The Summer of '82 - Chapter 3

Our immediate neighbors were a small dilapidated house on the west and a mansion on the east. On the south was a palm tree plantation beyond which were vast rice fields that spread to the horizon lined with coconut trees. Most of our afternoon used to be spent at the canal that ran in the centre of the vast fields. The water was shallow and we would put our paper boats in it and chase it till the point where the canal disappeared under the highway road. This activity usually was limited till the rains, after which the canal would become very rough and would sweep away anybody who came in the way of its ferociousness.

In the nights after listening to the Bhagwad Gita, we would look on the jackfruit tree that hid itself in the dark, which housed so many glowworms blinking in unison as if it was Diwali. The sounds of the crickets and the occasional croak of the frog would be interrupted by a drunk man passing by swearing on his dead ancestors in the darkness.

That particular summer, we had company. In the night, from the dilapidated house, we heard sounds of laughter. Ammamma/ Grandmother told me that the owner of the house had given it on rent to young students who studied in the ITI close by.

The days were moving on in a slow pace. My parents and my siblings left for visiting our relatives, but i stayed behind, courtesy, the stitches on my head. As the clock ticked away in slow motion, I would keep my eyes glued to the gate for Kannan and Suma to arrive. Looking at the gate with longing, I did not remember when i went to sleep. I was awakened with a hat trick of sneezes. Suma had taken a grass blade and tickled my nostrils. Both Kannan and Suma laughed their hearts out. Suma and Kittu went into Kittu’s room and started playing with their dolls, while Kannan and I ventured out into the neighborhood.

‘Where are we off to?’ I asked in expectation. ‘If ammamma sees us sneaking out, we will be in for trouble.’

‘I saw Ammamma leave with a sack of rice to the mill’, he said. ‘It will take her at least an hour or two to come back. We will be back home by then.’ He assured. We went to the boundary that separated our plot from our neighbor’s. The Cacti was tall that acted as a natural fence, but the gap between two of them was big enough to sneak both of us in by crossing it carefully, sideways, taking care that the thorns did not prick our butt or belly.

Once across, we made our way through the dry leaves crackling beneath our feet to the house. The house was hardly cleaned. The ceiling and the beams were filled by cobwebs from days of yonder. The only place that was clean was the wooden ladder that led to the first floor, probably because of constant use. The walls were damp with the thin white coat peeling off randomly at places. The wooden ceiling was sagging, threatening to fall off any moment. The external wall had slogans painted with fresh red color with the symbol of a sickle and a star, D.Y.F.I Zindabad written and a poster with a smiling moustached photograph accompanying it. Kannan climbed the wooden ladder, the stairs creaking with each step. I followed him holding to a rope that hung from the ceiling above, lest the ladder gave way, one could hold the rope for support.

The ladder opened into a balcony. There were books lying on the floor and a circuit board lying on a stool that was placed sideways, nearby. A soldering iron was plugged into a socket hanging from a broken switch box. The rod glowing red, jutting precariously from a platform made of thick engineering books. A man with thick moustache and a hairy body wearing a lungi sat on the parapet with a cigarette dangling between his lips. His eyes shifted to Kannan and then towards me.

‘Kanna, who is this?’ he asked Kannan. ‘He is my friend from Bombay, Shibu’ Kannan then turned to me and introduced the huge man ‘This is Das, the great’ he said. It was apparent from the way he described Das and ran around him, that he had made Das, his hero, his idol. Das was a man of very little words. He allowed me to look at him as he skillfully soldered the chips on to the circuit board. I tried to read the books on electronics and tried to differentiate between an ohm and a lamda. Das would work silently, continuously smoking cigarettes. He would light the next cigarette before the first one was finished and the steel tray that doubled as an ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts.

‘Why do you smoke so much?’ i asked Das.

‘Some people need oxygen to live, I need smoke’ he said as he turned around to pick up a tester.

Later, when we were back at our house before ammamma came back, Kannan was excitedly telling me about Das being one of the student leaders and how people in his college followed every dictum he issued. He was the leader of the S.U.F.I. wing in his college. Kannan animatedly spoke of a hartal when the police lathi charged and he took the baton from the police and hit many policemen. He was arrested, but he became an instant hero in the party and he is now the rising star of the political group. Kannan was sure, being in the good books of Das today, will earn him a handsome position in the party when he is grown 3 more years.

Ammamma entered the gates, with another man in tow. He was an elderly man. Fair and plump, he had bhasma on his forehead. With one hand holding the long umbrella and the other hand holding the mundu, he walked very fast. Ammamma took off her slippers and handed a stainless steel container in my hand. ‘Put it in the kitchen’ she told me. I obediently took it and left for the kitchen. He asked for water. ‘Get the boiled water from the pot’ she shouted. They both began speaking in hushed voices. I peeped through the window grills and i saw my ammamma take out some money from her purse and give it to him. The man was ready to leave.

‘Didnt get the water’ the old man said to my ammamma. I thought he purposely did that to make me feel like an incompetent grandson. His face was arrogant when he said that.

‘Shibu!!’ she shouted loudly ‘Where did you get lost?’ I stumbled out of the door and offered him the glass of water. He looked at me intensely, piercing into my eyes. ‘Is he Parvathi’s son’ he asked ammamma. She nodded in agreement.

