THE FORGOTTEN LETTER

That forenoon, Abhijit Verma was alone in his small house in the suburb of Allahabad. His wife had gone to Sultanpur, a nearby town to attend the marriage of her niece and was expected only after two days. Normally, Abhijit would have accompanied his wife but for their pet dog who could not be left unattended. A problem, typical of the dog lovers.  Abhijit wanted to make most of his freedom. He made a cup of coffee for himself and decided to sort out old redundant papers; files, office manuals, old reports, books etc., which were virtually littered all over the place.  He has been thinking to undertake this exercise since his retirement nine months ago. May be it was lethargy or craft of procrastination that he had not taken up the much desired task.

Now this is the best opportunity; no one to disturb. Let me do it now. He thought.

Amongst the pile of books and manuals, he saw a blue coloured paper jacket. He remembered it. He had been keeping all the letters he received from his father in that blue jacket. He would read the letters sent by his father once, sometimes twice and then stuff it in the jacket. He had done this for forty years since he joined his first job at Nagpur way back in 1960 and until his father’s death thirteen years ago. Abhijit had not opened the jacket after the death of his father; there being no occasion to do so.  

Abhijit opened the jacket for he had an urge to have a look at the letters and put them seriatim in a file. There was a typical format in which his father wrote to him. It always started with a Sanskrit mantra on the top and at times a short commentary of the same. There would be a brief description of the day to day events and then some quotes from scriptures. Never would he ask anything from Abhijit or give him any advice on his personal matters.  And there was an unmistakable identity of his father’s letters. They were all in the ‘inland form’ where contents were written inside, folded and then the address of the recipient written on the outer fold. Abhijit had preserved his father’s all letters for he was emotionally attached to them and he considered their content of high philosophic value.   

He was sipping coffee and working leisurely, enjoying his freedom and was happy that he had progressed well. Now he wanted to weed out the unwanted books.  Unlike spacious racks and shelves in the government bungalows, he had to manage them in a small house.  And then he saw a book, ‘An Autobiography of a Yogi’. He took hold of it. In a flash, he remembered the person and the occasion it was presented to him.

Abhijit was lost in memories. He shuffled the pages of the book and then there was a surprise to follow; there fell a letter from it. It was written on a blue ruled paper, most probably torn out of an exercise book of a child, folded twice and inserted in to the book. Its colour had paled. He unfolded it and saw the date on top of the paper.

It read 17 May1982. That was the day he had sailed out of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands more than three decades ago.

A streak of pain chilled his spine. He felt giddy and nearly collapsed in the chair. He lay still for some time and then managed to get up from the chair, walked slowly to the refrigerator and took a bottle of cold water. As he sipped the water, he swooned to his days in Andaman Nicobar islands.

II

It was 1979 that he was posted to the Andaman and Nicobar Islands; an idealistic, young officer full of energy. Even though he had to work often beyond office hours, he found time for his hobby of reading and writing and by virtue of his official position he was elected as the president of the cultural club of Port Blair.   Mr. Lalit Ratnakar, the Director of Port Blair All India Radio Station was the Secretary of this club. Ratnakar was very energetic for his fifty odd years. He had an inimitable quality of approaching people and befriending them. And in sync with his profession, he had a flair for cultural activities.  In practice, Ratnakar was the life and soul of the cultural club with Abhijit as its titular head. Ratnakar would arrange musical evenings or cultural programmes on the eve of major festivals and whenever any VIP came from the main land.

Abhijit was sinking deep in to memory lane. Yes it was February 1982, a few months before he was to revert back to his parent department.  The festival of Holi was only a month away. Ratnakar suggested staging a three act play of the famous Hindi writer, Upendra Nath Ask titled, Taulye: The Towels. The play is a comedy and a satire on the neo-rich middle class on being finicky in the use of towels. The wife decrees that every member of the family will use his own towel and no towel will be used second time. But there is always a terrible mix up.  The family members forget the rule and often use the used towels - that creates the rumpus.

Ratnakar had worked out all details; finalised the main cast and other supporting actors and had kept Abhijit informed. He requested Abhijit to come to the club after office even if it were for few minutes. “Your presence will encourage the boys to perform better,” he had pleaded. Abhijit had obliged unless he was held up due to any official or social commitment.  All seemed to be going well. Funds had been arranged through some local businessmen who were too glad to oblige so long it was brought to Abhijit’s knowledge. 

The play was scheduled to be staged a week later in the auditorium of the administration. One evening, Abhijit was about to get out of his office at the close of the day when Ratnakar rushed in, all ruffled; very unlike of him. He had literally run past the stairs leading to Abhijit’s office on the first floor. He was panting.   

“What’s the matter Mr. Ratnakar? You all right?” Abhijit asked him, a little concerned.

“Sir, very serious problem,” Ratnakar managed to say gasping for breath and then continued after pausing a little. “Anupam Choudhury, the lead character of our play has to leave by tomorrow’s flight. He has lost his father.”

That surely was a serious problem; disturbing in fact. Ads had gone in the local newspaper and AIR was reminding the people every day, requesting them to come and see the play. Even ferry timings had been altered to facilitate spectators’ returning home.

Worried by the sudden impediment, they proceeded to the rehearsal venue. Ratnakar had requested all actors and support crew to be present in the club. The matter was discussed in length; majority wanted the play be abandoned.

