Literary Vibes - Special Pooja Edition (14-Oct-2021)
Title : Durga Fetival - 2021
Dear Friends,
Welcome to a special edition of short stories designed as a Pooja extravaganza. Hope you will enjoy the stories during the long hours of the holidays.
Your feedback is welcome in the Comments section.
Please forward the link https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/401 to your friends and contacts.
Wish you a Happy Dussehra. May the Goddess shower her choicest blessings on you and your loved ones.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Table of Contents:
01) Geetha Nair
THE SHELL
02) Sulochana Ram Mohan
LEELA OF LORD VINAYAK
03) G K Maya
DURGA
04) Meena Mishra
THE WORST COUNSELLOR
05) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
MULK HAD THE LAST LAUGH
06) Dilip Mohapatra
DESIRES
07) Nikhil M Kurien
SILHOUETTE
08) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
AN EVENING OF CHAMPAGNE AND A WET ANTHILL
It was soon after Ahmed passed his tenth class at the second attempt that his father told him to attend a recruitment rally being held on the main island. Ahmed and a few of his companions who had cleared the tenth class crossed over and participated. Two months later, when Ahmed and his friends were swimming in the lagoon, his little sister, Amina, came running towards him, her arms waving wildly, shouting, “A letter ! A letter has come! Ikka,come out and come home fast.” The post arrived only twice a week; it was brought along with other cargo on the ancient ship that plied between the mainland and the Lakshadweep Islands. Ahmed raced home with Amina trotting behind him. His father was waiting on the veradah, a proud smile on his sun-burnt face. The letter was in his hand; Ahmed had been selected to join the Indian Army as a jawan. What Ahmed felt first was a stab of fear at the thought. All his 17 years he had lived in Kalpeni, one of the beautiful Lakshadweep Islands. He had gambolled in the benign waves, played football on the white beaches, gone swimming in the incredibly blue lagoon. He had eaten with relish the coconut rice and tuna curry that his Umma made every day. How could he leave behind all of that ? How could he leave behind Yusuf and Ali, his bosom friends? And Amina, his little sister; wouldn't she weep if her Ikka left her side, crossed the sea and became a soldier? Ahmed's own eyes filled at the prospect.
Two months later, after a rough three-day voyage, Ahmed reached the mainland. He had just a few glimpses of novel sights like towering buildings and surging traffic before he and five others were put on a train that took them through undulating terrain to their destination, the Regimental Centre where their training was to be. Then it was that life turned into a nightmare. He shared his living quarters with a hundred or more young men like him. It wasn’t exactly living quarters, as from dawn to dusk they underwent training. It wasn’t even fully their sleeping quarters as they snatched just a few hours of sleep each night. Bullying, harshness,downright cruelty made up their daily fare. All this was meant to toughen them up, to make them indomitable soldiers, the bewildered boy was told by his training instructors. Each day was a challenge to his physical endurance as well. In addition to arduous drill on the parade ground, there were route marches, rope climbing, firing practice - the list was a very long one. And wrapping every minute like a grey cloud was near-intolerable homesickness. How he yearned for his family, his friends, the blue sea and the bluer lagoon ! Amina skipped through his dreams often and sometimes he came awake imagining for a second that he was back in his home until he saw the outlines of the bunker and his sleeping fellow-recruits.One morning, Ahmed saw himself in the rear view mirror of the Brigadier’s parked car. A long, brown face with sunken cheeks topped with a crew cut met his eyes. He had changed almost beyond recognition. It was a good thing, he reflected, that only his letters reached his home every week. A photo would have shocked and saddened his mother and sister terribly.
That day, the recruits had been assigned a new task. They had to clear the ground and lay a new road leading up from the Officers’ Quarters to the Mess. It was back-breaking work. Shovels and pickaxes grew more and more slippery with sweat as the day wore on.
It was when Ahmed was taking a break, resting under a jacaranda tree, that he saw a little figure approaching from the Officers’ Quarters. For a moment he thought he was hallucinating and that it was Amina who was skipping up to where he sat. No; this was not Amina though she did resemble his little sister in size and appearance. This little girl carried a basket. ”I have come to gather these flowers,” she said. He was pleased that she spoke his language. “I am Mili. What is your name?” She started picking up the fallen purple blooms of the jacaranda tree that were strewn all around Ahmed. She was a curious child and rapidly asked him many questions about his home and family. She was specially intrigued by Amina and the sea. He was only too glad to answer.
”I have seen hundreds of recruits but this is the first time I am talking to one,” she said with satisfaction. He learned that Mili was the only child of the Major Saab who stayed in the house nearest to them in the row. Ahmed had heard him spoken of as a kind man with an unconventional attitude and a ready smile.
It was time for Ahmed to resume his work. “Let me get you some Kissan orange squash,” said the child. She was back in no time with a full water-bottle. Ahmed was uneasy about accepting the drink but at the child’s insistence he drank the welcome, cool juice, sharing it with the comrades next to him. Then, he took up his pick-axe and swung it with renewed energy. The sharp edge landed on the big toe of his right foot. Through a fog of pain, Ahmed remembered the Major Saab appearing and two comrades half-carrying him to the verandah of the house while Mili hovered around him, her face pale with distress.
It took three weeks for Ahmed’s toe to heal. Every Sunday afternoon, after this, he paid a visit to Mili’s house.The two friends would sit on the lawn and talk about a thousand things. To Ahmed, these visits were balm that soothed his lacerated, home-sick heart. He spoke often of his happy life on Kalpeni. Mili had seen the sea only a couple of times. When Ahmed described the shells of many sizes and colours that washed up on the beaches every day and Amina’s awesome collection of them, Mili’s eyes filled with longing. “My training ends in another two months. When I go home and return, little one, I shall bring you pretty shells,” he told her and saw those eyes sparkle.
The passing out of each batch of recruits was a gala event which Mili attended every year. She loved the dances and songs they put up and the Bada Khana afterwards. As she sat with her parents in the hall, she tried to spot her friend but couldn’t. After the programme, a pretty girl with long plaits and red lips, dressed in a red ghagra choli came up to her and said,”Hello, Mili; how did you like my dance?” Mili was confused; how did this girl know her name? Then the dancer ripped off her wig and Mili saw it was Ahmed. They laughed together and in euphoria, Ahmed swung her round and round by her arms. He was leaving in two days for Kalpeni.
True to his word, he was back after a few weeks with a packet in his hands. Mili opened it and her eyes were dazzled by a treasure trove. Shells! They ranged from tiny to huge, from milk-white to deep brown. Ahmed picked up a big, orange-coloured one and said, “Amina sent this, her favourite, specially for you.” Mili went in at once and brought him a pretty little doll that opened and shut its eyes. “This is for Amina,” she said, giving it to him.
“I shall keep it safely in my trunk till I go home next, little one, though that is a long way off,” smiled Ahmed, slipping the doll gently into the pocket of his shorts. He bid her good-bye; the batch of brand-new jawans was leaving soon on their first posting.
Mili’s family went home on annual leave late every November and returned in time for the new school year in January. But that year, they had just reached their ancestral home when her father was summoned back. He bid his family a quick goodbye. In a week, the country was at war. Mili remembered those days as filled with news bulletins, black-bordered newspapers, temple visits and tension. There came a day quite soon when everyone rejoiced; the war had ended. Her father was safe and would arrive to take them back in a week’s time.
While on the train taking them back to the Centre, Mili’s eyes rested on her father’s black trunk stowed under the berth. She voiced a question that had been haunting her for days.”Daddy, do you know if Ahmed is safe? I have been praying for him as well.”
