martina had recognised him but he was very inquisitive, in fact restless to know her story.
“My memory can not fail me. How come, she had left her lucrative airline job and opted for a social welfare project.”
Javed had several questions crowding his mind and he decided to talk to Paul on a suitable occasion.

One evening when Paul and Javed were away in Cape Town, relaxing on the beach. Paul unfolded Martina’s story on Javed broaching the topic.

“True, Martina was working as an air hostess with South African Airlines. But she had lot of interest in my work and whenever she could spare time, she would come and help me in the project.
One day I had gone to Pretoria. Martina knew it and drove straight from the airport to the rehabilitation center to attend to pending important matters. It was dark and raining out side. She finished the work and was about to leave when three boys opened the door and before she could react, they gagged her and threw her on the floor. One of them took out a knife and jabbed her on the sides. Martina was scared to death and fainted. The boys then raped her in turn. They took out the money and jewellery from her purse and ran away.
Martina was hospitalized for three weeks. Though her physical wounds have healed, she has still not recovered from the trauma.”
Javed was speechless.
“Javed, can you imagine how courageous she is? She
resumed work at the same rehabilitation center as soon as she was discharged from the hospital.”
“Yes, courageous and magnanimous too,” Javed whispered.
Paul continued.
“The management thought Martina was not in a proper state of mind to join the flying services, so they accommodated her as receptionist in the business lounge. Every evening, she would rush to the rehabilitation center straight from her office without any respite.”
Javed was on the edges and visibly shaken.

“It was not the end of her misfortune. It is an irony that in spite of Martina’s love and compassion for the destitute, her unflinching dedication in serving the poor black community, she was slapped a racist charge on the basis of a complaint by a passenger. The new government took a serious view of it and she was asked to resign.”
Javed was stunned. Paul resumed after an awkward pause.
“Martina was hurt but determined as she is, she requested UNDP to join the rehabilitation center as full time volunteer.
“When was that?” Javed managed to ask.
“It was the month of May, five years ago.”

Javed gasped for breadth. He wanted to cry.
“Do you know who the passenger was?
There was long silence. Paul took a long sip of beer and looked at Javed.
“Yes, she told me when she saw your dossier. But believe me, she holds nothing against you.”
Javed couldn’t face Paul. He felt as if his entrails were burning.
As they walked back to their hotel, Javed was doing the soul searching.
“Why did I do all that? Why was I adamant to lodge the complaint? Why couldn’t I be a little more patient and let the matter rest after I had been allowed to use the business lounge and ….. did she act racist or was I prejudiced?”

Auditor’s Note: I wrote this story when I was travelling to Lesotho through Johannesburg. I was denied entry to business lounge even though I had a business class ticket. My first reaction was to retaliate but after a little while, I had a change of heart. Incidentally, that day the flight was delayed by five hours and I was able to complete the first draft of this story. I know, had I entered the business lounge, I would have boozed, eaten ravenously and dozed off.

THE DILEMMA OF A PRIEST

2008-09-15T09:25:00.000-07:00

Author’s Note: I wrote this story when I was working in Lilongwe, Malawi as IMF Financial Management Advisor (1998-2000). I used to visit the Temple quite often and became a friend of the young priest who lived alone since his contract with the temple management did not provide for travel for his family or leave during his two year contract.

Over eight thousand kilometres away from the place of their origin in India, there were men and women dancing to the beat of Dandia, the Gujarati folk dance in the Hindu temple in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. It was the eve of Diwali, the Hindu festival of lights, which is also heralds the beginning of the new fiscal year of the Gujrati community.
Watching them from one corner of the hall was Vishnu Sripad Oza, who had arrived in Lilongwe only a couple of weeks ago. He was feeling nostalgic, remembering the Diwali festival he had celebrated the previous year with his mother and his younger sister in the small village of Nathgaon in Porbunder district of Gujarat.

Vishnu remembered the tears rolling down his mother’s crumpled cheeks when he left for Bombay for his onward journey to Malawi.
“Son, your father looked after us from the income of this village temple. We would have managed whatever you earned here and felt satisfied for desires have no limits,” the old parent had said as he disengaged him self from her embrace.
Vishnu had often heard similar words from his father. He quietly sat in the waiting bus and left his people and the village to join as a priest in Malawi on a two years’ contract. It was true that the desire to earn an extra bit of money to make life comfortable was taking him to a distant place, he knew nothing about.

Vishnu’s father had worked as a priest of Nathgaon for forty years, never ever complaining. When he died three years ago, the entire village had shared Vishnu’s grief but no one came forward to help him financially. He burnt with shame when the village-head refused to give him money to perform the last rites of his father till he sold him his cow, the only possession and source of income of the family.
Vishnu was keen to go to college after his schooling. “Father, you have been leading a pathetic life, never sure of next meal. Why do you want me to suffer the same plight?”
The old priest had a conviction that material comforts were transitional and the real happiness lay in the frame of mind. He told young Vishnu, “Son! You are born in a family of priests. It is your duty to preserve the heritage. That is the real wealth. Never think that money is the answer to all problems, on the contrary, it creates many.”
Young Vishnu revered his father but he had suffered the indignation of being poor. He hesitated to ask his father money for books and stationery. He would often borrow books and sometimes his mother used to give him little money from the saving she managed by selling milk surreptitiously.

Vishnu’s father practised astrology and wanted Vishnu to learn it. The old priest often sat outside the temple on a grass mat and prepared horoscopes of his clients. He had amazing memory to recall the birth chart of every one in the village and of his other clients. Since almost all Hindus refer to their horoscopes on important occasions, it provided a steady though feeble source of income. The villagers listened to him and followed his advice to the extent they could afford. Whenever his prediction came true, they would come and thank him and offer some fruits, rice or sugar. For wrong predictions, no one blamed the old priest since Hindus believe in blaming only their fate.
After the death of his father Vishnu took over the mantle of the village priest but the village folks did not receive him well. For them the sight of a young man in trousers was inappropriate and irreconcilable. Since Vishnu never took astrology seriously, there was no income from this source. Vishnu was frustrated and he wanted to run away from the village and work as a labourer in a city. But it would have meant eviction from the temple cottage, which was the only shelter for the family.