“What can we do when the lead character goes away? How can we replace him in such a short span?” That was the majority opinion. Abhijit was restrained but Ratnakar was adamant to stage the play.

“The show must go on. The prestige of the club is at stake.” He argued.

“What about the credibility of the club? Who will play the lead role? And even if you hunt someone, how can you make a raw horn to play the lead role? There are not many people in Port Blair acquainted with theatre nuances let aside performing before a crowd.”

The discussions carried on and on.   And then Ratnakar got up and requested the gathering to calm down. I have a suggestion. Everyone looked at him askance. Ratnakar paused and said, “May I request on behalf of all of you; Mr. Verma should play the lead role.”

There was a mixed reaction but everyone nodded. Abhijit was startled; shocked in fact. “How can that be? I have not even read the script properly and there is hardly any time.”

“Sir, if anyone can salvage the situation; it is none other than you. The reputation of the club is at stake. Sir, you can do it. Please accept the challenge. We are with you. Let this be your parting gift to the club and the people of Port Blair.” This was Ratnakar echoing his sentiment.

One person who was a quiet listener so far was Mrs. Soumya Bhardwaj, the leading lady of the play. She was looking at Abhijit and at her script off and on. The situation had rattled her since she was one of the most affected persons. But she wanted the play to be staged and she wished Abhijit played the lead role.

Soumya was Abhijit’s ardent admirer. She had attended all the functions wherever Abhijit had presided or recited his poems. Her husband, Anil Bhardwaj was a Hindi typist in Abhijit’s department. She had obtained and preserved the copies of all the poems Abhijit had recited and she had prevailed upon her husband to get her a copy each of all the manuscripts Abhijit left with Anil.  

Abhijit was tall, fair and handsome young man and he was aware of ladies glancing at him admiringly and he enjoyed the attention. But that was social admiration and it was true that he didn’t know many of them individually. For him, Soumya was also just one of them.   

Ratnakar handed over a copy of the script and dialogues of the lead role to Abhijit. The opening scene had Soumya washing the towels and hanging them on the twine for drying. And while doing so, she is to censure the family members for being careless in the use of the towels. Abhijit watched her perform while holding the script. 

Next six days were a melee of events. Abhijit was rehearsing the dialogues to himself even during office hours. The ordeal was putting him under terrific stress. On the first day, while Soumya was perfect in remembering her lines and delivering them, Abhijit was flabbergasted.  And time and again he saw Soumya looking at him intently; it baffled him more. He could feel the strong vibes emanating from her, and he was finding it difficult to ward them off.

Following days were equally turbulent. Whereas Abhijit had got hold of himself as far as the play was concerned, he could make out that Soumya was inching towards him. Even though no words were exchanged; her looks were impacting him. During the short breaks in between the rehearsal, he would see from the corner of his eyes; Soumya looking at him intently.

He was getting unnerved; her looks with a thin smile were driving him crazy. Soumya was beautiful, curvaceous and her long tress, fondling with her waist line was stirring him. True enough, Soumya was appealing and charming to make any man lose his equanimity. 

The show was a great success. Bouquets were presented to Soumya and Abhijit for their performance. The audience went home complimenting the lead pair. Back in the green room, Abhijit went to Soumya and thanked her for the success of the show. “You carried the show. I was very diffident when I was assigned the role but you saved the day for us.”  While saying so Abhijit had unknowingly taken Soumya’s hands in to his and pressed them softly.  Then he looked up and saw Soumya standing before him, tears rolling down her cheeks.  She didn’t even thank him; there was a lump in her throat. Ratnakar and Anil came up and congratulated Abhijit and Soumya. Abhijit exited hurriedly and joined his family.

The chief commissioner had invited all the artists and crew members to dinner at his residence. Abhijit looked around to locate Soumya; he couldn’t see her. Nor was Anil present there. Ratnakar who could sense Abhijit’s consternation came over and told him that Soumya felt too tired to stay back for dinner and therefore Anil had taken her home. “She wanted me to convey her apologies to you,” Ratnakar added. It was now Abhijit, missing Soumya.

She should have been here to share the moments of glory. He thought.

Next two months were hectic. Office work followed by social engagements and then winding up the household and getting them packed for shipping. It was a mess of events. Those days there were no professional packers. It was left to amateur jetty labourers to do the packing. Abhijit often remembered Soumya and her tranquil looks, which were so expressive. He wished Anil had invited him to his place. Unfortunately, the poor steno could never think of that. It would have been sheer audacity on his part besides many tongues would have wagged.  

The day arrived when Abhijit was leaving the islands. A deluxe cabin had been booked for him, his wife and his young son in MV Harshvardhan. The friends and colleagues had come and gone bidding them farewell. Anil was there helping him to stack the bouquets and gift packets and standing at a corner was Soumya listening quietly to Abhijit’s wife and the prattle of his young son.

The ship had hooted twice. As is the norm, after the third hoot the gangway is removed. Non passengers are required to clear the deck before that. Abhijit told Anil to leave. He hugged Anil, but his eyes were stilled on Soumya.

Soumya came forward and presented him a neatly wrapped packet. “You may like this book,’ she whispered handing it over to him... She could speak no more.