‘He has got her beautiful eyes’ he said proud of my inheritance. ‘Do you know me?’ he asked me. I shook my head. ‘How would you?’ he was now nostalgic ‘I had taken you in my arms when you were six months old. I used to carry you and sing lullabies when you would cry.’ I could sense, he now had become melodramatic. After a while, he left. The last thing i heard him tell my ammamma was that being a daughter of the village, it was her duty too, to contribute for the yagna in the temple.

Kannan took me aside and told me not to believe a single word he said. He said, he was Narayana Namboodiripaad, the high priest of the temple and it was his habit of forcing people to donate money for the welfare of the temple. He said with a tense voice, that there were rumors of a lurking spirit in the village around the temple. People had seen shadows on moonlit nights without an owner. Also, very recently, when the temple door was opened for the early morning pooja, the deity had been smeared with a black substance. The Panchayat was called and an astrologer summoned to find out what was going wrong. The astrologer did some calculations holding some sea shells and then told that an ancient priest who had died of a sin is responsible for the unholy happenings in the temple and a yagna has to be performed to drive the ghost away from the village. Kannan felt that Namboodiripaad wanted to make money out of the yagna, and he was swindling the innocent villagers with the power of superstition.

I was intrigued by what Kannan said. A ghost! I was living in a house that was close to a temple haunted by a ghost! I was thrilled. ‘I want to see the ghost!’ i earnestly told Kannan.

‘What?’ Kannan was a bit startled. ‘Are you crazy?’

‘Have you ever seen a ghost?’ I asked him. He shook his head.

‘Neither me...’ I was now excited. ‘What if he is a friendly ghost?’

‘Ghosts are never friendly’ he replied.

‘Says who?’ I was stubborn. I really wanted to see a ghost! I had heard of ghosts in films, in books, but never seen one in reality. It used to be an illusion of a lady walking on the street with a lit candle in her hand, her hair open and spread over the shoulders. But that was how they were shown in films. I wanted to see a real ghost.

‘You are mad’ he said. ‘What if the ghost kills you?’

‘I dont think ghosts can kill’ i was pretty sure. ‘You said the ghost was a shadow without an owner, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Then how can a shadow kill a man. A shadow can only kill a shadow, Isn’t it?’

‘Right.’ he said, giving my logic some intense thought.

‘So when do we go to see the ghost?’ i was now very enthusiastic.

‘No... wait’ Kannan fumbled. ‘OK, I have an idea’ he said ‘We will tell Das. I am sure he will help. He does not believe in God!’

I was game. I felt fear in Kannans voice but as long as i saw the ghost, i had no problem. I just wanted to see the ghost.

‘Shibu! Will you go to the mill and get our sack of rice?’ Ammamma yelled out. Kannan and I left for the rice mill.

The Summer of '82 - Chapter 2

My grandmother was 72 years old that year. Her face filled with wrinkles of knowledge, she worked in the fields along with other younger farmers. She used to walk with a little stoop, but I had hardly any memory of her with an illness. The village of Pariyaram, in those days had rarely seen electricity. Though the entire village had poles holding the electric wires upright, it hardly used to reach the house in a way it reached us back home in the city. As the sun set behind the mountains, the bulb would emit a dim glow that we used to mistake it for a man smoking a bheedi without the smoke. The dusk used to bring with it the aroma of camphor and the hymns of the Mahabharata recited in a very peculiar fashion. All the kids would gather around grandmother and she would tell us the story of how Arjuna was reluctant to fight his brothers, when Krishna, in the midst of the battlefield recited him the Bhagwad Gita.

‘How many days did he read the Bhagwad Gita in the battle field?’ Shaiju would ask innocently. Grandmother would then close the book and tell him that the Bhagwad Gita was recited by Krishna, to Arjuna, and it stands the test of time and rings true even in today’s world. In the midst of this story, my cousin, Kittu, would squirm and ask her to tell the stories of her childhood when the British ruled the land, she would tell us how they were to sing praises of the Queen in school. She would remember those days with fondness when she bought her first Saree for 8 annas. 8 annas! We would scream in despair, we hardly got two toffees in 8 annas!

My grandmother loved telling stories from her fond memories. Her husband, our grandfather, had died in an accident. Our house was on the main road. It was very narrow, but was one of the main roads in the country then, now called the NH17 highway. He was returning early from the temple after his bath when a car hit him. He died instantly. Those days in Kerala, my grandmother used to remember, there were so many women who had more than one marriage. Surprisingly, very distinct from other cultures, the society in Kerala was a matriarchal one. The women in the family wielded the power. The men usually shifted into the woman’s house after marriage, unlike now. And in particular castes of the carpenters, who used to travel for years building temples and palaces, when they would come back to the house and see an umbrella outside their house, they would know, their wives are theirs no more, and that they are married to another man. But my grandmother never married again.
When we asked her ‘Why?’ She would smile and tell us, ‘One day you will know, Why!’

Our house in Pariyaram was a huge one, with small little rooms. Each room had another room within, which my mother used to tell me, were places to store food, since agriculture was our main occupation. In many rooms were secret chambers which were to store and hide grains when the British would come in demanding for taxes. Later, after Independence, it also became a place to hide people during the Communist struggle.

