GRATITUDE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE REVENGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

PREJUDICE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

THE DILEMMA OF A PRIEST

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

THE INVITATIONS

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PUB OWNER OF GEORGETOWN

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FETCHING A BANTHEE [1] OF WATER

Author's Note: I have always been scared of darkness and in fact, I still am. The origin of this story goes back to my short stay in my village and boarding in the village school. I dreaded going out alone even in day time. My teachers would redicule me and my school friends made fun of it.

My father was posted those days in the district of Tehri Garhwal, a small town on the bank of river Bhagirathi, which down steam takes the name of Ganges. He was a Forest Officer and since the clan of forest officers is no better than any nomadic tribe, rest of the family lived in the village.
I was nine and put in the boarding school. It is significant here to acquaint my readers with boarding school as it existed then in Garhwal.

The students stayed in the school, away from the parents. Every Saturday, they were let off to bring dry ration from their homes, which included adequate quantity for the teachers, also living in the school. The rations were duly displayed by each boarder on Monday morning before the headmaster. Special attention was given to items such as edible oil, spices, sugar and kerosene for those days, there was no electricity in the villages of Garhwal. A vigilant headmaster knew exactly, who could bring fresh milk or vegetables. In fact, he would know whose cow was expecting and when the calf would come.
Duties in the school boarding included fetching water, collecting firewood, cooking meals, washing utensils and then studying in the spare time.

Preparing ‘hookah’ for teachers was assigned to only few since it required a very special skill which you acquired only after having occasional drag on it.

The picture may look very depressing to present boarders. Believe me, it wasn’t so. It was hard life but very enjoyable. Even today, when I remember the blisters in my palms after the canning by the headmaster, I feel the pain. It is not physical, it is nostalgic.

The school hall was a multipurpose arena. It was the class room during the day time, play room in the afternoon since we didn’t have any play field in the school; it was the dining hall of the boarders and sleeping room during the night.
I concede I was timid and scared of darkness. To be honest, I am still scared to go out in darkness and I am damn scared of ghosts and spirits. I used to bribe my friends to accompany me everywhere or else I would follow them if I were to stay alone.

It was the month of March. Winter was very severe that year. We were studying seriously since the examinations were only three weeks away. Those days, there used to be a centralized examination system for the fifth class under the supervision of an Inspector of Schools. Six to seven schools from an area were grouped for this purpose.
Those days the teachers took the examination more seriously than the students since they were judged by the performance of their students. As the examinations were nearing, the teachers were canning us more vigorously and more frequently.
"You will ruin my prestige. For last three years, this school has been getting the first place. This year it will be the last, I am sure," the headmaster would shout at us, often using choicest expletives for us as well as for our parents. We accepted all of it without demur for we believed that the headmaster and our teachers wished us well. Even our parents approved of the measures taken by the faculty members.
More often than not, the parent would say, "Please beat hell out of this idiot till he comes to his senses."
Those were the blissful days.

As the examination days neared, we were getting more and more nervous. There was urgency in all our actions. We were to move to the examination center on coming Saturday.
It was Saturday morning. The headmaster took all of us to the village temple to pray for our success. The village deity was propitiated with jaggery balls, later on given to us as prasaad. The juniors had collected to bid farewell to us. Parents were there to wish us success. The headmaster had hired two mules to carry mattresses and blankets and kitchen items. The juniors carried our loads for some distance. Till then it was all joy and excitement for all of us.

But then journey to the examination center was long and tiresome on the goat track we were following. Climbing a hill and then descending and then climbing again; it seemed my miseries would never end. The only force that propelled was the fear of the headmaster who was leading the caravan.

It was customary that we carry our books on our heads. Legend was that even when resting, the books should not be placed on the ground lest the goddess of learning got annoyed. It was an ordeal for me. I was being encouraged by my classmates and coaxed by the teachers accompanying us in turn.
The headmaster and all teachers had a love hate relation with me. They hated me for my sloppiness and they loved me for I was their best bet in the examination.
I was totally exhausted when we reached the examination center late in the afternoon. A hall was assigned to us to house ourselves and in the small room attached to the hall, we were told to set up our kitchen.

I was lying down on the floor of the hall when I was called by one of my friends. The duties were being allocated by the headmaster to the boys.

"You, lazy bum, go with Satya and bring water from the spring,” it was the headmaster ordered giving me a hard look. A boy from the host school was given to us as a guide on this errand.

"And hurry up. The cooking can only start after you bring water. After meals we will have a revision class before you owls go to sleep," the head master growled before retiring to his room, puffing his hookah.

If anything I hated at that moment, it was to walk even a yard. I had never expected this. I had tears in my eyes and I hated the headmaster for it as much as I could.
I selected the banthee which I thought was the smaller of the two and followed Satya. Three of us proceeded on our mission.

