THE LIFE OF THE PEOPLE OF GOTARU

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

III

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

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

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

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

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

THE SOLITARY COMPANIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

ASPIRATIONS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CONSCIENCE KEEPER

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE SEARCH OPERATION

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


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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

GREETINGS

DEAR READERS

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

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

MUKUND THAPLIYAL

THE INDOMITABLE QUEST

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Foot Notes:

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