Amrit Bhai Patel of Nathgaon village had migrated to Malawi about twenty-five years ago. His father owned a small grocery in Nathgaon and when the old man died, there was a dispute over it between Amrit Bhai and his elder brother. Amrit Bhai along with his young wife left Nathgaon with one of his relatives for Malawi. Amrit Bhai worked hard during these twenty-five years and the lady luck was on his side. He now owned a well-established business, a palatial house and a score of servants. He was respected among his people and was the president of the temple management committee of Lilongwe.
Amrit Bhai had come to Porbunder to find a bride for his son, which was the ardent wish of his wife. Vishnu met him and talked to him of his predicament. Amrit Bhai remembered that before leaving Nathgaon he had gone to the old priest with his horoscope. Vishnu’s father after looking at his horoscope had advised him to go abroad. “You will get prosperity and fame in an alien land”, the priest had predicted.
Amrit Bhai thought it an occasion to repay the debt of the old priest. He offered the job of priest to Vishnu, which had brought him to Malawi.

On that Diwali eve, Vishnu was watching the enthusiastic dancers. In the melee, he noticed a girl. He thought there was some thing different about her. She was tall and fair and her braid was abnormally long, touching the floor while dancing. Unmindful of people around her, she danced ecstatically moving graciously as if she were in a trance. Vishnu was reminded of the mythological fairies that danced in the court of Indra, the king of Hindu gods. After the dance and distribution of sweets, he retired to the cottage next to the temple, which was his new abode. Vishnu’s thought were divided between his people back home and the fascinating girl he had seen that evening. He could not sleep well that night. Suddenly he longed for her company. He fantasised that he was Lord Indra and she was dancing in his court.

Conventionally, the Hindu community came to the temple only on Monday evenings as such there was hardly any visitor on other days.
It was a Sunday evening, Vishnu was preparing for the evening prayers. He was about to light the lamps when he saw the same girl entering the temple. Vishnu could not contain his excitement. His hand struck the lamp and it fell down spilling the oil on the floor. Vishnu was flabbergasted and stupefied.
The girl came forward and picked up the lamp and placed it on the pedestal. She then went in to the adjacent store room and brought a rag and cleaned the mess. Vishnu, still unable to compose himself looked at her from the far corner of the room.
“Please refill the lamp; it is time for the prayers.”
“Yes, of course. I am sorry for the mess and thanks a lot.”
“It is OK, she said briefly and after the prayers were over, left the temple.

Vishnu since then was ever more restless. He was annoyed on his clumsiness. He remembered her walking away from him and her swaying gait. Then it occurred to him that she had come alone and on a Sunday evening, he was a bit surprised.
“I should have talked to her, at least asked her name. God! I have never seen such a beautiful girl.”
Vishnu waited for her every day but didn’t see her until next Sunday evening. She offered prayers and then sat down in the lawn outside and opened a small tin box. She had come with some home made Indian sweets.
“I am Sudha,” She told Vishnu offering him a portion of the sweets.
“My name is Vishnu,” and then he added, “I am the new priest.”
“Of course, you are the new priest,” she said with a smile.
“What about your parents? I mean you come to the temple alone….. on a Sunday… ”
Sudha looked towards the sky and then after a while she said, “I have no parents, they died several years ago. Amrit Bhai brought me here six years ago from India to work in his house. It is a cheaper and a reliable arrangement to bring servants from India.”
I get an off on Sunday evenings. If I have nothing else to do, I come here… feel good.”
Vishnu had not pictured a sad background. Sudha could notice his saddened face.
“It is the providence that takes us to places that we might have never imagined or make us do things that we would have hated. Just see, isn’t it destiny that brought you away from your dear ones to this godforsaken place.”
Vishnu looked at her. He was unable to say anything. He remembered his mother and her words to him at the time of parting.
“After the death of my parents, I lived with my maternal uncle. He had six of his own children and my joining the family only added to his woes. He was a mason by profession with sporadic income. Amrit Bhai had come to know about us and offered ten twenty rupees to my uncle for my services as housemaid. That was about six years ago.
“Haven’t you been to India since then?” Vishnu asked her.
“How could I? Where is the money and in any case my passport is in the custody of Amrit Bhai. I am a captive, a slave, no?” Then she added, “I do get Sunday off unless Amrit Bhai takes me out to his lake house on week-end.”
“What? You mean you go alone with him…spend night with him…” Vishnu gasped as if Sudha had poured molten lead over his body. He could not comprehend such an image of Amrit Bhai.
“Oh God, and this man fakes to be spiritual and is the head of the temple management committee,” he said in a disgust.
“It is part of my job and that is the real side of life, dear young priest,” she said with a wry smile and left him, restless more than ever.

Vishnu lost all respect for Amrit Bhai. The gratitude melted away. “If alone I had power, I would have put him in a dungeon for life time,” he muttered to him self.

Sudha didn’t turn up the next Sunday. That drove Vishnu crazy. The bastard must have taken her to his lake house. He imagined Sudha being raped by Amrit Bhai and crying for his help.
“May be, that after meeting me, she resisted Amrit Bhai and told him about me and that Amrit Bhai has ordered her not to move out of the house…may be, she wants my help …….” Vishnu’s mind wandered.
Sudha didn’t come even on the following Sunday. Vishnu was worried. “If only I could find about her welfare. God, please save her from the devil,” he included in his prayers.

Sudha came after three weeks. She looked cheerful in her new dress. Vishnu sulked not seeing any sign of distress that he had been imagining. He looked the other way.
“Don’t be angry. Amrit Bhai’s wife was seriously ill. I have been busy with the children and the household chores. He has taken her to South Africa today. All these days I have been remembering you,” she said blushing.
“I thought you were away with him to his lake house or some other place.”
“All men are alike. Their minds work only on a single track. I have responsibilities towards the children and the family other than sleeping with Amrit Bhai.”
“I am sorry, I was worried for you,” he said sitting on the bench along her side. While eating the sweets and fruits Sudha had brought for him he suddenly asked her, “Are you happy here?”
“I have no choice. People know my relationship with Amrit Bhai but there is nothing new about it, whether here or back in India. It doesn’t bother me any more. I am living my life as it comes to me.”
Sudha left Vishnu once again in a pensive mood. He was ashamed of himself. “Who am I do judge others? How many of us are so truthful about our relationships? I will not interfere in her personal life hereafter,” Vishnu decided.