“I don’t know, my dear, so many Ahmeds, so many of them… .” her father did not answer her question; he held her very close instead.
Back home, she carefully dusted the shells she had left artistically arranged on her table. She picked up the orange one and ran her fingers over the seven little knobs around its mouth. She put it to her ear; the muffled roar brought to mind the sea that rose and fell near Ahmed 's home. How often he had spoken about its many moods! Mili wondered if right now Amina was gazing at it, with her newest collection of shells in her hands.
She hoped that Amina would get her doll soon.
Mili did not know that her wish was being granted. The black trunk with the doll in a corner was accompanying the coffin draped in the tricolour on its long voyage to Kalpeni.
Geetha Nair G. is an award-winning author of two collections of poetry: Shored Fragments and Drawing Flame. Her work has been reviewed favourably in The Journal of the Poetry Society (India) and other notable literary periodicals. Her most recent publication is a collection of short stories titled Wine, Woman and Wrong. All the thirty three stories in this collection were written for,and first appeared in Literary Vibes.
Geetha Nair G. is a former Associate Professor of English, All Saints’ College, Thiruvananthapuram, Kerala
Umaaaa.....
Valiamma used to call her daughter again and again, first softly, then loudly, finally irritated and angry. When no reply came I was the one sent to find out where my truant cousin sister had hidden herself closing her ears to all the commotions and chaos of the traditional joint family we spent our childhood in.
I would go to all the familiar hide outs calling out her name but she was clever enough to seek out new nooks and corners in the sprawling old home that no one thought of looking into. But I had become quite familiar with the detective work always entrusted to me and also with the thought processes of my cunning cousin. In fact I enjoyed these search errands as it was one thing the family thought i could do well enough. A bit under developed physically for my age, I was pampered as a delicate darling not to be given any strenuous tasks or any slaps or punishments even. Uma was the one who took it in plenty, one, for being absent minded about jobs given, two, she was quite strong physically and mentally, and given to questioning the elders on all the rites and rules followed so diligently. I was an ardent admirer of her courage and the way she had of doing unusual things, flouting all orders. And, in return, she encouraged me to be bold, to do things I loved doing, and showered on me all the care and concern of a big sister. Though I did not call her Chechi because we were more or less the same age, I thought of her as my beloved Chechi, right from that young age till now, in my sixties, widowed, lonely, not much of a success in my protected life.
Now why am I reminiscing like this? Holding the newspaper the boy had handed to me, as I waited impatiently by the gate as always, I had gone back a long way and lost sense of time and place. I was hauled back into the present by my daughter in law's frustrated voice, 'Amma, what are you doing there standing barefoot by the gate? The morning dew will give you a cold, I've told you so many times, you must cover your ears with a scarf when you go out so early.' She hurried over with the shawl I had left behind on the verandah and wrapped me up in it. I tried to show her the news in the paper, 'See, Sheela, look at this photo, that's what gave me a shock and I forgot where I was.....'. She was too busy with the morning chores, naturally, no time to listen to an old lazy bone warbling on about old times. But she was too well mannered to show her irritation. "Amma, let me give Chinnu her breakfast and get her into the school bus. Then we can talk over a cup of tea. She is dwadling as usual and her Dad is making a fuss.'
Sheela hurried to the kitchen and I heard Chinnu wailing as she was forced to drink her milk. My son was saying something in a monotone too. Not wanting to intrude in the daily family drama I moved to the armchair placed on the verandah to sit and feel the morning sun and took up the newspaper again. Putting right my spectacles, I peered at the photo displayed on the front page, Uma Rajashekar, winner of the Sahitya Academy Award for her Malayalam novel 'Bhramangal'.
She looked older, of course, but the serene expression and sweet smile had not changed. Hair was all grey, no artificial colouring for her, tied carelessly into a bun. A Kerala saree wrapped over her still shapely figure, no puppy fat now, as casually as the hairdo. She had never cared to dress up and when I was fascinated by glass bangles and silver anklets and kumkum in all shades, she used to be so surprised. "I must be missing in some feminine genes, Ammukutty', she would mock herself, "Amma had prayed fervently for a son, so Lord Ganesha did a compromise and gave me manly aspirations." Valiamma would get terribly upset when she heard this. "Dont talk like that you sharp tongued girl," she would admonish, "As if you are half male and half female. Thats a curse. Thank God you were not born so." And she would rush to the family temple of Lord Ganesha to do some pooja as atonement for her daughter's run away tongue. Uma found that funny as well. Actually, nothing could upset her for long. She bounced back with all the energy of a rubber ball thrown up and found new things to do. She was never bored, always giving all attention to her new hobby and persevering at it even if results were not easily got.
I was just the opposite, upset easily, crying buckets of tears for the smallest set back, afraid to be disobedient, not at all sure of what I wanted from life. Being an only child my parents doted on me and smothered me with love and gifts. Uma's father had squandered all his money as well as Valiamma's share from the family and passed away conveniently when none of his businesses succeeded. My parents had taken Valiamma and her three children back to the tharavadu though rightfully she had no share there. My uncle, who was officially the head of the family, the Karanavar, was not too pleased about it. But my father was well educated, from a family of repute, people in the village respected him and so he could get his way in most things. Also, he was very just in all decisions he made, no favor for those who sweet talked him or praised him falsely. So though an only child, I grew up with my cousins, Uma, her elder sister, my Uncle's sons and daughters too. But I was close only to Uma, the other kids envying my privileged status in the house mocked and belittled me whenever possible My uncle's eldest son was different, a passionate academic, he was always out of the house, busy with tuitions, combined study, library, etc. My father saw to it that all of us were sent to good schools and colleges, believing that it was education that laid the foundation for a good life.
But the star of the household was my uncle's son, Vinayak. Extraordinarily intelligent and hardworking, he excelled in academics and was the first to pass out of Engineering College in the city with a rank. As he immediately got a job too in the city, my uncle began thinking of tying him up in a suitable marriage, lest some city girl lured him away. It was about that time that I began to realise that he was somewhat interested in Uma. By the traditional way of thinking, my Uncle's son was 'muracherukkan' to both Uma and me, both our mothers being sisters of his father. That meant by rights he could marry either of us so that the family wealth would not be shared outside. I was not attracted to Vinayak chettan, he was like an elder brother, like Uma was an elder sister. Also, I did not share their passion for higher studies or well placed job or a life outside the village. I was more a homemaker, loving to cook and serve, decorate the house, spin jasmine garlands for the family deities and dress up in silk skirts and colorful davanis for the temple visits every evening.
Studying was tedious, remembering all I learnt was too much like hard work, writing assignments was a boring thing. I was amazed to see how Uma loved college, how she read up so many books to put in new ideas for her essays and of course she had her muracherukkan's help and support in all that.
I was never sure whether Uma also saw her muracherukkan as a life partner. As she used to jest, the feminine yearning for love and romance also was lacking in her. She wanted something more, her scintillating intellect needed something to feed on. So when the elders decided that I was the suitable mach for Vinayak Chettan Uma was not put out at all. But Valiamma was upset because we were more or less the same age and getting Uma married was a priority. Uma was adamant that she would get a doctoral degree from JNU first. Valiamma did not have the finances for that. In the end, it was Vinayak Chettan, my husband by then, who took over the sponsorship of educating Uma. She stayed with us in the city, attended numerous classes, and fulfilled her promise of getting into JNU. Soon her articles began appearing on online platforms, academic journals, newspapers. My husband seemed thrilled. And wasn't I a wee bit jealous? I am not really sure. But our marriage was an easygoing relationship with not much bickering or bantering, so I let it be. And anyway Uma was my childhood protector too.