Communism ran high in our family. My grand mother was a strong supporter of the communist. It was strange that a village so remote, where electricity used to reach in trickle, was completely opinionated in its political stance. But as children it hardly mattered to us. We would enjoy sitting on the compound wall as huge processions of people wearing mundus (south indian dhoti’s) would march with red flags shouting loudly DYFI ZINDABAD, and we kids would jump up and down echoing Zindabad Zindabad! Shouting along with them used to give us a sense of power. The procession would last for more than 10 minutes with a sea of people walking in a line, their faces smeared with seriousness and determination.

Kannan, was our next door neighbor. Two years younger to me, he would tell me about the politics in school. He would tell me that SYFI was the student faction of the DYFI party. Apparently, there were more than one communist party in our state, which were led by two different leaders. These parties would help the students in their elections in school. He supported SUFI which stood for Students United Federation of India, because they used to give them 5 Rupees for shouting slogans in the procession other than tea and biscuits while the SYFI only offered Tea and biscuits. Kannan would be scolded and punished by his maternal uncle for all his pranks in school. Kannan being a staunch supporter of the communist party, it was not liked by his uncle who supported the Congress. He would whip his legs with a twig saying that he would land up as a naxalite, if he continued attending the rallies of the SUFI. His mother and sister would sob in the corner of the house as he scowled in pain.

Kannan's father had died an untimely death. One day when he was coming back from school, plucking a bunch of flowers on the way for his sister, he was shocked to see people crowding the gate outside his house. He ran into his house and saw his father lying still, wrapped around with a white cloth, with cottons stuffed in his nose and ears. He had taken his own life. His uncle had taken the responsibility of the family then. He left the army for the sake of his sister and decided to stay in the village and take care of her and her children.

His upbringing in the army bought in a martial rule. There was a strict discipline in the house and Kannan hated him for it. Suma, Kannan's sister and Kittu, my first cousin were best of friends. My parents were very fond of both Suma and Kannan as if they were from our own family. They were like family to us. Their relation with our family ran a few generations back. Kannan's grandmother and my grandmother were best of friends. They used to work for my grandmother in the fields, but the relationship of friendship surpassed that of the societal caste system and they became best friends. They were always together through thick and thin of things, and Kannan's grandmother considered us as her own grandchildren.

Kannan's mother, after her husbands death got her husbands job in the village office. But it was never easy for her. She had left school when she was in the Tenth standard, because she was getting married. So, after her husbands death, she had to go back to school, clear her exams and then go through college, after which she got the job of her husband so that she could support her family. She had a magic smile on her face that hid the pain in her eyes, and she lovingly cooked food for all of us when we came back from play on Sunday afternoons, completely exhausted. We would lie on the floor putting our head on her lap and she would stroke our hair lovingly and put us to sleep, as she fanned us with a newspaper on another hand. Their house, then never had electricity, and in the sultry hot summers, there was no house that was cooler than Sarla aunty’s house. The house was small, made of thatched roof and the floor smeared with cow-dung, that used to cool our heels, the moment we stepped in, from the hot courtyard. The doors were small in size and the elders had to bow down before they could enter. Directly opposite the entrance was the deity of Krishna in all its glory. My mother used to tell me that it was to make people bow down to God when they enter the house, that the door was so short. It was easy when I was 12, i could run past it without any effort, but later, as i grew older, there were many a times i banged my forehead on the lintel and fallen down with a swollen head.

This time, as i ran into meet Kannan’s grandmother, my forehead hit the lintel with such great force, i hardly remembered anything after that until I opened my eyes, to see myself surrounded by everyone in the family. Kittu, Kannan and Suma, Shaiju and Sita on either side of the bed. I had been asleep for an entire day. I was later told that i had lost a lot of blood and I was to take a lot of rest for an entire week.

The Summer of '82 - Chapter 1

I woke up in a startle. It was dark when i looked around. Far on the other side of the room, i could see two neon needles. The shorter one was close to the number 5 and the longer one marking the number 2. Under normal circumstances i always woke up when the shorter needle pointed to 9, but today was an exception. Today was the day when we left for my hometown, Kerala. My heart was beating with a loud thump. The larger needle hardly moved. It moved taking its own time. A light peeped out of the door, with hushed sounds. With sleep no longer holding my eye, i got up and moved to the light.

My mother was awake, there were a 100 utensils spread over the kota platform, with two utensils steaming on the burner of the gas stove. She hurriedly like a master craftsman cut the vegetables, dropped it into the steaming vessel, took out a handful of salt and dropped it into the other vessel, while my father sat next to the table spreading little cut banana leaves and putting rice on it with pickle. I looked in awe at my mom working with breakneck speed. She was super-mom to me. When she saw me awake, she rushed me to the wash basin, put tooth paste on the brush and left me on a short stool, so that i could reach out easily to the basin and spit at my own will. I loved the taste of the paste and i kept chewing on the brush as the clatter of the steel utensils against each other made an irritable sound. I felt a tug on my shorts. My sister looked at me with sleepy eyes. She was awake too. After i chewed my brush for five minutes, i hoisted her on the stool and put the paste on her small little funny brush and she started chewing on it. My younger brother was fast asleep. He slept like a log. My father used to tell me that even if there was a bomb blast, he would not wake up, such was his deep slumber.