It was Sunday evening. Vishnu had completed his evening ritual and was in his cottage, writing a letter to his mother. Now he no longer waited for Sudha. He had made some friends who sometimes invited him to their place. He was learning to live alone.
It was raining outside. There was a knock at the door. Vishnu opened the door and found Sudha with a vessel covered with a silk cloth. She entered the cottage and as she stood close to him, Vishnu could feel the smell of her wet body. It unsettled him.
“How are you and how is Amrit Bhai’s wife?”
“The treatment in South Africa has done her a lot good. She is much better but the doctor has advised her rest.”
Vishnu told her to take the towel and dry her hair and then added unmindfully, “You have long beautiful hair, like my mother.”
Sudha looked at him and asked, “You miss your people too much, don’t you?”
“Yes but as you say, there is no option. Poverty makes you do things whether you like or not.”
“Today I am free. Amrit Bhai and his family have gone to Blantyre yesterday to attend a marriage. They will return tomorrow only.”
Vishnu didn’t know what to make of it.
“I will make dinner for you. They say I am a good cook,” Sudha was in an exuberant mood.
“What if someone drops in?”
“Don’t worry. No one enters a priest’s cottage unless there is a special relationship.”
“You mean that is not applicable to you?”
“Exceptions are always there,” she said with a big smile ignoring Vishnu’s remarks.
Vishnu was unsettled once again. Does she understand the import of her words? He was not sure as he glossed over her curves, which had become more pronounced with the wet sari clinging to her body.
Sudha cooked the meals as Vishnu talked of his family and his school days.
“Why don’t you get married?” Sudha asked him suddenly.
“The village-head is asking my mother to vacate the temple cottage for the new priest. I have to send her money to raise a hut and then I have the younger sister of marriageable age. How can I think of marriage?”
Sudha was visibly moved. “Take your meals while it is hot. I should now rush to my place,” she said and left him hurriedly. Vishnu looked at her till she disappeared behind the temple wall.

Sudha didn’t come to temple for several weeks after that day. Vishnu tried unsuccessfully to forget her. His sister had written a letter thanking him for the money he had sent. “We have shifted to our new cottage. It is big and better. You will be happy when you come and see it.”
Vishnu knew he has been away from his village only for ten months yet it seemed as if he had been wandering in a dark forest for hundreds of years. The few moments he spent with Sudha were the only bright specs of light in his life.

It was Sunday. He remembered Sudha. He imagined several evil things happening to her. As the day passed, he felt like crying. He conducted evening prayers with a heavy heart and retired to his cottage. He had by then purchased a cassette player and borrowed some cassettes. He would listen to music late until midnight till sleep overtook his fatigued mind.
Then there was a knock at the door and before he could get up, Sudha entered the room with a vessel in her hand.
“Seems you are enjoying the music, have forgotten me altogether,” she said in a lighter vein.
Her words unleashed the storm that was raging in side Vishnu.
“I don’t even know your place and I can’t ask anyone. You are the only person with whom I can open my heart. I was worried all these days not knowing anything about you. Sudha! I missed you…I missed you every second…if only you knew how terribly I missed you…” Vishnu couldn’t continue, emotions had choked his words.
“I too missed you as much. Amrit Bhai’s wife has fallen sick again. He has again taken her to South Africa this afternoon. I came to you at the first opportunity.”
Vishnu looked at Sudha. There were tears flowing silently down her cheeks.
“Sudha you are my life-stream in this alien land. You know I get crazy when you don’t turn up,” he said and taking her in his arms he kissed her passionately.
It worked like showing a match to gunpowder. The lava boiling deep inside burst and came to the surface. For Sudha, this was a different experience. She kissed him wildly all over. She wanted to be coalesced in to his body as she held him closely. As Vishnu reached the peak of ecstasy, he cried, “Sudha! Oh! Sudha, the nectar of my life…you are my love…” and then the tempest was over.
Sudha gave him a loving look and kissed him again before getting up from the floor. “I must leave. The children must be getting worried,” she said and walked out in to the dark.

Vishnu’s world had changed from that moment. He was beginning to like the place. Sudha came to him sometimes while going to fetch children from the school. The few minutes they shared were very pleasing but not enough to douse the fire that engulfed both of them. Sudha however managed to come to him on couple of evenings. It satiated Vishnu temporarily. But it wasn’t enough; Vishnu wanted more and more of her.
The dream run came to an end soon when one evening Amrit Bhai rang up from Johannesburg and told Sudha to take the children away to his relatives as he was coming with the body of his wife the next afternoon.

Sudha could not come to the temple for several weeks. Vishnu was restless pining for her company.
“Now that the scoundrel has lost his wife, he must be sleeping with her openly,” the thought was crossing his mind over and over again recollecting the exciting moments spent with her. He waited for her every moment. I was a long agonizing wait of no avail.

One Sunday morning Sudha finally came to the temple. Vishnu could see anxiety writ large on her face.
“Where were you all these days? Why didn’t you come to me? Didn’t you think of me? Why are you looking so worried? What is the matter?” Vishnu unleashed a barrage of questions.
“Amrit Bhai wants me to stay with him permanently.” Sudha told Vishnu looking the other way.
Vishnu was furious.
“What do you mean permanently? Aren’t you already living with him?”
“He wants me to look after his children and be his mistress. You know such arrangements exist in our society.”
“What a sinful suggestion? Moreover, he is more than double your age. Why can’t he find a woman of his age? And what have you said to him?”
“I told him that I will look after his children but I wanted to marry some one else.”

Vishnu was jolted. “You mean you have told him about our relationship?”
Sudha looked at him and said, “He was furious at my suggestion. Vishnu, I wanted to talk to you before telling him anything. We have no time. Tell me, will you marry me? I have taken out my passport from his cabinet. We can return to India and start a new life.”
“Sudha, are you crazy? What am I going to do in India? You think my mother is going to accept this marriage?”
“Vishnu, you are young and educated and I have some money with me. You know, I am a good cook, we can start a small restaurant here itself if you are not keen to return to India.”
“Oh! Come on. You think Amrit Bhai will tolerate that the priest he brought for temple service has married his keep.”
Sudha was shocked by Vishnu’s words. She felt as if he had branded her by red hot iron. She had loved him and loved him dearly, from the core of her heart notwithstanding her relationship with Amrit Bhai. She was hurt by his words more than her uncle’s deal with Amrit Bhai but there was nothing to show her anguish on her face. She was poised and composed.
Vishnu walked up and down, he felt as if his entrails were burning and that the whole world was on fire. He didn’t know how to face the impending ignominy or bear for the loss love.
“Vishnu, I know you come from the family of priests and I am a low caste girl. Tell me, does this stigma remain even after crossing so many seas?”
“I don’t believe in that but we can not ignore the society ….. please try to understand my position,” Vishnu managed to say.
“Yes, I do understand. You don’t believe in it when you sleep with me under the cover of darkness. It is in the daylight that our relationship troubles you.”