When she stayed on in Delhi and began her writing career, we lost close contact. Once a year family get-togethers in the old sprawling house also dwindled down once my father and Valiamma passed away. Amma spent her old age with us in the city and Uma visited once in a blue moon. She never thought of marriage or settling down in her hometown. She was as always, finding new projects, exciting adventures.
One by one our loved ones bid us the final goodbye and left this worldly abode peacefully. We had to find new meanings for life. Since I was not smart enough to manage everything by myself I had to move in with my son. Everything was different in the busy life he led and I had nothing much do but wander here and there and irritate my daughter in law and the daily help.
Once Chinnu left for school, the house calmed down. When we sat down for breakfast my daughter in law seemed excited. "Vinu, did you see the morning paper? The Kerala Sahithya Academy Award goes to Uma Rajashekar, do you remember how I predicted this when I read her novel Bhramangal? She writes with so much depth and her language is so .....I dont know how to put it, it influences the readers with its sharpness and integrity ..." She kept on in that vein, Vinu not paying much heed, worried about his office meetings may be, and I did not want to be chastised for interrupting, though I wanted to shout out that Uma was my cousin, we had grown up together, maybe Vinu would have faint memories of her visits, her loud laugh, the excitement and energy she exuded always, but no, I was denied the chance to boast of this small achievement even as Vinu got up in a hurry, the mobile to his ears, voice urgent and irritated. His wife was upset since he had not responded to anything she said, I could hear her soft voiced grumbling as she cleared the table. Though I wanted another look at the paper, I sneaked into the pooja room and closed the door, not wanting to be an eyesore enhancing the irritations.
The Vinayak statue in the pooja room smiled at me in conspiracy, as if we shared a secret joke unknown to others. I still followed the practice of making garlands from the jasmine flowers blooming profusely in Sheela's well tended garden and He seemed happy enough to be garlanded with the fragrance. Sometimes I wondered whether the only talent I had been blessed with was this garland weaving. Look at Uma, I told the Lord, we grew up together, but she has soared to such great heights. And me? An unwanted irritating presence in my son's home. What have I to show for the sixty odd years I lived in this world? Why dont you call me back Lord? I am of no use to anyone here. Just a nuisance. '
Did his eyes twinkle somewhat? All women complain, what can I do to solve the problems of all? He might be musing. True, I sighed, he too was helpless, I should have thought of all this at the right time, education, job, independence, Uma had all the right instincts even when young.
There seemed to be some commotion outside. I heard my daughter in law screaming as if delighted by some unusual sight, greeting a guest? Maybe her parents on an unexpected visit? Oh Lord, I look so shabby, should have changed into an ironed saree, combed and tied my unruly hair, can You help me escape unnoticed to my room? Or maybe I could hide in this sanctum till they went upstairs? Maybe chant some manthra so that no one would call me out? I was such a little girl even now, worried about what people would say, how to reply to their caustic comments, etc, etc.
The chance to hide was gone, my son came knocking on the door, 'Amma, Amma, come out, here's someone to see you.'. He too seemed excited, not the usual absentminded tone, but involved in the happenings of the house. But who was there to visit me? He knew all the distant relatives nearby, so a stranger? Again I looked at my crumpled saree, unadorned face, then again at the twinkle in My Lord's eyes. Go on, he seemed to encourage me, it's a surprise I arranged for you alone.
Slowly I got up and opened the door. My son literally dragged me to the front room as if the guest could not be asked to wait even one second more. I felt again like an immature child, being forced to meet guests and behave properly.
I could hear my daughter in law chattering away and laughing happily, but the guest seemed to be silently waiting for me. Who could it be? I peeked from behind my son's solid form and looked straight into two twinkling eyes mirroring my Vinayaka's mischief. I stopped, unable to speak or even think.
'Amma'! Sheela looked at me with new respect, 'Look who is here? You never said a word in the morning about this visit, did you want to shock us totally?'.
Uma jumped up from the sofa with all her usual energy and rushed to enfold me in a crushing embrace. The familiar touch, the familiar smell, tears rushed into my eyes as the fun filled past was resurrected in my mind.
Uma held me close and walked back to the sofa and pulled me down to sit right beside her. 'See, this was how we used to be. Inseparable. Ammavan called us the Siamese Twins'.
Both my son and his wife were over awed. Though I had talked a lot of my joint family and innumerable family members off and on, obviously they had not connected the name Uma to this celebrity. Probably they could not think that a non persona like me would have such a talented cousin.
Uma brushed back my hair tenderly and said, 'As usual, no brushing or tying into a bun. Do you remember how your Amma ran behind you with oil and comb in the mornings?'
I laughed and found my voice at last. 'And do you remember how you kept disappearing into your hide outs and how I was the one always asked to seek you out? We laughed together and she said, 'Our mothers had a tough time when we joined hands, didnt they? So very sad that both Amma and Cheriamma are not here to celebrate my success. Actually I owe it all to family support, dont I Ammukutty?'. She used the pet name my elders had used for me. No one knew it now.
She then turned to my son and his wife, 'It was your father who stood firm when I was to be forced into wedlock like Ammu. Vinayak Chettan realised my potential even then, I think. When I said JNU was my dream, he did everything possible for me to get an admission. And he knew my passion was writing. Ammu, all those hideouts in the family home, all were secret writing places, when absorbed in finding words for my ideas, I would forget time and place. So you had to hunt and find me many a time'
We laughed together then and from the corner of my eyes I spied the shadows of envy flitting through my daughter in law's face.
'But for you, Ammu, and Vinayak Chettan of course, I would never have fulfilled those impossible dreams, times were so hard then'. She looked at me with so much love and gratitude that I felt like crying again.
'Amma, why dont you take Auntie to your bedroom and share your childhood stories in peace?' For once, my son seemed to know the right thing to say.
'Yes, I came down only to have some time with Ammu. Tomorrow I have to fly back and I want her to come with me to attend the award function. I have no one else to applaud my achievements when I stand on the podium and look around. Ammu is both my cousin and my beloved sponsor's better half, his Atma will be there with her that's sure, they were such a tight couple'.
This time it was her eyes that overflowed. Walking by the pooja room to mine, I took a look inside to see my own Vinayak there, sitting complacently, as if it were not his plans that were unfolding so very well. I winked at him and saw him frown a little. Then I closed the door and let myself be free to enjoy whatever came next.
Sulochana Ram Mohan writes in both English and Malayalam, her mother tongue. She has published four volumes of short stories, one novel, one script, all in Malayalam. Writes poems in English; is a member of “Poetry Chain” in Trivandrum. Has been doing film criticism for a long time, both in print and visual media.
Who was Durga to me?
When did I first hear of her?
Who had told me? My Grandma.
“Durga is Mother. Your mother and my mother, my dear. We call her Devi. You can call her Amma, if you like, but remember she is amma to all.”
“Where is she? “
“She is everywhere but if you want to see her abode, I will take you to Madathu Veedu temple. Anyway we will have a special pooja there next month, on your 5th birthday.”
Madathu Veedu Temple was our family temple, just a few kilometers from our home. It was a small two roomed tiled shrine with an inner sreekovil (sanctum sanctorum) with closed doors and an outer mandapam (stage) which was open on all sides. Two brass hanging lamps adorned the front and there was a small office cum store room at the other end. All around the temple was open marshy land, dotted with coconut trees. At the extreme end, there was the remnant of a pond, once supposed to be the temple pond where it was believed the Goddess came to bathe at night.