“Take care and keep in touch,” Abhijit whispered as they came to the deck.  Abhijit stood at the deck as he saw them going over the gangway.

The final hoot pierced the atmosphere. Abhijit standing on the deck saw Anil and Soumya standing at the jetty waving at him. As the propeller churned water, the ship started getting separated from the jetty. Large ship of MV Harshvardhan size took good half an hour to be tugged away from the shores. The jetty was near empty by now except that there was a lone couple still looking at the departing ship and Abhijit looking at their silhouettes. 

III

One tends to be selfish with the passage of time as one strives to adapt to new responsibilities, new people and new environment; official and social.   Abhijit forgot Anil. He forgot Soumya and he forgot Andaman Islands and he also forgot the book presented to him by Soumya. He did open the cover once; it was the autobiography of Swami Yoganand. He gave it a look and then stacked it in his book self.

That was over thirty years ago. He had risen in the hierarchy; had a share of glory, accolades and criticism and finally retired and settled in his small house in Allahabad. He had lot of spare time now. The invites had dwindled over the time and one possible reason was that he avoided driving at night.

It was that forenoon when he was free from house hold chores that it occurred to him to sort out his old papers and he saw the letter forgotten for three decades; and that too it was by sheer chance. He read the letter once, twice and thrice and he was shaken. He loathed himself.

Oh God! What a wretched person I am. It took me more than thirty years to see this letter. Where would be she now and in what condition? What agony she would have suffered? Can I be pardoned ever?

The letter read:

Dear Sir ji

Pardon me writing this letter to you. Even after innumerable sleepless nights, debating whether I should or I should not; I could not restrain myself and have mustered courage to write these few lines. I know full well that I cannot explain the propriety of my action.

The very first time I saw you, I was drawn towards you. Since then, my body was captive but my soul was always with you.  I am God fearing and religious yet I do not feel any guilt or shame in admitting it. The more I saw you, more I yearned for you; not doing so was beyond me.

Now you are going away and I see no hope of seeing you again.  But your picture is etched in my heart and it will remain so until my last breath. Left to suffer in these islands I am like a tulsi (basil) plant, which is adorned but never given a place inside the house.

In last Holi, you played colours with all of us. I can never forget your applying orange colour on my face. Sir ji! Can I make one request: whenever you play Holi, please put a tinge of colour on the tulsi plant of your house. I will feel your presence within me.

Be God with you.

Abhijit took the letter, folded it and kept it in the blue paper jacket along with his father’s letters.

Three months later it was the Holi festival.

Abhijit’s folks had gathered at his place. His brothers, sisters, sons, daughters, daughters-in-law, his grand children and his wife; all had gathered to celebrate the festival of colours. There were snacks, sweets and there were packets of colours of different hues. He being the eldest, all family members waited on him to start the ritual of applying the colours. Abhijit got up quietly, picked up the plate with orange colour and walked to the tulsi plant at the other end of the lawn and smeared it around its stem.  

Everyone thought he was getting senile. Abhijit but smiled inanely; he knew he could not explain it to them.

   

1.      REDISCOVERING NATIA

Harry Royston was working for World Food Programme. His beat included Georgia, Armenia and Azerbaijan. Georgia being central to other two countries, WFP had based him at Tbilisi. Harry had taken a flat on Rustaveli Street and engaged a part time help to assist him in household chores. The woman was introduced to him as Miss Nani by Zurab Machiavelli, his locally appointed assistant. Harry knew her as Nani and had been calling her by that name.

He didn’t know her official name, never occurred to him to ask her even though she had been working for him for nearly a year. Nani was in her late forties. She was reasonably good looking, tall with an athletic figure and she was a spinster.

One Saturday evening Harry invited Zurab to his place. Zurab told him that he will bring some freshly brewed white wine of Kakheti.

“Kakheti white wine is the best in Georgia; fresh and lively; and no hangovers.” Zurab said wanting to impress his boss.

 They were having a lovely evening. Nina had prepared nice snacks to go with the wine.

“Zurab, I must thank you for finding such a nice help. She is very punctual, meticulous and understands my needs. I am surprised why she didn’t marry. She is beautiful and an excellent cook,” Harry said picking a piece of fried fish fillet.

By then, Zurab had been softened by the wine. He asked Harry, “Do you know Nani was a middle distance runner. Represented undivided USSR and was an Olympian silver medalist.

Harry was surprised. Zurab continued.

“She didn’t marry because those days, women athletes were discouraged to marry. They were indoctrinated by the coaches and the DPO - ‘District Pogrom Officer’ to concentrate on their career. The athletes had no choice because defiance meant severe punishment, sentencing to hard labor.”

Zurab continued after refilling his glass.

“Nani was a promising star. They hoped she would bring a gold medal in the 800 metres. She was subjected to intense training schedule with trainers closely monitoring her performance.  No smoking and no partying four years prior to next Olympics. That was the directive for the budding athletes.”

“No wonder those days Russians were topping the medal list. Perhaps Chinese are doing the same now.” Harry said zestfully.

Harry’s comment didn’t go well with Zurab.

“Unfortunately, Nina suffered because of the State policy. She was expelled from the Olympic probables even though she was a silver medalist in the previous Olympics.”

“That is sad, in fact ridiculous. Tell me more about her,” Harry was eager to know about Nina, who has been working for him quietly, incognito.