Vishnu was dumbfounded. He was worried of losing his job and facing public ridicule. He knew no one will engage him in any capacity.
Sudha looked at his pulled down face.
“Vishnu, I understand your position and rest assured I would cause you no harm or embarrassment.”
Vishnu struggled for words. He wanted to seek her forgiveness but word failed him.
“Vishnu, I got your answer. I will pray that one day you return to your people. I will leave now for Amrit Bhai must be waiting for me,” Sudha said and left the temple.

More than fifteen years have passed. The Lilongwe temple has been renovated and there is a new cottage for the priest. Vishnu is still the priest of the temple. He has been to Nathgaon on two occasions, for the marriage of his sister and then for the last rites of his mother. He no more longs for his village and he is still unmarried.

Age is catching up with Vishnu. The believers revere him as a celibate priest dedicated to the temple service. Sudha comes to the temple now on Monday evenings along with her fourteen year old daughter Vibha and her stepchildren. Occasionally, Amrit Bhai accompanies them. Sudha often brings food, which she tells Vibha to keep in the priest’s cottage. Sudha and Vishnu have not talked to each other ever since their last meeting but whenever their eyes meet, there is remorse in Vishnu’s eyes and compassion in hers.

THE INVITATIONS

2008-09-09T09:25:00.000-07:00

Auditor’s Note:I did my schooling and college in Shimla; a stint in Spiti valley during my army career, which was followed by training at the Indian Audit & Accounts Staff College, Yarrows. I have thus very special, nostalgic feelings about the place.

I was invited to deliver a couple of lectures to young probationers of my Service at the Staff College, Shimla. It was the month of January, not a good time for people of my age to go to Shimla. It had snowed heavily after Christmas. The snow from the road surface had been furrowed to the hill side but the seepage from the snow mounds made the road surface wet and slippery.

May be, if it were fifteen or twenty years ago, a visit to Shimla at any time of the year would have been a pleasant welcome. Being on the wrong side of fifties and afflicted with stiff joints, it was more of a duty and at best a change from the office routine at Delhi.

It was thirty years ago that I was in Shimla as a probationer in the same good old place, the Yarrows, the probationers' mess, more appropriately their heaven. The most beautiful place in Shimla, we always thought.
As the car taking me from Kalka to Shimla was speeding past the wet road surface, memories of the place and events were coming back to me making me feel nostalgic.
I reached the Staff College at ten. The Director of the Staff College had kept me free that day. Luckily, it turned out to be a bright sunny day. I took a quick shower, a cup of tea and left Yarrows for the Mall. I wanted to make the most of my short visit.

I walked on the Mall up to the farthest end and went around the ridge. Shimla looked over crowded and ugly with cement concrete buildings piercing the skyline. The forest towards the High Court and the Jakhoo peak has been denuded. What a pity I thought as I entered Baljee, the famous restaurant on the Mall for a coffee. My enthusiasm for the place had ebbed by this time and I decided to return to Yarrows for lunch.

I was walking on my return journey near the Western Command building when I thought a lady coming from the opposite direction was waving at me. I have always been coy and timid when it came to facing members of the fair sex. Here, they were two of them. I gave a blank look to the probable gesture but to my discomfiture, one of them walked straight to wards me.
"Do you remember me?" She asked.
I am poor at remembering names and faces, which has been a cause of embarrassment to me on several occasions.
"Hello there. Yes, yes…" I tried to smile, desperately scratching my memory cells. It was obvious that I was unsuccessful.
"Aniket Sharma right, and you were a probationer in the year …….. 1973."
"My God! You have an elephantine memory," I said trying to look less clumsy.
"I am Emily, Emily Dean. Remember?"

I am as I said, very bad in remembering names but that was one name I could have never forgotten. A shiver passed down my spine. I looked at her once again for I wanted to greet her properly.
"Emily! Oh God. It is nearly three decades since we met. What a pleasant surprise? I am so happy to see you."
A shadow crossed her face and then she pointed to wards the young girl accompanying her.
"She is Shefali, my daughter."
I said hello to Shefali, shaking her hand.
"When did you come to Shimla?"
"Less than two hours. I have come to Yarrows to give couple of lectures to the probationers. Went around the Mall and was returning to Yarrows."
"Going back for lunch?"
"I was…but not necessarily…. I mean, I am free."
"Why don’t you join us? That is if you have time. Come along. Shefali wants to do some shopping."
"Of course, I have all the time and I would love to be with you," I was suddenly enthused. Emily smiled briefly.

As we walked on the Mall, I asked Emily about her husband, her family. She told me that her husband had died ten years ago in a car accident. Shefali was her only child and that she was teaching in St. Edward School. Her parents were no more and that she lived in the same old house in Balugunj.
Meeting Emily had elated me momentarily but her story saddened me. Suddenly I thought I was walking with a different person. I remembered Emily of yester years, always smiling and cheerful and often pulling my leg. Time and events had made her sombre and gloomy.
Even though walking on the Mall on a sunny winter day is the utmost one could ask for, I was restive. I wanted to sit down.
"Let's eat something," I told Shefali.
Emily wasn’t keen to accept my offer.
"It is cold and we would like to be back early."
But I insisted. Shefali joined me and Emily gave in reluctantly.

I ordered lunch with Shefali's help. My mind was oscillating back and forth. I remembered my first meeting with Emily.