Grandma kept her promise. With bated breath I waited, my heart beating fast, one hand holding tight the loose end of Grandma’s neryathu (upper garment like a duppatta), eyes and ears straining to catch the first glimpse of the mysterious Durga. The temple was open only on special days. The first day of the Malayalam month and on days when the family members wanted to offer special poojas, mostly on birthdays and festive occasions. The custodian of the temple was an arrogant elderly man who lived close by in a big feudal style bungalow. He was the son of Grandma’s cousin and his mother had inherited their share of family property including the temple. My mother called him Bala Anna. He had come much earlier to supervise the arrangements and was busy giving curt instructions to the cleaning lady and her helper. Outside, a fire was burning in the small hearth in a makeshift shed. The priest had started preparing the naivedyam (offering to deity) assisted by the helper lady’s son. The aroma of rice, ghee and jaggery mix was wafting in the air and my mouth was watering.
The sreekovil doors were closed . The priest was inside, his loud but muffled voice chanting the mantra was coming from behind the closed door.
“What‘s he doing? Why has he closed the door?”
“He is preparing for pooja. At 6.30 aarati will be performed.”
I had no idea what was aarati. I wanted to ask but stopped myself when I saw Grandma close her eyes . She started chanting her own prayers silently.
Suddenly with a loud “trrrrrrrr..” the doors were thrown open. The helper lady came running to ring the big bell dangling from the ceiling of the mandapam. Inside, the priest was standing on one side, with a bell clanging from his left hand. He was performing “aarati”
In the spotless white background of the temple wall I caught the glow of something red and gold. It was a low stool, a ‘peedh” covered in bright red silk. Next to it was a long ended brass sickle shining like golden sword leaning against the wall. The long end was covered half way in red silk. Thick garlands of rose and jasmine flowers adorned the peedh and the sword. A big brass lamp with three branches and two other smaller lamps were throwing their light on the scene inside. The brass shone like burnished gold. The silk was blood red. The priest was performing aarati with several lamps of different shapes, one of them resembling the raised hood of a serpent. I was breathing fast.
The seat belonged to Her. The sword was definitely Hers.
But…where ? Where was She? Where was the elusive Durga?
"Devi is a Presence, my dear. You and I can't see her with our naked eyes. The priest inside knows She is inside."
Grandma's explanation lacked logic but I let it pass. I was not a silly child any more.
* * * *
It was during midsummer vacation. I had graduated from Lower Primary to Upper Primary. By then my visits to the family temple along with Grandma had become regular. It had become a monthly ritual I could not miss. I loved the sandhya deeparadhana (evening pooja), the small crowd of relatives with whom Grandma had tete-e-tete, the kids playing in the mud and above all the taste of the hot molten sweet, the prasad served in poriyanni leaves that the priest served to one and all. The hot rice- ghee- jaggery mix was irresistible.
It was a day in May. School had not yet opened. I had accompanied Grandma to the temple in the morning. The temple doors were closed but the mandapam was full. An assembly of elders was in session. All squatted on the floor of the temple mandapam.. Grandma and two ladies were at the rear end. Seated at the centre was a jyothishi (astrologer) with his kavadi (small conches resembling beads) spread out on a wooden board. A big brass lamp was lighted and kept at the centre. A floral garland adorned the lamp. A devaprashnam was in progress. A divine solution to some problem was being sought by the family. It was the practice to seek answers to temple related questions through astrologers who traditionally handled spiritual and ritualistic issues, Grandma had told me on the way to temple.
Time and again the jyotishi moving his hands rhythmically over the kavadi covering and kneading it,
“ Amma is not happy.
Two coconut trees were destroyed by lightning. A cow had delivered a stillborn calf. A child had fallen into the pond and narrowly escaped.
Durga is aggrieved. She wants her home. Here and Now.
Let us perform the Devi pratishtakriya. (installation of the idol) This month is auspicious. We will fix the date and time.”
The jyotishi's tone meant no nonsense.
One of the elders raised his voice….
“The temple belongs to us. We will decide . No outsider can command us .”
Meeting ends abruptly.
On the way back, Grandma was silent.
“I will never go there again. It is their temple“. Her words were hardly audible.
She was good in making and keeping promises, We stopped our monthly visits to the family temple.
Monsoon time. Night time. Dream time .
It is an old house. The damp cement floor had patches. Wooden doorsteps separated the rooms. The doors were heavy and creaky . The monsoon was hitting hard at the tiled roof. It was time to sleep. The double door in front has to be closed. But the doors were not moving. I pushed with all my strength. They moved. The wooden latch seemed reluctant to close but finally agreed to obey. I latched the door firmly and turned back to retreat my steps..
Cliiingg……I.stopped. What on earth…is that?
Again, Clllinnggg……Had something fallen down?
I turned back and looked down at the cement floor.
I saw the creamy pink lotus like feet first. The golden toe rings, each one with three resonating beads. The jerry bordered red silk pleats touching the lotus feet. Like a gently moving curtain, the golden odyaan (waistband) with the big red shining gem at the centre..the gold mulla mottu maala (jasmine bud shaped chain) kissing the waistband..the dangling emerald jimukki...(earings) the big red nosering, long kohl lined eyelashes almost hiding the dark eyes…the vermillion bindi…the small forehead lined with curls, the golden tiara, the lush, wavy, jet black hair lying loose, one fair hand close to the waist holding a lotus, the right hand in abhaya mudra…..
“Kathakadachaalum enikku varaam...akathu……” (I can come inside even if you close the door)
The sound like bells pealing…
The smile…like a red rose opening its petals…
The scent of jasmine flowers….
I swooned…
* * * *
One Vijayadasami Day. Decades later.
Saraswati Pooja just over. Smell of karpooram (camphor) pervading everywhere in the small two storied house where I lived. Upstairs in the puja room, Goddess Saraswati sat at the centre all decked up in floral garlands. Photos of other deities all crammed inside the three small shelves . At the topmost shelf a big picture of Devi Mookambika, looking down benignly.
Ramayana, Narayaneeyam, Bhagawat Gita, Lalitha sahasranamam, Durga Sapthashasti..the holy books were all in one place. Aarathi was just over. It was 8.15 am, the auspicious time for vidyarambham.
I prostrated before Mookambika. Embodiment of Mahakali, Mahalaxmi, Mahasaraswati. My lips murmured the oft repeated chant..
" Amme Narayana, Devi Narayana,
Lakshmi Narayana, Bhadre Narayana"..
I stood up, took my diary and on a new page wrote with a shivering hand..
“Om Sree Ganapathaye Namah...Avikhnamastu..”
The ritual passed on through generations. My Grandma’s and Mom’s faces flashed in my mind. My eyes filled.
Triiiiiiiiiing…trinnnnng…the doorbell.
I opened the door expecting a visitor, a relative or friend who wanted to catch me home on a holiday. The face gave me a start. Well lined, oval shaped, with deep set kindly eyes, an old cream and red cotton sari covering the head, small steel earstuds, a solitary white stone on the nose, thin plastic bangles – yellow and blue - adorning the thin hand that held a long stick. An old bag made of plastic wire, its colours long faded and wires jutting out here and there was clutched close as though holding a baby with one hand. But it was the all knowing, all encompassing smile that gave me an electric shock. I had never seen her before. She was a stranger to the place. Her appearance vouched that she was not from Kerala. She just stood gazing at me, leaning on her cane, the smile not leaving her face. As though awaiting my question, “Who are you?”