As i walked into the kitchen again, my mother thrust a glass full of milk in my hand.
‘Here, drink this full’ and kept another glass of milk and covered it with a smaller plate ‘and this is for Sita, make sure she does not pour it down the washbasin’ she said ‘And wake up Shaiju, he will take ever to wake up, we might miss the train.’
My father got up and went into the living room where he snored. ‘SHAIJU’ he called out. It was a short shout, a shout that sounded louder than when he talked and a little lesser than when he was angry. It had its desiring effect. He shot up from his sleep, sitting upright, blinking his eyes as if he was never asleep. He woke up and walked briskly to the stool and pulled down Sita and hoisted himself on to it. Sita, in the midst of her brushing started crying, dropping the foamy toothpaste all over the floor. My brother and she were always at loggerheads. There was an invisible love-hate relationship between them. They would fight during the day and even in the middle of the night, i could hear them talking and shouting at each other, though their eyes were closed.

My dad intervened and my brother had to give up his throne to the wash basin while my sister had a smile on her face that pronounced victory over him. Sulking, he stood on the side mumbling in anger. This was not unusual in our household. My sister was the youngest, and the apple of every eye in our family, I was the eldest, elder to Shaiju. My brother was stuck between both of us. He always felt lost most of the time. Being the middle brother, he always felt that he was loved lesser than my sister and I. He would never challenge me and if he had a fight with me, my sister would face the wrath of his anger. Our relationship was a complex one, but in those days, the complexities never mattered to us. Our life was completely immersed in the present, not knowing that these were the years that mattered the most, in developing a growing mind.

Later as we sat in the train and the landscaped moved past in blurred color palettes, we thought of the wonderful days that were awaiting us, the mango trees, ripe jackfruits, the open rice fields, elanneer (fresh coconut water) and our adventures into the near by forest which we had named ‘Rakshasvan’ mainly because of the weird noises which came from the south at the advent of stars in the night.

Learnings of Life

Never make someone a priority for whom you are an option...

The Blunder Years - Thank you

Thank you all for your reactions and kind words. I truly appreciate it. I think i can count the amount of readers on this blog on my fingers. I would like to thank each one of you.
@ Cuckoo, thank you so much for your kind words and smileys...
@ mandeepsg, thank you so much, i could see from your comments that you felt for the characters in the story. The appreciation and concern you had for the characters truly touched my heart.
@ annie, thanks to you too. I could see how you felt when Sheena died and left Romeil alone. That was one of the most difficult decisions while writing the story, to kill a character, but sheena going out of the story is a metaphor, the pain which Romeil feel through his life, but the key to this aspect to the story is that, people leave, they dont die. death is only a concept. A person is dead when one stops feeling for the person who has left.
and to
@ sigma: she was in hibernation for long and then like a strong wind comes in and reads the entire story in two days!!! I think thats the best compliment i have ever got!

Thank you so much and really appreciate it.

OK. Now for the good news and the bad news.
The good news:
A publisher friend of mine went through the story. The first thing he wanted me to do is take it off the blog if it has to be considered for publishing.

The bad news: The blunder years story will remain online till the end of this month that is 30th of September 2007.

I truly appreciate all your time dedicated to reading these stories and commenting on them.... Thank you so much...

An Extinguished Flame

She slammed the door of her Santro car and sped off. I was always scared when she did that. Unassumingly a very good driver for a woman, she drove rashly when she was angry. I was afraid that she might hurt someone for no fault of theirs. The fault would be entirely mine. It was because of me that she was angry. It was because of me that she was so upset. But I had no choice. Marriage after all is not child’s play. She knew it, I knew it, and love has got nothing to do with it. Our story was like straight out of a Bollywood film. Minus the song and dance. She was from a rich family, I was from a middle class family. I was a struggling musician, she was a highly paid professional in an MNC. We met at college and I fell in love. Flat on my face. I never recovered from that fall. A courtship of nine years had passed and we had gone ahead a long way in our lives. I left studies in the last year and joined a rock band. We were quite pathetic. All our fragile egos bought the band to the rocks. Nevertheless I have been trying since then to make a mark in the field. People were making enough money in this field doing dirty to mediocre music. I hated it. Remixes and more remixes were the order of the day. These people would take up some wonderful R D Burman track and rape it. Into shreds. I wondered why there was no death penalty for rape. If there was, half the music industry would be cleansed of this curse called remix. I hated myself to be born in this era. Nothing made any sense. Plagiarism was at its helm. And a reasonably sensible musician like me was struggling for a job. A la Amir Khan in Akele Hum akele Tum, another plagiarized version of Frazer v/s Frazer.

I was left standing alone on the sea face, without a job, without my girl who always stood like a Rock of Gibraltar whenever I was in the dumps. But now she has left me too. The salty air sprayed on to my face as the lashes hit the boulders on the promenade. Wonderful golden lights lit up the street and the buildings far away. The lights glittered like gold sprinkled around the landscape. I walked towards the bus stop to catch a bus back home. I usually went back home quite late when everyone was asleep. If I reached early I would have to hear from my dad how worthless I was. I was 32, still staying with my parents and not contributing anything to my family, while my younger brother was earning a handsome package working at a call center. My life sucked and when things go wrong, you are worse than a sucker. I felt like running towards the sea and drowning myself of shame, but suicide needs courage. And that is something, somehow I lacked.