Yes it was the year 1973. It was past ten in the night. My batch mate, Rajeshwar and I were returning from the Western Command Officers' Mess. Both of us were thoroughly sozzled. Walking down the slope, perhaps our legs were not synchronising with our body movements. As bad luck would have it, there was something on the road surface that made me go for a six. Perhaps it was the impact of the slide or the booze or the combined effect of both that I passed out.
I vaguely remember, I reached Yarrows, supported on one side by Rajeshwar and by some unknown person on the other. Rajeshwar and my orderly took me to my room. The orderly took out my shoes and put me in to the bed. It used to be a community living in Yarrows of undefiled raw youth, transparent and sharing. Soon, every inmate of Yarrows was in the know of my indiscreet and despicable behaviour before I started snoring.

"You bloody fool, you made an ass of yourself and mine as well." It was from Rajeshwar, next morning on the breakfast table.
"I know, I know. It was rather too much or was it because of the cold wind?" I tried to reason it out.
"Shut up you bastard. Those girls knew that we were the probationers from Yarrows. One of them told her cousin to lug you or else you would have landed in the mortuary."
"Surely not, I knew you were around," I said laughingly.
"Not again buddy. I would rather kick your arse hard enough to make you go off the road completely, no more nuisance."

I was aware that a bunch of college girls used to croon whenever we crossed but we never took a serious note of that. But I was worried now.
"They would identify me and spread the story. My cousin is in the same college. The damn thing could be very embarrassing," I told Rajeshwar.
"That will be your funeral and I would enjoy every bit of it,” he responded and then added cynically, “Hereafter, please keep a distance from me."
"You are a cussed bastard," I thought it was my turn.
“Late realization sir, too late,” Rajeshwar snapped back.

Next few days, I was cautious. I didn't know which of the girls had seen me that evening in the slovenly, drunken state. It did not take long. On the following Sunday afternoon while coming back from my cousin's place, two girls of that group came to me.
"Hi! How are you?"
I instantly guessed that the two were my benefactors. I thanked them profusely and gave them a story that, that was a special occasion and that I was otherwise a man of sober habits.
"Forget it. It happens," One of them said smilingly and then added, "I am Emily and she is my friend, Sujata."
"I am Aniket Sharma. You can call me Aniket."

Emily was fair and tall. She had long hair and she was really beautiful. We often met after that. I once took Emily and her friend to lunch. I felt I owed it to them.
It was the month of December, we were preparing for our departmental examinations, seldom going out of Yarrows. Emily rang me couple of time during this period from the market for she didn’t have a phone at her place.
After the last paper on the 23rd December, I went to the Mall. I had told Emily to meet me there. The Staff College was closing for Christmas break and I was to go to Delhi next morning. After the break, I was to undergo two months' practical training at the Treasury Office in Delhi. We knew we would be meeting after a long interval.
"Aniket! We are having a Christmas party at my place tomorrow evening. I will be very happy if you join us."
I didn't know what to tell her.

"I have told my parents and they will be very happy to meet you." She looked at me and then added, "You will be away for a long period there after."
I still struggled for words. I would have loved to join them but I had bought my ticket and I had phoned my parents, my brother was to pick me at the Delhi bus stand.
"Emily! I am sorry. I have to rush to Delhi…I…I have told my parents…You know I would have loved to join you...but…" I managed to say as I saw the disappointment on her face.
"It is OK," she said looking away from me.
I was very sorry that I could not accept her invitation.
I gave money to my orderly to buy a rose bouquet and deliver it at Emily's place. I had written a small note of apology.

At Delhi, things moved fast. My parents had seen a girl for me and wanted my consent. I accepted their selection and two weeks later we were engaged to be married.
After treasury training, I returned to Shimla in the first week of March for a short period and went back to Delhi to get married in the third week of the same month. I tried to contact Emily but failed. She didn't have a telephone at her place. I gave invitation cards to all my friends and left for Delhi without meeting Emily.

It was a day after my marriage. I was sitting with my friends when the postman brought a packet for me. It was a beautiful painting from Emily, a gift from Emily on my marriage. The brief note read:

Dear Aniket,
Congratulations. I was looking forward to see you but you were obviously busy. Collected your address from Rajeshwar. Wishing you a very happy married life.
God Bless.
Emily

I was moved as I looked at the painting. I read the note several times. Deep inside me, I felt guilty for I had not even sent her the invitation card. Frankly, for inexplicable reasons, I didn’t have the courage to do so.
I returned to Shimla in April. I lacked the courage to contact Emily. Moreover, I had to prepare for the final examinations due in the month of May. Frankly, I confess, my mind was with my wife whom I had left in Delhi with my parents. After the examinations were over, I went to Emily's house. Her mother told me that she had gone to Chandigarh to her uncle. I was sad to miss her.

I lost contact with Emily. Things changed during these thirty years but I concede, whenever I thought of Shimla, I thought of Emily.

We came out of Baljee. Shefali wanted to buy a cassette player. "Mama has promised it on my birth day."
We went to a shop. I told Shefali to select a piece and I wanted to pay for it. Emily wouldn't let me do so.
"Emily! Please let me pay. I can't explain but I will feel good."
Emily was still reluctant but I insisted and paid at the counter. Shefali was happy with her gift and in her beaming face I could see the cheerful, smiling Emily of my probationary days.
We started walking back. It was more of walking through the memory lane. Shefali was perhaps talking about her friends; both of us were oblivious of it. And we didn’t realize that we had reached Cecil Hotel the point from where our paths separated.

"Aniket! Tomorrow is Shefali’s birthday. It is a quite affair, only a couple of her friends. Can you join us? Shefali will be very happy and …I too will feel good."
"Oh! Yes, uncle. Please come. Mama makes delicious cakes."
I remembered, Emily made delicious cakes and I remembered, she always brought a piece for me whenever she made one.
I had to return the next evening immediately after delivering the last lecture. I was scheduled to catch the late night train to Delhi to attend an important meeting in Delhi on the following day.

I couldn’t hold back my tears. It was the second time that I had failed her. I was unable to accept her invitation. Words wouldn’t come out of my mouth. Emily looked at me and perhaps she understood my predicament.
“It is OK. I should have known. You are a busy person. Thanks for the lunch and the gift. God bless,” she said and walked away slowly.
I stood there, frozen body and mind watching Emily go away holding Shefali’s hand.
“God bless you both,” I whispered and turned in to the lane to Yarrows.