Someone was whispering in my head…” Look close. She is not a beggar maid”. My heart was pumping hard. My sight was dimming as though I was about to faint. For a second, I caught the blurred image of Devi Mookambika in my mind's eye.
Irrationally my lips moved uttering a silent chant….
Yaa Devi Sarva bhootheshu Vishnumayethi shabdithaa
Namasthasyay, Namasthasyay, Namasthasyay Namo Nama!
Why? Why did I remember those lines? Who was prompting me?
She left my home, having accepted my simple idli - sambar and payasam on a plantain leaf that I laid out to her in my sit out. In an unknown language she asked with a half smile if I can spare a sari. She touched her old worn out cotton sari with her two fingers to help me grasp her words. I ran upstairs to my room returning with a bright green sari that hadn’t lost its new smell. Her face lit up when she set her eyes on it. With a dazzling smile she lifted her hand in benediction, without touching my head……and was gone. She retraced her steps not bothering even to look at any of the other houses on the lane. As though her mission was done. Leaving me in a haze.
* * * *
It was a Friday afternoon I remember, when the local TV channel plays old Hindi movies. I had commenced my retired life revisiting my old friends – books and movies. I was reclining on my rocking chair watching "Aawaara" when I heard the doorbell peal. Some Red Cross volunteer, I guessed. She was young, about 25, clad in pure white churidar pyjamas. She had draped her shawl over her head to protect herself from the tropical sun. She was very fair with a face which had the roundness of a perfect circle. What struck me was the innumerable blackheads on her face. A beautician’s perfect customer. But to me she seemed a delicate flower with dotted petals.
“Aunty, do you have old clothes to donate?"
The charming smile that accompanied was deceptive because the voice was strong and mature.
I invited her in after she showed me her institution's card. It was a voluntary organization, an orphanage with a simple name – SWAPNAM meaning “Dream”.
“Why Swapnam?” I querried.
“Who doesn’t have swapnam?” She laughed.
“Who are the inmates of Swapnam?“ I could not help asking.
“Me and my kids”. Pat came the reply.
“Oh! You have kids?”
“Yes Aunty. Eleven now. Am looking out for one more to make it a dozen”
The same peals of laughter. Like bells ringing. Where had I heard it before?
She was reluctant to disclose her story. The molten lava within was spilling out in her words, interspersed with silence. I could guess the hurt, indignity, pain she had swallowed. Physically and mentally challenged kids who had noone in the world except her, made up her big family.
Starting with the eldest - Nidhi -- who called her Amma - before she became a mom, followed by Sidhi, Budhi, Vridhi, Shudhi, Vandana, Chandana..Each one is a special child. Special to her. I sat mesmerized as she narrated the little achievements of her kids. She declined to show me their pictures. Just hinted that among the eleven, one was hers but she had almost forgotten who it was – the takeaway from a tormenting past. A past she has outlived.
Nidhi was a gift. A baby with beautiful eyes that could not see the world. She found her in the garbage dump. Her first gift from God. And she had not looked back.
"It is going to be 10 years this Durgashtami day, Aunty, when Nidhi came to me." Her voice betrayed her love for the first born.
As she sat sipping tea and writing out a receipt for the small amount I had donated, I asked her
“Can you share your mobile number? “
She gave me the number and then I asked “How shall I save it? You haven’t given me your name.”
“Oh..just note it as "Swapnam" Aunty…Swapnam is me. I am Swapnam.”
“Your parents, some one in the family, must have called you by a name. What is that?”
She looked at me intently. A searching look. She seemed to delve deep down trying to retrieve a piece from the fragments she had thrown under the sea. She had a faraway look on her face.
Once more she looked at me, this time from head to toe.
A ghost of a smile appeared on her lips.
Not taking her eyes from mine she uttered ever so softly, caressingly, as though sharing a secret in a dream...
"Durga.”
G K Maya took to writing after she retired as General Manager of Canara Bank. She has done her Masters in English Literature from University College Trivandrum. Her passion for books and interest in people led her on and she ended up as a writer by accident.
It is a beautiful, summer’s morning. Sometimes, the weather just manages to make me smile. I feel as though my heart has silent, wordless conversations with the sky, and the Sun adjusts itself to my preference. The Sun is shining brightly in the sky, casting a soft, tender spotlight on my table. A cup of tea – along with an oatmeal biscuit is waiting for me. I clasp the deep grey hand of my best friend – the newspaper and sink in to my chair. I flip onto the front page and smile. For me, the newspaper is like an old friend. A moment later, as my gaze touches a particularly colourful advertisement, I jolt forward, I am amazed. I am flabbergasted with all the commendation and acclaim bestowed upon me in the article published on the front page. According to the writer, Aneesh Shetty, I am the most successful and popular psychoanalyst of this country. According to him, I am also the most eligible bachelor of this country. According to him, I have emerald, green eyes, and bear the most handsome physique in the country.
According to him, I can write with both hands, I can speak in multiple languages, I am a bestselling author and more than that, I am a human calculator, who can multiply eighteen-digit numbers in my head. The article is an over-exaggerated replica of my bio data. My office had informed me that they had a correspondent from The Times visiting us and inquiring about the work and awards received by me, but I never expected such a flattering article to be published. I always believed in completing my work with utmost secrecy and dedication and loved to keep a low-profile, except for the moments when some universities invited me, to felicitate me for my research work. I loved visiting educational institutions, and on such instances, I would feel ever so triumphant and internally fulfilled, looking at the fresh-faced children who just wanted to learn. I loved to interact with them, listen to their questions, observe the way they questioned me on my various researches and studies. I felt like a fortune teller during these blissful times, and the children were my crystal ball. I would incorporate poetry in my guest lectures, and let the writer in me, come to the forefront. There are times, when poetry comforts you, assures you and soothes you like nothing ever can. It is like the feeling of gazing at the dark, night sky and noticing the moon amidst a haze of clouds and mist. You know that the moon is there, but the patch of starlight right next to the Moon is ever so intriguing— you cannot stop gazing at that as well. Then, you try to figure out which one was the Moon, and which one was the patch of starlight.
Often the newspapers would have my photographs and interviews, more often than not, pictures of me reciting poetry and short stories. I would receive thousands of mails every day, which would be deftly handled by my secretary. My secretary informed me that the top model of our country named Ms. Janaki had called up many a times and insisted that she wished to talk to me directly instead of taking an appointment to meet me. The name suddenly rang a bell in my mind. She showed me the cover-page of a fashion-magazine with her photograph on it. This was incredible. The face looked familiar. I recognized the gold tinted -blue eyes which had allured me, seeming like little jigsaw puzzles all those years ago. I felt the pages of my memory attain a clearer, crisper position, and I could almost give a voice to the visual. Is she the same girl I am thinking about? I wondered. I had a Facebook account, but I hardly accessed it, being a books-andpen person. I searched for her profile, in my friend list, and there she was – Janaki- my best friend’s first crush, and the main subject of our late-night telephone conversations. In ten years of my career, I had become a hard-core professional. I was constantly overpowered by this overwhelming yearning for perfection, and I despised mediocrity. In all honesty, nothing ordinary went down my throat. Even when I indulged in a task as mundane as washing vegetables and fruits, I ensured that every little speck of dust had been washed off. Ever since I was in first grade, I had been the class topper and a talented sportsman, excelling in basketball, football, and baseball. I had an inherent knack for balancing my day, and managed to take out time to study, play, and pursue my passion simultaneously. But there was something that I believed that I had been made for – and that was writing. I wrote poetry and short stories in a beautiful, blue diary every night, and I had compiled everything into a manuscript. I had even found a publisher, and the entire prospect of my humble creations being compiled into an actual book overwhelmed me. My parents and friends loved me and encouraged me throughout. In fact, as I look back at the life I have lived, I realize that I owe the credit for all my success to my mother.