Zurab unfolded Nina’s story.

Her official name is Natia Gigiasvili. She was born in Rustavi district in a family of factory workers. I was her neighbor. Both her parents worked in an Iron and Steel Mill in Rustavi. Her father, Alexi Gigiasvili was a mild natured man. He cared more for his wife and children than for himself. Yet his wife was always unhappy and dissatisfied and finally left him after eleven years of marriage.

“I want to work for the party. They are sending me to Armenia to work on a State project,” she told Alexi.

The reason given by Alexi’s wife to leave him was sacrosanct. The Party work came first and foremost. It was over and above the family. Alexi’s pleading were in vain. A couple of months later he came to know that his wife had left with one of her distant cousins. Alexi was left with his young daughter Natia and little son Taimuri to fend for himself. 

Natia was tall and slim and showed good promise in track events. The DPO thus recommended to the Politbureau Sports Member to enroll her in the list of Olympic probables. Natia was not keen to leave her father alone. She wanted to take care of the family in the absence of her mother.

Alexi was an accomplished flute player. He obtained permission to join the community club and pursue his hobby after day’s work in the factory. Soon he was a member of a cultural troupe, which staged shows all over the country. Natia at times accompanied her father. It was during one of these shows that she met Georgi Peradze, a ballet artist.

Georgi Peradze was a young, handsome ballet dancer who had earned a niche for himself. He was admired and invited by the cultural councils of several republics. In spite of his celebrity status, he was soft spoken, amiable and modest. Natia was awestruck whenever he appeared on the stage. And she applauded him enthusiastically even after the rest of the audience had settled in their seats.

Though Natia’s father was a member of the orchestra, she was diffident to go near Georgi and talk to him. Georgi often noticed her looking at him incessantly. One evening he came over and asked her, 

“You seem to like ballet dance.”

Natia was overwhelmed. “Yes, it’s amazing and I like to see you performing.”

“I am just a learner. There are many artists better than me. I am still a novice.”

“You may say so but for me, you are the best,” Natia replied.

“You flatter me.” Georgi said. He was blushing.

Georgi was several years senior to Natia. Thirteen years to be exact. That didn’t stop Natia falling in love with him. She loved him and loved his skilful dancing. In fact, she was captivated by his performance and wanted to switch over to ballet dancing. For her, Georgi was simply irresistible.

Natia’s coach reported that her interest in athletics was waning and that there was deterioration in her performance. The DPO investigated and found out the cause of her distraction. He called her and advised her to give her fullest attention to athletics.

“No deviation, no distraction. I have drawn your career profile and I will not accept a ‘no’ from you. I am answerable to the Sports Member of the Politbureau.” And then staring at her he added, “How can I face him having promised him a gold medal in your event?”

Natia remained quiet. She was madly in love.  Staying away from Georgi was unthinkable for her.

The shrewd DPO read her mind. He called Alexi and Georgi and warned them.

“Hereafter you will not take her to your club nor will she accompany you to any of your silly shows. I am not happy the way you two are distracting a young athlete from her promising career. This is clear defiance of State policy. If you don’t mend your ways, I will report against you to the higher authorities.”

The two artists had nervous breakdown. They understood the intent of DPO’s words. A week later a party member came to Natia’s place and asked her to pack her suitcase.

“A truck will come in thirty minutes to pick her,” he told Alexi.

“Where are you taking her,” the distressed parent wanted to know.

“I don’t know. I am told to put her on the truck. I don’t know anything beyond that.”

Natia cried. “Please give me at least one day. Only one day please,” she begged.

“Shut up,” The messenger shouted.

Natia was desperate to see Georgi before leaving. She knew she may not meet him in near future, may be never for she didn’t know where she was being taken.

A truck came within thirty minutes. The party member gave a searching look at Taimuri and Alexi, standing with a suitcase. No one amongst us came out to bid good bye to Natia. We watched her being taken to the truck from behind the curtains of our windows. As Natia was about to get into the waiting truck, she saw Georgi standing on the other side of the road looking at her intently. She ran towards him and went in to his waiting arms.

Georgi was heartbroken to see Natia being taken away. He had dared the authority to come and see her off. And when Natia embraced him and cried, Georgi too could not hold his tears.

Natia was dispatched to Borjomi Sports Center. The incident was reported to the DPO who made an appropriate entry in the citizens’ dossier. It was a case of open defiance.  Next day, orders were issued cancelling Georgi’s all cultural programmes and he was asked to report to the farm manager of his commune in Gori.

“Take care of the mules. They dance whenever they feel horny.  You can join them.” the farm manager told him. 

“The Borjomi Sports Center was a highly protected premise. More appropriately, it was a fortified garrison. Twelve feet high wall ran all around the thousand hectare campus with concertina coil on top and watch tower at every hundred metres. The sentries manning the watch towers round the clock had orders to shoot at sight anyone moving suspiciously near the boundary wall.

In a communist regime, everyone was a suspect in the eyes of the State.

Three years. Natia was in the Sports Center. Alexi was allowed to see her after one year and thereafter after every six months. Natia was being groomed to be ace runner of the country. Finally, she ran for the country.

Natia ran with all her physical strength and mental energy for she had been promised that she could stay with Georgi after the Olympics were over. With that hope in her heart, she ran with all her might but could win a silver medal only.

