DIFFERENT STROKES

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MATCHING OF THE STARS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Ram Prakash felt sad for his mother.

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

AN ABIDING WISH

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

Yuko named her son, Akira, which meant brightness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE BLOOD RELATION

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE OF GOTARU

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

THE SOLITARY COMPANIONS

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.

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.