My mother was a stringent believer in the fact that ‘failure and success are two sides of one coin, and they are imposters. We must not mourn when we encounter failure and must not gloat on success’. She was a beautiful lady – a poet at heart. When I was growing up, my friends would tell me learnings and morals from stories that their mothers had narrated to them the night before, and I would rattle poetry before them. In fact, my teachers would call me the Wordsworth of our class, because once, whilst on a field trip in first grade, we stumbled upon a field full of flowers. At the age of five and a half, I recited ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth, very naturally. For me, poetry was as natural – and as important as breathing. As I pondered over my school days, I smiled. My mother had always told me, that success isn’t only about winning laurels, it is about winning hearts as well. I brought down my file where I had preserved all the letters of gratitude that I had received over the years. I would bring down this file many times and go through the letters. The beautiful, handwritten, and heartfelt words – were my purpose and fuelled me to move forward. A survey conducted by “The Times” declared me as the most successful and popular psychoanalyst of my country. Well, I was feeling as though I was walking down memory lane when I was checking her photographs on Facebook. All those school memories that had been tucked away into the corners of my heart, seemed to have come to life again. These memories came alive as beings full of life and colour, as they held my hand, joining me on a pleasant and ever so fulfilling journey down the memory path. I felt as though my memories had morphed into little people, and their warm touch made me smile.
The ordinary looking schoolgirl who had stolen my best friend’s heart, and had roamed the corridors in two gleaming, golden plaits followed by her two best friends, had turned into a stunning, charming, gorgeous, charismatic super model. The most significant part about this transition was that Janaki had not painted her face with makeup and cosmetics like most models these days, nor was she clad in revealing clothes. She was dressed in a soft, cotton sari and her hair cascaded down her slender shoulders like a free-flowing waterfall. Her gold tinted blue eyes glimmered, and it seemed as though the Almighty had taken a spoon, scooped out stars from the sky, and filled her eyes with them. Maybe, this was what internal beauty looked like! The impact of beholding her forced me to ponder what internal beauty felt like. I was so engrossed in building my career that I hardly noticed this transition. Good gracious! She was superb. It didn’t mean that I never met beautiful girls in my career, but they were either my clients or a professional acquaintance. I never had any attachment with them. But Janaki, was the first girl who my best friend liked, probably the only girl we discussed throughout our school life. And now she wanted to talk to me. How could I be so lucky? I was so keyed up and animated. I asked my secretary to connect me to her. We exchanged pleasantries and she asked me if I could meet her as she required counselling. But she hesitated to come to my clinic due to the paparazzi following her. I consented and decided to meet her at night, in my regular restaurant, where I usually met many of my clients to keep their confidentiality. It was a part of my vocation. I was very eager to meet her. Because she was not a regular client, she was my best friend's fancy. She had reached before time.
As I walked into the dimly lit restaurant, I saw her, sitting pretty at a table. She was dressed very simply, yet she stood out from the crowd, and it took me a moment to realize that I was not the only one who was smitten by this simplistic charm. I donned the façade of a protective boyfriend, and shot condescending glares at the men looking at her, and they looked away hurriedly. She was clad in a yellow shirt, and an ankle length skirt. She was wearing bangles on her wrist, and I smiled when I saw how carefully she had chosen the bangles – with one bangle specifically assigned for each colour of the rainbow. Her hair was loose and slightly damp, and it seemed as though she had been caught in the rain, but the drops that were glistening in her hair, looked like pearls strung into her locks. As soon as I reached there, she shook me by my hand. Instantly I developed a strong fondness for her. Before she could say something, I decided to shoot the question, “Who is the guy?” I asked. She was shocked, “How do you know?” she inquired. If a gorgeous damsel like you needs counselling, it has to be about a guy. She thanked me for the compliment and smiled. I decided to make her feel at home, so I steered the conversation towards her family and profession. After all, back in University, when I was pursuing a degree in psychology, our professors had always instructed us that the best way to help a patient is to make the patient feel at home, and for that, we have to use small talk as well. I asked her about her father, about her mother, about her elder sister, and also recounted certain instances from old school days to make her smile. I reminded her of the time when the five of us had broken into her mother’s coaching centre early morning before school, because we had not done our holiday homework, and planned to steal some old projects, and how the guard had caught us, and reported us to the police.
As she burst into laughter upon remembering our childhood antics, I noticed how her face seemed to light up. It seemed as though the Sun had stepped down from the sky and settled within her, spreading its light to her eyes, her cheeks, and her neck. As she laughed, it seemed as though the whole world was laughing, and the stars that twinkled in the sky seemed to twinkle just a little brighter, on seeing her laugh. We had a cup of coffee, and she reminded me about how we used to crave for coffee as children, simply because we had seen our parents drink it, in huge, professional looking cups and were allured by the secretive aura that it put forth, but now that we were permitted to drink coffee on an everyday basis, it had become, more or less, the fuel of our everyday lives and we took it for granted. Now, she looked tranquil as memories filled her soul and poured out of her lips. Suddenly, she asked me why I had not get married. Her honest, straightforward way of communication that had been a part of her personality since school days had not changed, and I felt overjoyed to see this part of her retained. The aisles of my mind took an abrupt turn – and I narrated the story that my best friend had shared with me but replaced the character. I told her how as a High School student, I had a crush on a girl and had kept this romantic side of me absolutely secret. I added a bit of drama as I narrated, emphasizing on certain things that I wanted her to not only hear, but also absorb. “You know, there was a water cooler on the second floor. Her class was on the second floor, too, and after every period, I would take my bottle in my hand and go up there, just to look at her. Oh, she was so, so beautiful! She was like the Moon, gliding from place to place, and she conversed with her friends in this soft, melodious voice that I could never stop hearing. Once, I got so engrossed in her beauty, that I did not hear the bell ring. It was only when I realized that the crowd around me had receded, and I heard the sharp footsteps of our principal clacking against the stairs, did I realize that something was amiss. The principal looked at me with sharp, penetrating eyes, and extended a long, bony finger at me commanding me to come down. I was devoid of words, so I barely mumbled how I was sick, and rushed into class. For some reason, the principal did not stop me that afternoon, and I could almost feel a smile on her face. Such was my relationship with her. Oh, this silent-wordless love continued. We shared the same van for coming to school, and when we would have tests in the morning, I would help her revise. In fact, the Romeo in me was driven by this insane and almost consuming sensation of pure, unadulterated love, and I just searched for any excuse to converse with her. Sometimes, I’d make absolutely vague and ambiguous statements, but with everything I said or did, I had one set aim.