There were accolades, appreciation and public receptions but the DPO and Politbureau Sports Member were not happy.

“You could do better because you have the potential. We want you to have a break of four weeks and return to the Sports Center and start preparing for the next Olympics,” the Sports Member said gruffly.

Natia’s success didn’t bring her any happiness. Nothing mattered to her now for the thought of going away from Georgi and her family was quite depressing.

Zurab refilled his glass and continued.

Natia was received by all of us. The DPO was there.  Natia could see fear and apprehension in every eye.  She saw her brother Taimuri who had been employed in the same factory where his father Alexi worked. Taimuri and Alexi were standing away from the rest of the crowd that had gathered to welcome the Olympian. Natia could see the pain in their eyes.  She knew something was amiss. And she noticed that Georgi was not present there.  She waited until the reception was over.

Inside the house, they closed the doors and wept uncontrollably. Natia didn’t know what made Alexi and Taimuri cry. After a while, Alexi told her that Georgi cannot perform as a ballet dancer any more. He has been ordered to work in the commune at Gori.

“The State has banned his programmes. The DPO accused Georgi of misguiding a young national athlete blaming him for distracting you.”

Natia couldn’t sleep that night. She had labored hard with the hope of meeting Georgi, to be with him.

She decided to go to Gori. Next morning she told Taimuri, “I will be back by tomorrow evening. Tell father that I have gone to see our ailing aunt at Tbilisi.”

Natia waited until her brother and father left for the factory. Thereafter she took a bus to Gori and reached there late in the afternoon. She enquired from the man in a grocery store about Georgi’s house. The man looked at her curiously, smiled and indicated the house.

Natia went and knocked. An old woman came out and looked at her suspiciously.

“I am Natia Gigiasvili from Rustavi. I have come to see Georgi,” Natia whispered. The old woman recollected. Georgi often talked of her.  She whisked her inside.

“Child, why have you taken the risk of coming here? If any one sees you here, more trouble will come to you and Georgi.”

“I couldn’t hold back. I am guilty for ruining his promising career. I feel sad that such a bright career has been nipped in the bud.”

The old parent sighed.

“Wait I will get you something to eat. You must be tired after a long journey. Stretch on the bed in the meantime.”

A little later, she gave her a piece of kachapuri (a Georgian variety of baked bread) and a cup of hot soup.

Georgi came home late in the evening. He looked tired and fatigued. As he entered his house, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Natia stood before him.

They ran in to each other’s arms. No words were spoken. The old mother cried to see them in an embrace. There were two forms with inseparable souls.

“You should not have come here. The DPO here is a strict and ruthless fellow,” Georgi told her.

“Georgi, I just couldn’t help. I had to come and see you at least once. I wanted to say sorry to you,” she whispered resting her head on his chest.

The old mother went out to bring some bread and eggs.

 “You have a guest?” The store keeper asked her.

“No, no. Georgi is very hungry these days after day’s hard work.”

The store keeper smiled. The old lady knew it was ominous.

The two didn’t sleep that night. They just couldn’t. They talked of the happy old days, their miseries and their shattered dreams.

“I missed you Georgi and I am sad for you. Your career has been ruined because of me.”

Georgi took her in his arms and kissed her.

“It’s my luck. Please don’t blame yourself. I admire your courage to take so much risk and come to see me.”

 “Georgi, I had to see you once even if it were at the cost of my life.”

They were locked in each other’s arms. They were oblivious to the icy cold wrath of the world outside.  They were warm and cozy in their small world. It was a meeting of two lovers with maddening intensity. Their pent up emotions erupted like a dormant volcano.

Next morning, they got out of bed before the daybreak. Natia wanted to take the first bus to Rustavi. Georgi said he will escort her up to the bus stand. Natia told him not to.

“Don’t be foolish. I shouldn’t be seen with you.”

“Natia, if you were courageous enough to travel hundred kilometers to see me; how can I stay back?  I am coming to see you off. Let the worse happen.” Georgi was determined.

Natia hugged Georgi’s mother and the two walked to the bus stand.

As Natia was about to board the bus; tears rolled down her eyes. She couldn’t help crying. Georgi kissed her.

“Good luck my love,” he whispered.

Georgi stood still, watching the bus go taking away his beloved away from him. He ambled back to his quarter, full of anxiety and apprehension. He wished Natia reached home safely.

The State intelligence in former USSR was a well-knit, efficient machinery.  The storekeeper reported Natia’s visit to the GPO who took no time to open Georgi’s dossier.

It read. Georgi Peradze: a suspect. Has been acting against State policy.

The GPO rang up his counterpart in Rustavi and exchanged notes. Defiance of State by the two lovers was established. Georgi was sentenced to labor camp for ten years and Natia was asked to report back to the Sports Center immediately. She was put on tougher schedule but she could not concentrate. Every time she put on her spikes, she remembered her moments with Georgi. And she was remorseful that he had been punished because of her love for him.

Her physical sinews were getting stronger but her mental energy enervated each day. Her coaches were disappointed with her.

“She doesn’t put her heart in the training,” the head coach sent the feedback to the Sports Member.

Her timings worsened. Finally, the coach threw the towel and recommended her removal from the Sports Center.

Nadia was thrown out. This time her father was not informed. The truck waiting at the gate of the Center took her to the hill district of Casbegi where the government was making a tunnel through the snowy hills.