I got into the almost empty BEST bus. Only an old man sat in one corner. He looked at me and smiled, his smile extending from one ear to another without a single tooth. I took my ticket and looked outside. The empty landscape of the city reminded me of the emptiness in myself. I was good for nothing. I had proved my dad right. Sonia too must have realized it by now. I was alone, all alone. The bus stopped and I saw the old man getting off. The bus was now completely empty, just like my head. As the bus sped away at top speeds on the empty road, the metal handles hanging from the bar above rattled making a lot of noise, just like my head. Soon the bus reached the last stop. The conductor yelled out at me to get off. I turned around and headed for the exit. An old torn wallet lay on the floor. I looked around for the conductor, there was no one around. I wondered whether I should give it to the conductor, but I hesitated. I did not trust them. What if they took the money and threw away the wallet. It would never reach the owner. I put it in my pocket and walked home.

I slid in the keys slowly into the keyhole and turned it, unlatching the door. My youngest brother was already snoring away to glory; my younger brother was talking away to glory at the call center. I lay the bed on the floor and lied down. There was no sleep in my eyes, only tears, and memories of the wonderful times with my Sonia. The streetlight filtered into the room from the window. I went and sat down in the light. Removing the purse from the pocket, I decided to find out, whose wallet it was. Maybe it was the old man who smiled at me in the bus while I was too immersed in my thoughts to respond to him. Maybe it was somebody else who had got off before I got into the bus. I probed into the wallet. There were hardly any money. Twenty two rupees to be exact. I searched the other crevices. There was a piece of paper and some coupons, some cinema tickets that were hardly readable. There was no address of the owner. I opened the piece of paper that was folded neatly. The paper was fragile and could have easily fallen into pieces. Carefully, I opened it and laid it out on the floor.

It read

Dear Ram,

Today is one of the most difficult days of my life. When I look behind, there are only fond memories of you that I keep in my heart. You made my life special. You gave a new meaning to my existence. Till you came into my life, I thought I was living a beautiful life. But it was when you came walking into my house that things changed forever. I am fortunate that I loved you. I am unfortunate that I loved you, for our love will never be complete. This world is too short sighted to see us love and live together. For me there is only one religion, the religion of love, but there are so many other things that in life we do not have control over. I call it fate. People call it destiny. I have belief in our love, but not in myself.

I write this letter because I do not have the strength to face you. Please do not hate me for what I am doing. This is the best for both of us. Why should our love for each other deny us of the love others bring to our lives. Let everyone around us be happy. If everyone around us is happy, we would be happy.

I know you would understand. Unrequited love lives forever.

I will always love you,
Marianne
23rd July 1953


I looked into the sky from the window. The sky was clear and deep. Somehow, the letter looked like a clue for my life from heaven. I read through the letter again and again. It looked like a story straight from the time of Raj Kapoor. A tragic love story. The tragedy looked bigger than mine. I lay sleepless in the bed through the night. In the morning I pretended I was asleep as I heard my father curse me as he left to work. My brother cursed me as he came back from work. Once I knew the coast was clear I got up and brushed my teeth. My mother kept telling me it was not a bad idea to join the call center. After all, I would be earning something. Today any Tom, Dick and Harry could get through to a call center. But I believed that it would make me brain dead. I quickly gulped an egg sandwich, took my mobile off the charger and left for the stop where the old man had got down the previous night. There was no other clue. Just a wallet and a slight memory of the toothless smile. I had a hunch it had to be the old man. My mobile had not rung since morning. It felt like a lonely day. Not a single day had passed in the past nine years without a morning call from Sonia. Not a single SMS.
I got down at the stop. There was a slight commotion at the bus stop. People were bashing up an eve teaser. I walked a little away from the bus stop. The bus stop reminded me of my school days. Our school was a five minute walk from this bus stop. The trees around the compound of the girls school bought in fond memories of the good time we had. An old age home separated the boys school from the girls school. Every time we passed by the old age home, eager old people used to wave out to us. The joy that they achieved while they saw us wave back was fantastic. I had a clue there. Maybe that old man was from the same old age home. But that was only one in a million chance. But nevertheless, I had nothing to lose and nothing to do.

I entered the building.

An old woman sat at the desk with two other older women. As they noticed me enter, they stopped abruptly and stared at me.
“May, I help you young man?” the slightly younger lady stood up and spoke in a stern voice.
“I am looking for someone named Ram. Does he live here?” I asked.
“What is his full name?”
“Well, I don’t know, but I found this yesterday in the bus” I said taking out the lost wallet and handing it over to her “I had spotted an old man getting down in the night yesterday at the bus stop, so I took a chance.”

“Oh Ram? you have got his wallet? He was so concerned he lost it.” The old lady’s voice turning cheerful and more welcoming. “I thought you had come to enquire about another enrollment.”