I wanted her to reply, I wanted her to answer the silliest questions, in her soft voice which flowed like an ocean into my heart.” By this time, she looked more than comfortable, and was smiling throughout. I decided to come to the point, and instantly erased all the crumbs of the past from my mind. “So, you have fallen in love with this guy. Now, what is the problem? Is he a friend? For how long do you know each other? How did you meet this guy? Has he proposed to you?” She looked at me, seemingly taken aback by my torrent of questions. “You haven’t changed at all. You are just the way you were back in school! I remember the day you cornered the physics teacher after our class tenth board exam.” I knew what she was talking about, and a rosy, red glow of memory illuminated my heart. How do I tell her that all the tumult that I caused outside the examination centre after our board exam was only so that she would notice me, or rather, be impressed by my unending dedication and sincerity towards my studies? I was instantly transported back to that day, and remembered how triumphant I felt, as I solved the last numerical in my exam paper, picked up a black pen and a scale, and drew a thick line of finality. The paper had gone extremely well, and I could definitely expect a full score. I felt a balloon of happiness swelling within me, and that was when I saw her retreating from the exam room. I wanted to further swell up this balloon of happiness, so I decided to attract her attention. I smiled to myself, as the romantic schoolboy in me came to life yet again. The fact that she remembered, overwhelmed me beyond measure. “Yes! I remember how I bombarded sir with so many questions after the paper. He was truly exasperated! Anyway, to come to the point. About the guy….” I put in. A crimson blush had started to take over the paleness of my skin, and I had to be very cautious, otherwise she would get to know what I actually meant and would unravel what I was trying to keep a secret. “Hahaha! Yes! I have not seen him in person, but we like each other. He is a fashion photographer. He likes me very much and he makes me feel so special. He makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, and this essence is something so much more than the sensation of feeling just pretty. He makes me feel like a Goddess…. Like…. Aphrodite – the Greek Goddess of beauty, and perhaps, even more beautiful than that. He makes me feel divine, young, and youthful. All the messages and chats make me feel so blessed. They are like an elixir which see to fill my soul with the desire to embrace immortality, and constant you. “You are young, aren’t you?” I asked, indignantly. “Yes, I am. I am young. I am merely twenty-nine. But my Prince Charming is just twenty five. He is four years younger to me, and yet he loves me so much. You know, in today’s world, we claim to have attained development, but deep within, that orthodox Indian mentality still prevails. You tell me, how many men accept a girl elder than them? It really poses as a hindrance to their male ego.
The fact that this age difference does not matter to him, is indicative of his progressive mindset. Also, career wise we are independent. He has this beautiful, aesthetic studio that is situated in the far end of the state. So, all is good that way…. But as far as social acceptance is concerned, I am little apprehensive.” “Hello! Give yourself a break. You have not met him even once and you are angst-ridden about so many things. Just chill. Take it easy. Go and meet him once then decide your course of action,” I recommended. “Don’t get worried about anything. Fix an appointment with him and keep in touch with me. It would be my pleasure to be of some assistance. Trust me,” I assured. She looked at ease. We shook hands and she left. With a beaming face, I sat there for 182 some time and ordered a drink for myself. It was a big celebration for me. I had seen her after so many years and developed a fatal attraction towards her. All my thoughts, feelings and sentiments had gone numb. My heartbeat had increased. “God! Have I fallen in love with her? But she already likes somebody else. So, I will just help her towards a life full of love and happiness,” I promised myself. Being a psychologist, I knew how to take the reins of my emotions in my hands very well. I knew how to love and be loved. I knew how to accept, be accepted, and let acceptance take place. Two days after our meeting, Janaki sent me a message, informing me that they had fixed their first meeting in a theatre so that they could sit and natter for three hours at a stretch. I advised her to make an excuse of lack of time and meet him in a restaurant. “You see, the movie becomes a distraction. You won’t have his full and final attention. In a restaurant, at least you will have him totally to yourself. At least, there will be a face-to-face interaction” She consented for the same. She was very thrilled about the meeting and so was I. I could hear the laughter, the unending joy in her voice, and somehow, the sound of her laughter made 183 me laugh too. I could visualize her behind the phone, laughing and smiling the way she did – so much so, that her entire being would light up with a unique, golden light. It was only then I realized that the feelings I had for her was something so much more than infatuation. It was, what my grandmother called, true love.
My grandmother always said that when you truly love someone, you do not care if the person is by your side or not. It is only the person’s happiness that matters to you, and upon seeing that person smile, you smile as well. And, on hearing her laugh, I found myself laughing as well. I told her I would be comparatively free that day so, if she wanted to share something, she could just drop in. I had a strong desire to see her again. And here she was at the reception. Upon seeing her, I felt as though the wishes that were sewn into the folds of my soul were personified and were glimmering before me. On seeing her I informed my staff to receive her warmly and make her sit in my guest room, as I was dealing with a client. I could see her on the CCTV. Even in the confined boxes and grids of the CCTV camera, she shimmered, and it seemed as though I was looking at a star, confined within this box. She 184 truly had a shimmer of her own. On the other hand, my secretary was at her service trying to entertain her. A staff member gave my secretary an album that had just arrived from a shop. My secretary kept it on the table and moved out of the room to get some more coffee for Janaki. Instead of sitting idle, Janaki decided to see the album. She was shocked to see the first page containing her photograph. She turned the pages and was stunned to see her childhood photographs of school functions, sports, dance programmes, drama and many more. She was everywhere.
The last photograph was of the bus stop outside her school. On hearing the footsteps of the secretary, she closed the album and sat comfortably on the couch. So, the question that had somersaulted into her mind, spiralled around, and had finally been pushed into the corner, unanswered. I gave her a broad welcome smile and apologised for keeping her waiting for a while. She said that she was perfectly fine with that as she had not informed me that she would be coming to see me. “How was your first meeting?” I shot my first question. 185 “It was fine,” she responded. “Why such a cold response?” I asked. “I don’t know. It was a good meeting. He was very excited. He is a sweet and loving boy, but I am not very sure of meeting him again. I want some time to think over the entire thing.” She asked me if she could meet me the next day as she didn’t feel like talking now. I told her that my office would be closed so she could come to my house if she was comfortable, or we could meet in the same restaurant. She consented to see me at my place and left. Next day she joined me for lunch. My parents were pleased to see that for the first time I had invited a girl home. I told my mom that Janaki was just a client, but she knew that never before had a client joined us for lunch. My mom could sense that Janaki was more than a client. She shared with my parents about her personal life and how we were bus friends for six years. My mom gave one of her naughtiest smiles while looking at me. I felt embarrassed. Then my parents exchanged looks and smiled.
I could read between the lines. Janaki was completely unaware of the entire non-verbal communication woven around her. 186 After lunch, we moved to my study where I would meet my clients on Sundays in special cases. “Tell me now, about your meeting with Raju. How was it? Are you at ease talking about it today?” I inquired. She stared at me with a cheerful grin. She was looking unruffled and serene. “I have not come here to talk about Raju. I am here to talk about you and that girl. Your crush. What is her name?” she asked. I was shocked by this unexpected attack, “Well, I would never ever disclose her name to anyone” I said. She had an impish smirk on her face. “Can we see each-other quite often? I mean, I would like to spend some time with you so that we get to know each-other,” she said. I literally jumped from my chair. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Did she mean to say that she was interested in me? I pinched myself. Ouch! it was not a dream. The heartthrob of millions, the supermodel, Janaki was interested in me. Is this my ‘Make a Wish Day.’ I felt like jumping, screaming shouting with excitement but I guarded myself. I didn’t want to reveal my true feelings. I just smiled and gave my approval. After a few meetings we decided to get married. 187 We planned to keep it a simple and private affair, but our parents suggested we throw a grand reception and invite all our relatives and friends. Mahalaxmi Racecourse ground was the venue. Around a thousand people were invited. It was the mega event of the city! The media never predicted that Janaki would fall in love with a doctor and marry him. Everybody was surprised. Both of us had invited our school and college friends. Many of them were common friends and were shocked at this union. They always thought of me as a studious and serious student and had never heard me talking about any girl.