Natia was then a mere number. She was called by it for morning tea, afternoon bread and evening soup. Over a period, she had forgotten the count of days, months and years. She was a numbered robot working mechanically. She had forgotten her father and her brother. But she could not forget Georgi and the last moments with him.  She remembered him, seeing her off at the bus stand. She could not forget the agony, distress and fury in his eyes.

It was most distressing for her to know after couple of months that Georgi had been sentenced to ten years of labor camp. She couldn’t know which camp he was deported to.  There was no way of knowing it and any attempt to find out would have attracted penal action. She had a vague hunch that he was sent to Kazakhstan, where a huge dam was under construction. 

December 1991. The mighty Soviet Union was disintegrated. The Republics became sovereign countries. General amnesty was granted to men and women working in the labor camps subject to review by tribunals.  Nadia was lucky; she didn’t have any political offence against her name. The persons falling under ‘crime against the State’ were put on probation for another six months.

Natia reached Rustavi unannounced. She entered her street and slumped outside her house. All of us rushed out to see her.  Natia once a healthy athlete was an emaciated human skeleton. You could count the bones in her frail frame from a mile.

Zurab continued after a long pause. Harry could see tears rolling down his cheeks.

Alexi had suffered a stroke of paralysis. Taimuri who was till sometime back working in the Rustavi Steel Mill had been retrenched since there was no demand and the factory was running in loss. They were living on doles.

There were two things in Natia’s mind. First and foremost, she wanted to find out about Georgi and secondly, she had to take care of her family. She started both zealously. She went to Gori and was greatly relieved to know that Georgi was still alive. The State had informed his mother that he would be released after his case was reviewed by the tribunal, which may take six months.

Six months is too long. Natia mused over and over. She was restless, marking each day on the calendar. She started working in a kachapuri outlet. It assured her of two kachapuris at the close of day as wage substitute.

Natia rushed to Gori on the day Georgi was expected to reach home. He was brought home in an ambulance. The lithe dancer who once twirled on his toes for hours together could not even stand on his feet.

The two lovers stood in front of each other. They could not speak. They stood there, still and frozen. The unstoppable tears running down their crumpled cheeks spoke volumes of the agony of their separation.

“I never cried when they used to kick me for work not completed. But I cried every night in my bunker remembering you.” Georgi whispered in her ears.

Natia smiled feebly. She found no words to describe her days. She was happy that Georgi during his incarceration didn’t know that she too was sentenced to a labor camp. She knew it would have killed him.

Natia brought Georgi to Rustavi. The two lovers are now living together. Natia takes care of him as if he were a distressed child.  

II

Zurab was in tears as he came to the close the story. Harry was virtually moved. They looked at each other; still and silent.

After a long pause Zurab continued.  “It was during that period that you came to Tbilisi and I put her with you as a part time help.”

“But you never told me anything of her past, not even her real name,” Harry asked.

“Natia doesn’t want to remember her past. She wants to forget her name and has taken the new name, ‘Nani’. She has asked all her friends and folks to call her by that name.

Next day when Nani came to work at Harry’s place, he told her, “Zurab has told me your story. I salute you for your grit and determination and for your unfailing love for Georgi.”

Natia stood quiet.

Harry continued. “I don’t want you do the petty work anymore. You are a gem not to be wasted on menial work.”

Harry talked to the American Ambassador and got her appointed as a ‘Track Coach’ in the American International School. Harry was happy that he could do something for Natia. Next day, he told her of her new assignment.

“I am sure, now you don’t mind being called Miss Natia Gigiasvili, the Olympian Silver Medalist.” Harry said taking her hands. 

Natia smiled as tears streamed from her eyes.  She had smiled after ages. Words were not coming to her.

“Thank you Mr. Royston for rediscovering the dead Natia,” she managed to say shaking hands with him.   

THE DISTANT DREAMS

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.

A SOLDIER’S FATE

They were from same street and from same school. That was years ago. In their young days, they had shared dreams; common dreams for their future. They wanted to settle down in the hill town of Gori, which was their ancestral town; a quiet sleepy town, where you could live reasonably urbanized life and afford a kitchen garden and a small orchard too.  They wanted to have a peaceful life, surrounded by their children and a few pets playing around.

After school, Tamuri had joined an accounts firm as intern and his childhood friend Miranda was a helper in a departmental store. They wanted to save enough money before getting married and moving to Gori, the land of their dreams.

Life but took an ugly turn shattering their dreams.

Tamuri was now posted on the North Western frontier of the country pitted against the Russian troops positioned there in support of disputed territory of Abkhazia. Not that his battalion could have stopped the Russians advance but it soothed the battered ego of Georgian government to have resisted the colossal Russians even if it were symbolic. It was late in the evening and he was sharing the cold dinner with his mates in the forward trenches. It had snowed the previous night; the chill in the air was biting and they had to save kerosene of the rickety stove for the long dreary night.

Looking beyond the sky line, quietly chewing a piece of dry chicken, Tamuri was lost in the reverie of past memories.  A year had passed since he had left his home, his mother and Miranda, who was once his beloved.

She must be sharing a cozy cottage with Zurab, unmindful of my woes. He thought.