“Enrollment?” I was not clear what it meant. “Doesn’t matter dear, It is so nice of you to bring his wallet back. He was so tense, he did not sleep last night. He has gone to the Bus depot looking for it” she said.

“Don’t worry, I will give it to him, son” she confirmed.

“Can I wait for him?” I could not help myself from asking. The other two women kept staring at me. The stares made me slightly uncomfortable. So I thought it would be wiser to come back a while later. “Can I come a while later?” I asked the old lady.

“Sure Son!” she replied.

I got off the gates and looked back. The school had just left. The road was filled with kids. I turned to look on to the windows. It was filled with old people waving out to the kids and the kids waving back at them. One thing that never changed. For me, it looked as if it were the same old people I used to wave out as a child.

I reached the stop nearby. A light little music filled the air. The sound of the wind that flowed through a pipe had an immense effect on my heart. I followed the trail. Around the corner there was a municipal garden filled with couples canoodling in the shades avoiding the stark hot sun. Below a tree that was in the middle of the garden was an old man selling flutes, playing the flute. I went close to him and sat down. He continued unperturbed, his eyes closed. The tune was of an old song from a hindi film, which spoke about loss of love. All these things seemed connected. I had just lost out on my girl, my love. I get a wallet that has a love letter that dated back to 1953 and here is a man playing a flute of a song that spoke about loss of love. Did this mean that the world was full of lost love? The pain of the song could be felt in the deepest corners of my heart…

… to be continued

A new life

I opened my eyes. There was light. As the blur left its way for sharp images, I realized the figure of Sia staring at me.

She had tears in her eyes.

“How are you?” she asked.

“Fantastic, shall we dance?” I said

“Shut up! You don’t know how to dance!”

“Well, I can try!”

“Pranay..”

“Yes…”

“Shut up”

“OK”

“I thought I would loose you”

“I thought I lost you”

“I think we are pretty much lost people anyways!”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Yes you did”

“I am sorry”

“I am not”

“Will you marry me?”

“No”

“Would you mind if I keep asking you this, till the end of our life?”

“You will keep asking this question for the rest of your life?”

“Even when you are 75, and don’t have a single teeth in your mouth, I would still love you and marry you!”

“You are crazy!”

“What will we name our kids?”

“We wont have any kids”

“If it is a boy, we will call him Aryan, but I would prefer to have a girl child”

“We will call her Ananya”

“I will take Aryan for fishing”

“They will be vegetarian”

“O.K. we will leave the fish into the water after catching it”

“Can we keep a dog?”

“You already have a dog!”

“No I don’t!”

“Bow wow”

I held her hand. It was the first time I ever touched her. I felt at peace. In the car, I thought God wanted to take away my life. I was wrong. He wanted to give me life.

A life for a life

The sound of traffic had filled the entire environment with a sense of urgency. The sound of police vans and ambulance echoed in the distance as I hid myself between the unfinished beams of the flyover. I was sweating as if it was a mid afternoon heat of may. The perspiration trickled down my face to drip at the chin. My forearm that brushed against the sulphur coated steel reinforcement was bleeding. My heart was beating at an abnormal rate. My ears warm with blood filled earlobes cooling down as I waited with abated breath. I had to abandon the place as soon as possible. The revolver I had with me had three bullets less. I do not know if the bullet had found its way into the ribs of the man I intended to shoot, but a little miscalculation had led to an accident and caused a car to overturn into the construction site nearby. Sitting on the concrete boulders, I pushed the little revolver into the little cavity that formed with the multitudes of garbage piled with concrete blocks. It was a safe place to keep the revolver. ‘No one will ever find it’ I thought to myself. I took a pile of slimy garbage from nearby and covered the cavity. The money must have reached the hospital.

‘Surili deserves to live. What else am I living for?’ I told myself. I looked around. I picked up some empty cola bottles. If I was caught, I could tell them I was searching for cola bottles, I would sell them to make some money for dinner. Grabbing the bottles, I left the place.

As I left the place, the fire fighters were dragging out the car. The man was bleeding, someone said in the crowd. He might not survive. The other man was dead. He was dead on the spot. The bullet had pierced where his heart was. I know God will never forgive me for taking lives of the people I hardly knew. But God was not fair with me either. Why Surili, of all people? Why did she get the disease that was born out of my mistakes? I was ready to fight God. He had to be fair, at least to a child of three years who did not know what life was all about!

The train journey to the station was filled with anxiety. With every police man passing by, I would think he already knew that I had committed a murder. So I walked looking down on the feet below. Why did I have to come from the little village? Wasn’t it better living in the village without a dream than leaving everything behind? I was on the brink of loosing everything that I had, my daughter. Had I not come to this city, neither would I have gone and….

My wife died a month ago. We were childhood sweethearts. She was the daughter of the neighbouring farmer. During our childhood, we used to pack food for our father and take it to the fields in the noon. We used to play in the fields till the evening. In the evening I would swim in the nearby river with my other friends. Later, when we grew up she was about to get married to a man from the nearby village. She got married and left. There was little I could do.

Soon she returned. Her in-laws had abandoned her. The dowry was not paid in full. Her father died and I took it on myself to marry her. We got married soon. Her father had taken many debts to pay for the dowry. The fields did not pay much for repaying the loan. I set my foot on the soils of Bombay.