THE PUB OWNER OF GEORGETOWN

2008-08-27T07:57:00.000-07:00

Auditor's Note: This story is dedicated to my friend Dr. Gibson with whom I worked as International Monetary Fund's Senior Fiscal Management Advisor in Malawi (1998-2000)

John Gibson ran a pub, next to the small bridge that connected Washington DC to Georgetown. It was a shanty pub mostly visited by the blacks. In the evenings, when the pub lights were dimmed and the loud and garish music resounded against its low ceiling, the guests danced brashly, brushing against each other, most of them in drunken state, eyeing the gyrating voluptuous females.
The pub was just breaking even, in fact on couple of occasions John had to tap his savings to keep it running. John knew he was the culprit for he himself was found of drinking and more often than not, by the time the pub closed, he was quite tipsy.
“Look, I am not going to live for ever and for the remaining years that I live, I want to make most of it,” John often told his wife, Cynthia who was also the bar maid of the pub. In fact, it was Cynthia who ran the show. She was clever and garrulous. John trusted her simply because he knew he was hardly of any use. In fact, he hardly had any strength left in him.
“She is handling matters better than I would have. Moreover, I don’t want to wreck my peace of mind.” That was the explanation he gave to his friends who often cajoled him to take active interest in the pub matters.

One evening Cynthia jolted him beyond his imagination. She had severe headache and she fainted vomiting blood.
John rushed her to a hospital. The doctors carried out the tests and found that Cynthia had brain haemorrhage because of malignant tumour. For three days and nights John was with Cynthia. On the fourth day Cynthia died on his laps.
“Why the hell should you have left me alone? You spoiled me all my life me and now you leave me when I am totally useless,” John moaned at her funeral.
After Cynthia’s death John left the apartment he had shared with his wife and shifted to the attic on top of the pub. His life was now divided between the pub and the attic on top.

John had no clue how to run the pub. It had never occurred to him that a day might come when he may have to manage it. He was annoyed about him self and thought of selling it off.
“Please find a buyer for the Pub. You know I can hardly look after it,” he told his friends.

After couple of days, a woman approached John for the bar maid’s position.
“You said your name is Emily, sounds poetic, no?” John asked her with a wry smile.
The woman before him didn’t react. She was forth right.
“Mr. Gibson, I need a job and I have the experience. I have been working for the Blue Ace for five years.”
“Why are you leaving it? It’s a swell of a joint. People with lot of money go there.”
“The new manager wanted me to sleep with him,” Emily told him unabashedly.
That made John laugh.
“Oh God, you mean, you are leaving a good job simply because the manager asked you to sleep with him?”
Emily was uneasy at the question. “Look, I didn’t like the man. And you don’t go to bed with every bastard who asks you.”
“Oh, come on, I am as much a bastard. How about sleeping with me?”
“Bastard, yes, you may be but a harmless one. I don’t mind hopping in to your bed.”
John knew it was a dig at his age, he didn’t like it.
“I will pay you three hundred a week, tips are yours.”
“And the bed, you forgot that?”
John smiled but it was a subdued one.
“OK, you start from tomorrow.”
“Thank you John,” she said and kissed his hairy chin before leaving.

John was unsettled. His tomfoolery vanished as he saw Emily going out. He suddenly remembered Cynthia.
And then it occurred to him that Emily looked a little like Cynthia. The curls in the front and her gait were quite similar and she was un-inhibitive like Cynthia. John also remembered that Cynthia used to kiss him in the similar way.

Emily was regular and efficient in her job. She was sharp-witted and would relate funny jokes and stories to humour the men. She had a curvaceous figure and a charming smile, which attracted men.
John noticed the change in fortune after Emily had joined. His profits were going up. The pub was generally full and even the rowdies paid for their drinks.

“How much were you making in Blue Ace?” John asked Emily one evening as she was preparing to leave.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, I want to know what you are losing working here.”
“Forget it. I accepted the job,” she said and then added with a mischievous smile, though I am still sleeping in the cold.”
John remained quiet, which surprised Emily. She looked at his grim face.
“John, any thing is wrong?”
“No, I was just thinking, I took an undue advantage, I mean I knew you were desperate for a job.”
“It’s OK.”
“I am thinking to give you a raise. Fifty a week, OK?”
“Well, well you seem to be in an expansive mood. I should have asked for a slice of moon.”
“Go to NASA for that and now buzz off,” he said and a shadow crossed his face as he saw Emily giving him a kiss and walking away.

Emily had been working with John for nearly a year. It was the month of December. There was festivity in the air as Christmas neared. Rich and poor, everyone cherished the hope of some thing good happening in their life.

One evening John told Emily, “I want to paint the pub and I want a live band for Christmas Eve. Entry will be only for the regular guests and it will be free, all on the house.”
“John, are you crazy? You sure have you gone nuts. You better get your self examined unless you want to go broke.”
“Don’t you worry for it. You issue invites to the regular customers and arrange a good band to play for us.”
And then pausing a little he added, “Emily, when Christmas comes, there is an expectation in every heart. I want to do a little bit for my clients who have stood by me all these years.”

Emily having failed to convince her employer got busy in making the arrangements.
The clients were elated. “John, have you got a jack pot or the treasure of Sinbad?” Someone asked.
“Hope, it is not one of your pranks?” The other asked.
“No, it is not, I promise,” John assured them.

It was the Christmas Eve. John called Emily and told her, “I have pain in the chest and I feel a little uneasy.”
“John, shall I call a doctor?”
“No need for that, I will be OK, I simply need some rest.”
“You sure you want the evening show to continue?”
“Yes and I want you to take care of the guests. Make it a memorable night for all of them.”
“Sure,” Emily said briefly and left to look after the arrangements. There were lot many things to be done and she had to do it single handed.

Emily was relieved that all was under control. She had been running like a hare from one end to another. She thought of seeing John before she took a bath and got dressed for the evening.

Emily knocked at the door but there was no response. Emily was nervous as she entered the room. John was lying on his bed, his both hands hanging outside. She touched his face and tried to shake him.
John was lying unconscious. Emily was nervous but lost no time in calling an ambulance and rushing him to a hospital.
The doctor told Emily that but for timely treatment, John would have been in serious trouble.