  

Zurab was Tamuri’s cousin who had all the makings of a worldly wise, successful person. His father, a Deputy Minister in the public works department helped him in getting contracts for the government works. Zurab, a shrewd young man quickly learnt the knack of keeping the government officials happy.  Inevitably, prosperity gravitated towards Zurab and then other traits followed. Zurab became ostentatious, garrulous and fond of women, wine and wealth in that order or it could be interchanged.  He would take them out for dinner and shower lavish gifts on them. And that made Zurab popular among girls of Mtskheta Street, the place where he, Tamuri and Miranda had spent their childhood.

Zurab had an eye on Miranda as well as she was fair, beautiful, charming and affable.  She was but in love with Tamuri who at times was riled when Zurab tried to come too close to her. He once expressed his fears to Miranda.

“I don’t like that philanderer coming close to you, trying to win you over.”

“Tamuri! I love you more than anything in the world. You don’t have to bother,” Miranda had assured him time and again.

Tamuri had lost his father in the earlier Abkhazian aggression of early nineties. He was the only hope of his widowed mother. Tamuri wanted to be a sculptor. “One day you will see my creation on the main entry to Tbilisi from Gori,” he used to tell his mother and he had confided in Miranda.

“Why Gori side?” Miranda had asked him.

“Because Gori is our ancestral town. It will be a gift from a sculptor from Gori to the capital of the country.”

Tamuri had a flair for sculpting. He loved it and spent all his week-ends in the company of Shalva Gogiashvili, a famous sculptor who saw great deal of promise in the young lad. But the situation changed too rapidly after Tamuri’s father was killed in the war.  He had to earn his bread and look after his mother. His ambition to be a famous sculptor was relegated; he had to join an accounting firm to earn his livelihood.  Tamuri was sad to abandon his love for sculpting but Miranda’s company gave him strength and kept him going. Whenever he found time, he would visit his mentor and watch him work on the sculptures.  

The year was 2008. Trouble started again.

The Russians crossed the Georgian border with Abkhazia, threatening the town of Zugdidi. The Georgian government panicked. Her army was too small before the overpowering Russian presence. Besides, the Georgian boys were not enamored by a career in the armed forces. The forces were acutely short of young soldiers and officers. So the Georgian government issued orders enforcing conscription. All young boys and men were to serve the army for five years. There was no appeal against these orders. Tamuri’s plea that his father had already sacrificed his life for the country and that there was no one to look after his infirm mother was not heeded by the authorities. The letter of reference from the national sculptor was also of no avail. Tamuri was given thirty six hours to report to the 3^rd Regiment of the Georgian Lancers deployed in the North Western border.

Events took place so fast that he could not even arrange groceries for his ailing mother. He was heartbroken to leave his mother in that condition and to be separated from his beloved. That evening he brought ‘kachapuri’ from the nearby vendor and shared it with his mother. The old woman had no words to say. She could not even bite the kachapuri. There was a lump in her throat.

“Son take care of you. Don’t worry for me. I am a dying lamp. A blow of wind will put me off. You have a long life ahead of you.”

Tamuri left for Miranda’s place.  Zurab was there. Tamuri knew Zurab too had received the mobilization orders but he saw him in animated spirit enjoying peeba, the Russian word for beer. Miranda looked subdued. He wanted to be alone with her. The possibility seemed to be remote. Miranda’s father offered him a seat on the table and asked him to join. 

“Let’s share Zurab’s happiness,” he said smilingly. Miranda came up to Tamuri and offered him a can of peeba, which he took reluctantly. A little later Miranda’s mother appeared with a tray of snacks. Tamuri noticed; the old lady too had a thin smile on her face. He was perplexed.

Miranda solved the riddle. “You know Tamuri! Zurab’s father has been able to get his mobilization orders rescinded.  Wish someone had helped you also.”

Tamuri never liked Zurab. In fact, it was a mutual dislike. Zurab was a loud mouth and always bragged of his father’s position in the government and of his wealth and he was never shy of throwing his weight around and impressing the girls.

“I have come to say good bye to you….  I mean to all of you,” he managed to say looking at Miranda.

“I am sorry for you,” Miranda whispered. Tamuri noticed Zurab was smiling. He ignored it. He was desperate to talk to Miranda, to hold her in his arms, kiss her and hug her. He looked at her with all the pain in his eyes.

 “Take care of yourself. The place and the enemy are very hostile. Please don’t bother for your mother. I will look after her. God bless you,” she said and then went in to bring another tray of snacks and cans of beer. Tamuri looked at Miranda pensively and then left the place bidding good bye to all.

He was now posted at the war front. The soldiers had access to phone once in a week. He had tried to get in touch with Miranda but she would not come on line. He was dejected and crestfallen. Thoughts of all kind perturbed his mind.

Why is she not talking to me? Had she left him for Zurab?  He would talk to his mother and return to his post.

A year had passed since he was separated from his people. It was that fateful afternoon that he had received a letter from Miranda. It read that she was getting married to Zurab on the coming Sunday and that his mother was serious and had been evacuated to hospital.

He finished his dinner and checked his light machine gun, LMG and the munitions. That evening the enemy aggression was on the rise. They were firing rockets and mortars. The enemy had superior weapons and better fortified trenches. Casualties on Georgian side were always heavy. Tamuri was guarding one of the positions. Tamuri knew there was no possibility that he would be given liberty to attend his cousin’s marriage or for that matter see his ailing mother. Grief overtook him; it pained him that he could not do anything for his dying mother.