The first few weeks I lived on the footpath, searching for food, begging for work. One day, finally I got a job in a bar. A dance bar, where women danced as rich men threw the money on them. It was a nice job, I could get food for atleast one time a day. They used to offer food for all their employees in the night. That is when I became a friend of a bar dancer. She used to dance amazingly to the tunes of Mehbooba… She reminded me of Helen. She was in love with me, she said. One night, when it was late and I was tired, my reasoning left my mind. In her I saw my wife. But it was an illusion that the alcohol had offered my vision.

I regretted it and never ever went back to her again. I got a job in a different bar. I asked my wife to join me, thinking her presence would keep me away from the evils of an empty mind. Here, in the new home, it was a safe place. I had rented a little room in Dr. Ambedkar Colony. At the least, she would not be hounded by the evil money lenders of the village. Soon we had a little child. Her laughter used to fill the house with a sweet lyrical sound. We named her Surili. She became our world.

One day, my wife got a flu. We went to the doctor. He gave some medicines, but she did not improve. A blood test followed. She might not be able to survive, the doctor said. He asked me to give a test. Why was he asking me to give a test when my wife was not well? Hesitantly I gave the test. The doctor said that I had a grave disease, it might have gone to my daughter too!

How could it happen? The doctor was fooling me. I went to another doctor. He said the same thing. I needed money for her treatment. I went to the bar owner. But destiny had something else for me. Dance bars were closed – forever. A politician wanted to play the moral police of the city. The owner of my dance bar had left for Dubai. I went everywhere for help, but nowhere did I get any. One day when I reached home, Surili was laughing and playing on the bed next to her mother who had stopped breathing.

A couple of weeks later, Surili got a cold. There was no money with me. I went to the same doctor. He asked me to take Surili’s blood test. I did not have the money. The doctor gave me some money and asked me to take the test. After the test, he said that Surili has the disease, he dreaded. ‘We need to shift her to the I.C.U. I will arrange for some money, but it will be 2000 short’. Where will I get Rs.2000, I thought to myself. I broke down in the hospital.

A nice man came to me and took me to a nearby canteen. He said he had heard my story. He could arrange for the 2000 rupees if I did his work. He was a nice man. ‘The job is simple’ he said. He handed me over a packet. It had rs. 1000 and a revolver. ‘It is loaded’ he said. ‘You just have to press the trigger’ he said. I will stop near an Opel car and knock on the door, you will see this man’ he pulled out a photograph of a man in a black suit. “Aim the gun at him and pull the trigger. After that just run. The remaining money for the treatment will reach the hospital, even before you reach here.” he said.

I did not know what to say. ‘I can help you if I want to, but you seem to be a self made person, a person who wont take any favors, that is why. Think about it’

I had lost my wife. Surili was the only person I had in my life. I had to do it for her. If it meant it was to sacrifice somebody else’s life. The man was already heading to the entrance gate of the hospital. I ran behind him.

‘I will do it. I will do anything’ I told him.

What a grave thing to do? Wont that man who died have a daughter or a son? Wont he have a wife at home, waiting for him? But Surili’s life was at stake. What kind of a father would I be, had I not done anything to save my daughters life! I reached the hospital. The place was buzzing with activity. I went to the enquiry. I asked about my daughter. A nurse came next to me. She said they tried, but there was nothing they could do.


She was asking for me in the last minutes of her life, the nurse said.


What have I done?

My first date

It is my first date. I am pretty nervous. I have never been mesmerized by a beauty so pure ever before. Her small eyes, pure and deep black eyes keep haunting every moment ever since I met her. Love was about loving the most irritating things about her. I hated looking into her eyes. I would keep searching for myself, but always in vain. But there was something about her. I loved her eyes. They are so deep and so mysterious, as if there is a huge universe to be explored. I had to tell her about my feelings today. I wanted to waste no time in spending each possible moment with her. So I got a bouquet and some chocolates. Women love chocolates, my friends told me. So I grabbed a Roche and headed for “The Gossip Mongers” café. We were to meet there at 8. It was 7.30 and I was ready for my date. I sat in my car and kept mumbling trying to tell her how much I was in love with her. As the watch ticked close to eight my heart started beating faster. There she was, walking towards the café. She went in and then walked out. Seeing this beautiful lady in front of me, I was almost sure, I would have a seizure. But the phone rang with a sweet tune that was meant to be her call. I saw her through the wind screen. I picked up the phone.

Hello?

Where are you?

Just parking my car. Where are you?

I am at the café. Come right in.

O.K.

Cya.

Beep. Beep.

I took my breath in and headed to the café with the bouquet and the pack of chocolates. She was sitting looking towards her mobile, as if irritated. I took the flowers and offered it to her as she stared at the mobile phone. A smile crossed her face.

Thanks. They are beautiful.

Not as much as you.

That is so sweet.

No. This is sweet.

I handed the box of chocolates to her.

Oh God! You did not have to get all these things, frankly.

I thought you would like it.

I like it Harsh, but it is just so formal.

Sorry for being so formal. I am like this, you know. With all these corporate bull shit in life, I tend to be such in every aspect of my personal life. I should learn to shed these habits.

