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.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Friday, February 13, 2009
ASPIRATIONS
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.
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.
Friday, January 23, 2009
THE CONSCIENCE KEEPER
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.
“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.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
THE SEARCH OPERATION
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.”
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.”
Friday, December 26, 2008
GREETINGS
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
Saturday, December 13, 2008
THE INDOMITABLE QUEST
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
Thursday, December 4, 2008
LIVING IN FEAR
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.”
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.”
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