As the night advanced, enemy fire intensified. Suddenly his buddy was hit by a splinter cutting across his face, blood spluttering all over.  Tamuri saw him faltering and falling in the trench.

Tamuri was now defending the post singlehandedly.  The thoughts of his ailing mother and of his beloved, going away from him vanished from his mind. He was now a soldier defending his motherland; a possessed soul uncaring for his own life and safety. There was no stopping of him. He was returning the enemy fire furiously, changing the magazines of his LMG one after the other.

The Russians had not anticipated such fierce resistance. They stopped firing but there was no stopping of Tamuri even after his platoon commander asked him to stop.

“Let there be an end to this agony for all time to come,” he shouted at his officer without interrupting the barrage of fire from his LMG. The Russians were vexed and annoyed. They lobbed a couple of incendiary grenades at his bunker. There was an explosion and then there was a ball of fire followed by thick black smoke all over.

Firing from either side subsided. It was time to look for the dead and wounded. His friends in arm rushed towards Tamuri’s trench.

Tamuri lay at the bottom of his trench, his one hand still on the handle of the LMG and Miranda’s letter in the other.

THE BALLOONWALLAH

Just in front of my house is a small park. Small but beautiful and I often thank our 'Residents Welfare Society' for its excellent upkeep round the year. Frankly, I have very limited knowledge of flowers and ornamental plants. What I admire are the flowers of different hues during the winter through spring and I love the shades of various manicured plants during summer.

I have been living in my house for nearly ten years now. In fact, I shifted in the newly constructed house four years before my superannuation- retirement in common parlance. I vacated a spacious government accommodation quite close to my office which my friends and well wishers thought was being foolhardy. In short, they were not happy. Often retired government servants retain government accommodation several months even after superannuation; many seek post retirement employment just for the sake of retaining government accommodation. I but always felt otherwise. I wanted to be rid of the yoke, we the fraternity of government servants bear for three decades or even more. Let me share with my readers, I immensely enjoyed the thrill of shifting to my newly constructed house. To tell you the truth, it is no less exciting than the company of the newly wedded bride.

Well, let me not go astray. These days I go for a morning walk to the park and in the evening I often sit on a bench and enjoy reading a magazine, sometimes sipping tea and watching the children playing, running and shouting mirthfully. I see parents and grandparents walking leisurely and many of them sitting on benches and gossiping.

The park has a couple of swings, very popular amongst the children. There is a merry go round, a sliding plane, a monkey ladder, a parallel bar for little grown ups, couple of see-saws and many other play things.

In this playful melee are my three grand children also; two girls and a boy, eldest of them being less than ten. My grand son, the youngest among my grandchildren likes the see-saw, clasping the handle very firmly.

On the farther end of the park just near one of the entry points there nearly every day comes a balloonwallah. He comes on a bi-cycle. There is bamboo stick with cross bar at one end, which is tied to the frame of his bicycle. On the cross bar are coloured balloons of different sizes and other toys. He has a flute like instrument, which he plays to attract the children.

Generally, I notice the balloonwallah from a distance unless my grandchildren drag me to him to buy them toys or balloons. The balloonwallah is generally surrounded by children and is busy talking to them, making funny noises from the toys. He talks to the children very courteously and at times speaks to some of them in English. To me, he looked a gentleman undergoing the duress of fortune. I felt sympathetic about him.

At times, I noticed him giving away balloons or toys to the eager children asking them to bring the money next day. I wondered if he got back his money in full and that surprised me. I also noticed that he sold the balloons and toys at very reasonable rates, even at lesser rates than in the market.

The Dusshera festival was round the corner. The atmosphere was charged with gaiety. There being school vacation, children were delirious since they had all the time to play. The weather being pleasantly mild, the children were seen in the park even during day hours playing heroes from the epic Ramayana and some rehearsing plays they were to enact in the Kalibari temple of the sector. The balloonwallah was by and large relegated from their memory.

One of those evenings I walked towards the balloonwallah. He was sitting on a plastic stool that he carried as part of the contraption.

"Poor sale these days," I mumbled.

"Yeah!"

"Hard times for you, I mean how do you pull along- your family expenses."

"God's grace," he replied with a thin smile.

"What is your family? I mean how many children do you have? How do you manage?" I was genuinely distressed.

The balloonwallah sighed and then looked towards the sky. I could see his quivering lips and tears welling in his eyes.

"Sir, I don't sell balloons for my livelihood. I am a retired government servant. I have a small house to live and my son is an officer in the army."

I was stunned. The balloonwallah continued.

"I have a ten year old grandson who is afflicted by polio. Bed-ridden, he gazes at the toys we bring for him or his father brings whenever he comes on leave from the border posting."

The balloonwallah paused. I couldn't find any words to speak.

"Sir, I pretend playing with my grandson and watch him trying desperately to stretch his hands towards the floating balloons. Time and again he fails and on those moments my heart cries to see the feeble smile on his face."

The balloonwallah took out a handkerchief and wiped his tears. I simply gawked.

"Sir, I come to this park to seek a few moments of relief. When the children here play with the balloons and toys I sell them, I see in them the happiness that could have been of my grandson too."