A little later John came to senses. He was weak and could hardly speak.
He gestured to Emily to come closer to him and then whispered, “Emily, a million thanks for saving my life. Emily, I wonder what would have happened to me if you were not there.”
Emily didn’t say anything.
John was still looking at Emily. Suddenly he told her, “You know, I have been fooling my self all my life. To be honest, I have been naïve and selfish.” Then after pausing a little, he added, “It never occurred to me to ask you about your family.”
Emily found it difficult to hold her tears. She didn’t know what to say and how to say it. There was a long pause as John looked at her intently.
“John, I am Cynthia’s younger sister. She had told me you needed some one to take care of you and I had promised her to do so.”
John was dumbstruck.
“Oh God! Cynthia wanted to look after me even when she was gone and here is this angel working for me with total dedication … and … what have I given them in return? How mean of me? … God forgive me… God.”
Emily pressed his hands softly. “Cool down now. Get well soon and then we will celebrate,” she said and then added with a smile, “We will go for honeymoon.”

John smiled.
“Emily, I am OK now. Please return to the pub and take care of the guests. I want the guests to have a good time.”
“You sure, John?”
“Yes, and please do as I say.” John sounded better.

Emily looked after the guests diligently who enjoyed the liberal hospitality. They sang and danced and made merry. It was the liveliest Christmas they ever had.
“Emily, it has been never so good. We never had such grand Christmas. So much of food and wine and whiskey … and lively music …… it was simply great,” one of the guests told Emily.
“And tell us where is that blighter John? He must be lying drunk somewhere. Tell him, we really enjoyed. Please say our thanks to him,” the other guest said gleefully.

“ I will,” Emily said continuing with her work.

“John I wish you were here to see these cheerful faces and share their happiness and I hope the evening was up to your expectations,” she whispered as the last guest left the pub.

RETURN OF THE NATIVE

2008-07-20T00:46:00.000-07:00

It was the first time that he had come out of his village, a few kilometres away from Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. His father was working in the state agriculture farm as a driver. They were seven members in the family, his parents and five of the children. He was the eldest. His name was Fred, Fred Kambalame.
Fred’s father, Dominique Kambalame was often away on temporary duty with his boss. That gave him extra money. But Dominique never even gave his full salary to his wife. He liked to booze with his friends and he loved the company of women, the barmaids in particular after he had half a dozen of Carlsberg beer. Dominique would hardly spend his weekends with his family unless he was out of pocket. Fred had the responsibility of feeding his siblings. He would go to the forest in search of mushrooms or dig fields for cassava during the season. Helping his mother during rainy season for sowing maize and beans was another of his duties. All these responsibilities when he was only fourteen.
Fred often saw his father beat his mother. Mostly it was for two reasons; either he wanted money or when she refused to let him ride her. Dominique used to be violent on these occasions and he would hit Christie with his fists or a stick if he located one. The neighbouring men would come and watch and the women would howl but no one entered the fray. Traditionally, a man had the right to satiate his urge at any hour of the day. Christie at times recoiled and hit Dominique, to utter dismay and disgust of the men folk.
“She is too finicky, I would not have tolerated her even for a day,” this was Stephen, Dominique’s first cousin who always cherished to sleep with Christie. In fact, Christie had acknowledged his advances but she wanted him to bring her a pheasant or a rabbit.
“Christie! That is too much for a mother of five children,” Stephen would plead. But the fact was that Christie was only thirty-one, she was shapely, beautiful and desirable.
Fred knew that his mother at times entertained men to feed the family. Dominique knew it as well and this infuriated him particularly when Christie refused to sleep with him.
“I know you bitch. You want to sleep with young studs. You bloody slut…you think I can not satisfy you… come… come…try…you bloody whore….” Dominique would make such outbursts and walk away from the village.

Fred wished if only there could be peace in the family. He loved his mother but he liked his father as well. After all he was the bread earner and he always brought gifts for them on Christmas and on their birthdays.
“Drinking or going to other women is not a serious matter. Who is not doing it?” Fred would try to convince his mother.
“If only I could get a job. It is poverty that brings so many miseries,” he often thought.

One evening after a serious altercation between his parents, which left a deep cut on the face of his mother, Fred made up his mind to leave. In the wee hours of the following day, he left his village and walked until he reached the road to Blantyre. He knew that sometimes one could get a lift from the trucks going with tobacco load to South Africa.

“Look boy! You make me happy and I make you happy, take you to Jo’burg, right?” The robust man in charge of the truck told Fred who didn’t understand the purport of the words. He nodded his assent and slid himself under the tarpaulin.

The truck rolled on until it crossed the Mozambique border. It was dark and they halted outside a small motel and ordered for food and liquor. Fred was overwhelmed to see the variety and the quantity of food. The table was overflowing; there wasn’t enough place to keep the food. There was roasted beef, chicken and fish and there was bread and butter and salad. The boss offered him whiskey, Fred opted for beer. He had seen his father drinking beer; he wanted to be like him. Fred enjoyed the food and the beer though he remembered his brothers, sisters and his mother and felt sorry for them.
“What luck? And this is only the first day.” He thanked God and continued with the food and the beer.

Soon after meals he was called to the room of the boss.
“Son, you happy, enjoyed your food?”
“Yes sir, really very happy; so much of nice food and can of beer. It was simply great,” he said enthusiastically.
“Good son, now it is my turn,” the burly man caught hold of him and the other two pulled his trousers down.
The night was an ordeal for the young Fred. He cried with pain and bled as the three men unleashed their sperms in turn. All of them were ecstatic about their exploits.

“Go and sleep and no tricks,” one of them shouted with wolfish grin. Fred could not stand on his legs. Like a rabbit surrounded by canny wild foxes, he was scared even to roll his eyeballs. He put his hands on the ground for support and picked up his trousers. As he walked out with bowed knees, he heard the joyous cheers of his captors.

Fred did not remember anything after that. He had fainted and when he woke up, he found himself under the tarpaulin and that the truck was moving with a fast speed. Fred was in a state of stupor the next whole day. He had high fever and he remembered one of them had forced a bitter pill down his throat.

The truck finally reached its destination. “You will stay here. We have left food for you. If you move out, the police will catch you and put you behind the bars. We will return in a day or two,” the boss said as they left to join their families leaving Fred in a large cargo godown.