The sun had set. Soon, we knew it would be dark as generally happens in the hills immediately after the sun set. Our guide told us that the spring was just "two steps" away. For my readers it is vital to forewarn them that "two steps" in the hills even today may mean walking a mile or two or even more.
I was getting nervous for it was becoming darker every second. The trees and the bushes were acquiring shapes. The night hiss was prominently audible. Twice I had lost my heart beat on listening the squealing of owls. My legs were unsteady even with empty banthee. When we reached the spring which was more than two miles by any standards, it was dark altogether.

Satya was a dim-witted but good natured friendly person. He knew me well and wanted to help me sincerely. For me, he was the dependable friend. To retain his loyalty, I often gave him jaggery balls and roasted grams and helped him by letting him copy from my math’s note-book. I had promised him the same in the ensuing examination. He was my only hope in my hour of peril.

Both of them kept me encouraged by talking of the place and of the stories about the Inspector of Schools. Satya filled my banthee and we started the return journey. It was this part of the mission that I dreaded. Mere thought of being left behind in the jungle at that deathly hour sent creeps down my spine. Tears had already appeared at the corner of my eyes.

"Please keep me in the middle and take me along" I begged Satya and he obliged.
"Your pace is awfully slow. Your people must be cursing you" the guide said.

"I know, I know" Satya said who was aware of the impatience of the head master.

"Hurry up or there will be no food for anyone," Satya said coaxing me. My progress was too slow and in fact, I begged them to rest for a few seconds for I was finding it too difficult to move with the head load.
"No. Don't do that. We will be delayed awfully,” Satya said from behind.

I could not take even a step further and kept the banthee down. There was a mini conference. Our guide was getting restless. He loathed my incompetence and left us saying that we could return of our own.

Satya didn't want this to happen. He was equally keen to return quickly; thrashing by the head master was surely another prospect, he wanted to avoid.

"Come on, let's walk now," he said to me. We two walked for some time. I was again dragging my body, all my energy had sapped. Satya was getting irritated now.

"You should have asked your father to send a servant with you," he chided me. I was quiet for I didn't want to lose his company. But a few hundred yards had exhausted me and I wanted to rest again.

"Let's rest for a few seconds," I begged Satya.
The suggestion enraged Satya who was aware of the fact that meals could not be prepared until the water reached the camp.

"Go to devils and come when you can. I can't wait any more," he shouted and walked off with the banthee of water on his head.

I was in tears. I started crying. "Please don't leave me, please. I will give you sweets. I will give you a rupee, please...."

My words had no effect on Satya who thought any further delay would invoke the wrath of the headmaster. Though it was secondary consideration for me, but the fact remained that everyone else was hungry and famishing. Water was therefore urgently needed in the camp.

I was left alone in the jungle on that dark night. My nerves gave away. I wanted to lift the banthee but my hands wouldn't move. My legs were frozen, my mind had become inert.

"O mother! O mother!" I started wailing. There were night sounds and there were shadows moving all around me. Tears were rolling down my cheeks.
I left the banthee and started walking. I had no clue where I was going. I was staggering and stumbled down into a bush.

"Hey! Child, why are you crying?" I heard a voice.
My fear of ghosts surfaced. I felt as if something will soon overpower me. It was not the death that I was afraid of. It was the fear of unknown, which had overtaken me. I was trembling and I was drenched by cold sweat.
"Come! Come! I will help you," the voice again echoed in to my ears.
I felt a strong gust of air, a whistling sound and then someone clutching me and I felt as if I was floating in the air. I do not remember anything there after.

When I regained senses, I found myself sitting on the stone slab out side the school gate with the banthee full of water beside me. I was not sure what hour it was, whether all others were sleeping after the meals. I even did not fear the headmaster. I was in a state of trance. I lifted the banthee on my head and entered the school hall.

The headmaster rushed towards me. He was hurling choicest of abuses on our guide for his irresponsible behaviour.
"Thank God! You have come. And now, the rest of you, hurry up with the cooking. I would not leave you without revising some important lessons," he shouted regaining his bearings.

I was not in a position to react to anything. I could not explain anything even to my self. I wanted to fall asleep. I was in a state of trance.

Leaving the banthee in the kitchen, as I returned to the hall, I heard the familiar high pitched voice of the headmaster and I was shocked to see Satya entering the hall with a water banthee on his head.

"Why the hell you three couldn't come together?" And then advancing towards me with his familiar belligerent stance, he shouted, “You useless fellow, why the hell did you leave Satya behind?


[1] Banthee is a copper vessel, round in shape with a collar band like narrow mouth. It is used in hills for bringing and storing water.