No, its ok. I mean you don’t have to be so formal with me. We are good friends, and friends don’t need to give flowers and chocolates every time they meet!


O. K. point taken. So how was your day?

O.K. how was yours?

O.K.

An eerie silence followed.

“So…” both of us spoke simultaneously, as if we both had the same things in the mind.

“Sorry, you tell” I offered.

“No you tell”

What would you like to have? Tea or coffee? Something to eat?

Actually, yes I am hungry. Lets order something?

You would like to have chicken or mutton.

I am vegetarian.

Even the chicken and the lamb are vegetarian, you know.

She stared at me silently.

Bad Joke. I accepted.

Oh O. K. Veg then!

One veg burger, one chicken noodles, and two cappuccino.

Anything else sir?

Anything else madam?

No that will be all.

O. K. Sir, your order will take 10 min.

Fine. Thank you.

So tell me. How is life?

Her mobile phone rang. She disconnected. With a frown on her face.

Is something bothering you?

No, it is just o.k. Sometimes the past gets behind you and you have nowhere to go.

Well pasts can be painful sometimes.

She smiled.

Why do you have to agree with everything I say?

Do I?

Yes you do.

O.K. So I disagree with you. Past has many memories that you don’t want to forget. Some of the most beautiful things have happened in the past, and even more beautiful things are just about to happen to you.

It was a little overwhelming, but for an amateur, I was quite on a roll.

Not for me, she said.

You want to share it with me? That is, if you don’t mind.

No Harsh, you are a close friend. I can tell you everything.

Close friend! I would like to be more than that. I thought to myself.

Trust me, I am a good listener.

That you are. You know, there is this friend of mine I have, or rather had. We were pretty pally with each other. It was like we had met once very briefly at a railway station when we were in college because he was a friend of a friend. Then we lost touch and one day he landed up in my office for some work. We instantly recognized each other and our friendship started growing. We became very close to each other.

The sky thundered and a small little drizzle started outside. Couples waiting outside rushed in while some teenagers started dancing in the rain. I wondered if the roof was leakng as there was a drop rolling down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes. She has a relationship that is over or almost on the verge of being over, I thought. Am I a crying shoulder?

We used to spend very less time with each other but we would be in touch once a week or sometimes once a month. It was a beautiful relationship until he proposed to me.

The lightning cracked in the distant sea on a lonely boat. I barely heard what she said after that. After a while as she stopped moving her lips, I gathered enough courage to ask her.

Do you love him?

He is a wonderful person.

Do you love him?

I cant. You know, I am not made that way. I tried to tell him to move on, but he doesn’t.

Do you love him?

He says it is o.k, if I don’t marry him as long as I don’t marry anybody else. He is crazy. Why does he want to waste his entire life for me?

So you don’t love him.

Her mobile phone rang. She cut the phone.

See, he keeps on calling me up like this. I need my space. This is what it all gets to. Initially you say you will give the space and later you start getting on to each other nerves and sooner than you realize the love is all gone and it’s a pretty boring congested life with questions being asked all the time!

Your order sir. The waiter intervened.

Some mustard please. She said to the waiter.

Sure madam.

So now I feel it is time to shut off. Probably he would stop calling me.

Did you tell him what you felt?

No. about what?

About how you feel about him.

How do I feel about him? I don’t know.

So you don’t love him?

I could hardly eat my chicken noodles. It was as if the dead chicken was stuck up in my throat trying to chuckle.

He is a wonderful person.

And you don’t love him?

Beep Beep. She got an SMS.

See this is what the problem is. He sends me SMS like this when he knows I don’t like such SMS.

She showed me the sms. …I lve u…

Why don’t you call him and tell him how you feel. I am sure he would understand.

You think I should.

Yes. Pretty much. If he has fallen in love with you, it is pretty much your fault.

What do you mean?

You are so beautiful.

She smiled. She looked beautiful.

So u are saying I should speak to him.

Yes.

And tell him what?

Whether you love him or don’t love him. Things will be pretty clear then for him, wont it? The problem is you are not telling him whether you love him or you don’t. That is the only thing he wants to know. He is not asking you to marry him, is he?

No.

So whatever you have in your heart, tell him. If you don’t love him, then tell him you don’t. If you love him, tell him you do. Whatever comes later face it then.

I felt my heart pain as if I had dug a dagger into my own heart.

I think it makes sense. You are really cool, you know that.

Yes I do, I am like that from my childhood.

She punched me in my arm and we laughed.

So call him.

Now?

Yes now. Or I know you will never call.

I will.

No you wont

O.K.

She dialed the number.

“Hello, Pranay?”….. Oh…. can I speak to him?.... What?... How?.... When?.... Oh my God!... How is he now…. Where is he?

Tears started rolling from her eyes.

“Oh my God! What have I done?” she started weeping. People around looked at us with an uncomfortable gaze.

Is everything o.k. sia? I asked her trying to pacify her sobs.

He had an accident… He was trying to call me… I cut the phone twice and he smsd me that he loved me. She sniffed into her kerchief trying to recompose herself. Now he is with the paramedics. He is critical, he has lost a lot of blood. They are taking him to City Cross hospital.

Lets go there, I said.
She sniffed into her kerchief trying to recompose herself.

I knew my date was over, but a new friendship was born.