Fred was still suffering from pain. He had not eaten the whole day now and he felt hungry. He took out some bread, a few chicken pieces and a coke from the packet left for him. Once again he remembered his family.
“They would have envied him with so much of good food,” he thought as he took a bite.
He slept thereafter. When he woke up he felt better. It was mid day and he feared some one of his tormentors might come. He moved around the godown and noticed a spiral iron staircase at one end. He climbed to the top and saw a small window at the end of it. Fred opened its doors and found him self about sixty feet above the ground. He suddenly remembered that the trucks had ropes tied around the tarpaulin.
“I have to take a chance and get away from these bastards,” he decided and waited until night. He opened the rope from the truck that had brought him from Malawi. He doubled it and put knots at regular intervals to help him climb down. At the dead of the night, he collected the food bag and went down the rope to his freedom.

Fred moved around the black areas trying to locate some Malawian and seek his help; scared all the time, fearing arrest. It was his third evening in the alien land and he had nothing to eat. It was raining heavily. Fred was standing outside a shop. A little later he noticed a car coming from the opposite direction. Its engine was giving irregular sound and it stopped a few metres away from him.

An elderly man came out of the car. It was raining heavily. He opened the bonnet and tried to find the fault. Apparently, he could not locate one and shouted something to the woman sitting in side the car. The couple conversed and then decided to walk the distance. But there was a problem. They had a suitcase, which apparently had something valuable and could not be left in the car and perhaps it was too heavy for the old man to carry it.
Fred had an intuition. He approached the couple and offered to carry the suitcase. The couple was hesitant. They looked around and waited for a few seconds. There being no option, they ultimately decided to engage Fred to carry the load. It was more than an hour’s walk that the couple stopped in front of a basement of a tall building.

Rain had still not stopped. The man took out a Ten Rand bill and handed it over to Fred who had no clue about the worth of the money. He looked blankly at them.
“Where do you live?” the old man asked him in African.
Fred understood the question. “No house,” he replied and then added, “I come from Malawi. No work, master, please …master.”
The man looked at his wife and asked Fred to wait outside. Fred waited anxiously and prayed. “God if only they keep me.”
The God perhaps listened to his prayers. The man came out and told him to follow them. There was no scale to measure Fred’s joy. He thanked God as they walked another kilometre to arrive at the house of the couple.

Qasim Bhai, the old man knew that Fred’s entry in the country was unlawful but he was a shrewd businessman. He knew such people always remained under leash, fearing the police and they worked hard and at less than half the wage.
“Don’t talk to any one outside or else someone will inform the police,” he had warned Fred. He gave Fred a pair of old clothes and a small room to live in.

Qasim Bhai owned a chemist’s shop in … Area of the town, which predominantly had Asian and black population. Fred noticed men and young boys coming to the shop, whispering a few words to Qasim Bhai, handing him the money and taking away tablets that Qasim Bhai would bring from basement of the shop. In other cases, Fred had learnt that Qasim Bhai would ask for doctor’s prescription and make memos for the clients.

Fred had been with Qasim Bhai now for five months. Qasim Bhai had developed enough faith in him and at times left the shop with Fred, who felt proud of it.
The place where Qasim Bhai had taken Fred on their first meeting was used as bulk store. Fred had accompanied Qasim Bhai to it several times to bring medicines to the shop. One day Qasim Bhai told Fred to go to a restaurant in downtown and collect a suitcase of medicines from its owner. “My friend has brought them from India. Take it straight to the stores and wait for me,” he said cautiously.
Fred collected the suitcase from the owner of the restaurant and hired a taxi to take it to the store. Fred remembered it was the same suitcase that he had lifted for Qasim Bhai on the first day he had met him.

Fred paid the taxi and as he was carrying the suitcase to the store, two policemen swooped on him and nabbed him by the collar.
“You bastard, smuggling drugs. We got you this time… you son of a bitch. You are going to have it,” one of the cops shouted giving a sharp punch at his face. Fred fell down with blood oozing out from his mouth.
“I don’t know anything about it. I am working for Qasim Bhai, the owner of Friends Medical Store in …market. Sir, believe me I don’t know anything. He told me to collect the suit case from Suleman Restaurant in the …street. My master said he will meet me here at this godown.”
“Shut up you bastard…bloody swine and listen,” one of the cops shouted shaking him violently by his collar.
“We won’t leave your master and that son of a bitch; you went to collect the drugs. And if you change your story, we am going to screw you hard. OK?”
Fred knew what that meant. It gave him a shiver down his spine. “Sir, I tell the truth…nothing else…mother truth…,” he cried.
The cop who took hold of the suitcase asked Fred to sit in his car sped towards Qasim Bhai’s medical store. Fred was wondering how the police came to know of it and he was shocked when he saw the shop closed.
“Smart bastards,” the cop muttered and he swore in the filthiest terms when his colleague told him over the radio that the owner of the restaurant was also missing.
“We will get them,” he said kicking Fred in anger and then he took him to the police station and threw him behind the bars.

Qasim Bhai and Suleiman Shah disowned everything before the magistrate. “It is a cooked up story by the police.” They pleaded and their lawyer slapped a charge of racial discrimination against the police.
The police couldn’t substantiate the case against Qasim Bhai and Suleiman Shah. The magistrate left them with a warning. Fred was jailed for one year and then deported to Malawi.

Malawi Police detained Fred for questioning until they took out nearly all his money and then kicked him out of the police lock up.

It was a dark cloudy night. He walked till his legs failed. He lay on a road culvert and didn’t know when sleep over took his fatigue. It was daybreak when he woke up and found himself in front of a supermarket. He remembered it for he had been to it with his father a couple of times. He counted the few Rands left in his pocket and after some time went to a money changer to exchange it. He returned to the supermarket and spent all the money in buying food for his family.
“You having a party,” the girl on the counter asked him enviously.
“Yes, sure,” he said briefly and took a bus for his village.

It was mid day when he reached his village. Fred was baffled that there was no one around. He sat down in front of his hut. As the village folks came to know of his return, they flocked to see him. Fred listened as his family’s story unfolded.

His parents had finally separated and his father had married another woman and was living in Blantyre. His mother along with his brothers and sisters had left the village and were working somewhere in Lilongwe.
Fred cried. It was the severest of all the pains he had suffered.

The sun had set and it was getting dark. Fred was hungry. He looked at the food packet he had purchased at Lilongwe and tears rolled down his cheeks.

“God! For only once, I wanted them to have a good meal at whatever price I had to pay for it,” he whispered looking at the sky and then threw the packet to the dogs who had gathered around, smelling the roasted beef, chicken, cookies and bread loafs.