But the person who got the biggest of shock was my best buddy, my childhood friend, Vineet. He took me aside and asked, “How did this happen? And why now after my wedding? How I wish I had told her that I liked her so much since school days. The pain that I took going to her bus stop to catch the school bus!". “I don’t think you should tell her this now. She is my wife, silly boy. She would feel sad about that. And you are a married man now, so what is the use? Why should you complicate life?” Vineet found the point valid. Giving me a parting hug, he asked me, “I had sent my album to your office. Did you see that?” “Which album?” I asked in surprise. “Forget it,” he said. “Now there is no point talking about that,” he concluded. I stood there startled, just trying to figure out which album was my friend talking about.
MEENA MISHRA is an award winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, editor, an educator and a publisher. The Impish Lass Publishing House is her brainchild. Her poems, stories and book-reviews have been published in manyinternational journals and magazines. She is the recipient of several prestigious awards. She is an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team and was invited by the Education Department of Maharashtra to be a part of The Review Committee for the new English text book. She has been invited as a judge for several literary competitions. Her poems are published in many magazines, including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 30 anthologies.
Her contribution to the field of education and writing has received acclamation from the esteemed newspapers like Times of India and Mid Day. Her articles published in Times of India’s NIE and a suburban newspaper and leading educational magazine of the country- Brainfeed Higher Education Plus.
She is on the mission of publishing the articles of students and educators of various schools across the globe under her unique project, ‘The Young Bards’. Her autobiographical novella, The Impish Lass, has been converted into a web-series by Visionary Studioz (Mumbai) and can be subscribed on YouTube.
Under the banner of her publishing house ( The Impish Lass Publishing House- Mumbai ) she has successfully published more than 50 books in 2 year’s duration apart from The Young Bards- Series .More than 500 writers across the globe have received an opportunity of becoming published writers and poets under this banner. She was invited to share her views by Sony TV for their first episode of, Zindagi Ke Crossroads, based on needs of special children. She was recently invited by the “AajTak” news channel to express her views on the special episode on the PMC Bank scam victims.
She had written an exclusive poem which was read and appreciated by the living legend of Bollywood- Amitabh Bachchan. She has received Wordsmith Award 2019 for her short story , “Pindarunch,” from the Asian Literary Society.
As a publisher she believes that EACH SOUL THAT WRITES HAS THE RIGHT TO GET PUBLISHED.
Agarwal brothers were identical twins in their late thirties. They were travelling by Kanyakumari-Bombay express in a three-tier AC sleeper compartment with reserved berths. They lived in Parel area of Bombay and had been visiting their relatives in Kanyakumari on the occasion of a wedding.
When they came to their berths, they found a young dark tall lanky boy of around twenty sitting on the window seat of the lower berth that had been allotted to the older brother Jagdish Agarwal. The middle berth above that had been allotted to the younger one Jignesh. The boy at the window looked at them with imploring eyes and those eyes immediately trapped the two Marwari twins in a strong bond of brotherly affection. They almost fell over each other to ask him, “Which is your berth, where are you going, what is your name, are you from Kanyakumari, how can we help you? Don’t worry, man.”
From what the boy gestured, with complicated signals with eyes, hands and a few grunting sounds, the brothers gathered that he was unable to speak but could hear. He then took out a little spiral-bound notepad book from the pocket of his safari suit and a pen to jot down his reply. That would henceforth be his mouthpiece to articulate what he said.
He wrote on the notepad in clear longhand, “Sir, my name is Mulk. Because my father is an ardent fan of the Indo-English writer Mulk Raj Anand, and loves his novels in English, he has named me after his favourite author-cum-hero. I cannot speak, but I can hear; am mute but not deaf. I have landed an inspector’s job in the Central Excise Department of the government of India under the handicap quota, and my date of joining at Bombay Central office is tomorrow. That’s why I have entered this reserve compartment with an ordinary ticket. I will request the TC to upgrade my ticket and give me a berth here to sleep the night.”
Mulk further wrote, “My job being in handicap quota, a reserved category, if I miss to join there tomorrow, they have stated in the call letter that the job would go to the next claimant. I can’t afford to miss the date and only this train can make up to my joining time. But I couldn’t reserve a berth at such a short notice. After reaching Bombay I am also to arrange a place to stay, as I know none in the big city, except the lord Siddhi Vinayak. I know the lord by long-distance bhakti*. I come from Kerala’s Palghat, and sir, my mother tongue is Malayalam.”
The Marwari twins read Mulk’s vivid notes together and as more notes followed, they exchanged loaded glances, loaded with unbounded love for the boy, their future goose who would lay golden eggs for them. Each of the twins was simultaneously thinking, “Bro, are you thinking the same thing what I am thinking, of a golden goose that may lay golden eggs in days to come? You guess, a Central Excise Goose coming too close quarters to two factory owners! Our factory in combination with a mute inspector in our pocket can do miracles for us, the real golden eggs.”
Now the twins who often could read each other’s mind, were thinking of a more profitable period for their pickle and jam factory in Bombay’s MIDC (Maharashtra Industrial Development Corporation) area. They had already started daydreaming of smuggling out their products to market without paying the Central Excise duty, and keeping the loot for themselves with the help from Mulk, their future mute-mole inside the Central Excise system.
So, the brothers became extra-caring towards the speech-challenged boy, fell over each other to express their love and concern for Mulk, making the young mute Mulk surprised but happy. By bribing the Ticket Checker (TC), the twins booked the upper most berth, the one above them for Mulk. More talks by brothers and notes from Mulk were exchanged. The twins came to know that Mulk was a vegetarian. Mulk was from a brahmin family at Palghat of Kerala.
Mulk’s notes also informed the twins that he was from a family of large land-holdings. They had a pet elephant. The film actress Padmini of South India was like a didi, or older sister to him. The Raj Kapoor’s blockbuster Mera Naam Joker, in which Padmini would be a vamp-cum-side heroine and would be a heartthrob at the Indian box office, was yet to take two years to hit the movie houses. But connections with a movie star impressed the twins much in accepting Mulk’s every word as Gospel truth.
Mulk would learn that the brothers lived in a bungalow in Parel area of Bombay. It was not far from either Prabha Devi where Mulk’s self-proclaimed beloved lord Siddhi Vinayak had his resident-temple, or from Bombay Central area where Mulk would join as a Central Excise Inspector. It was also not far from ‘Haji Ali Dargha’, a tourist attraction, that was said to be Mulk’s favourite. Another landmark of Bombay, Girgaum Chowpatty, close to Mulk’s heart, an expanse of beach of white loose sand by the shallow bay down the Malabar hills, was not very far from the bungalow as well.
The twins took turns to speak high of the location of their bungalow. They also informed Mulk that, even after a very young and pretty film actress renting the entire upper floor to stay with her mother and the bevy of servants, they had one fully furnished spare rooms on the ground floor where they lived themselves with wives. They also informed that they ate vegetarian Marwari fare cooked in Ghee or clarified butter. They appeared to passing a clear message to Mulk that if he had no objection, he could stay in their house and have food with them. Mulk after a lot of apparent hesitation accepted their big-brotherly offer.
The Agarwal Pickle-Jam Factory of the twins was not earning much profit because of government’s high taxes. But things took a turn for the better after Mulk stayed with them and joined his office as an inspector of Central Excise. Though, the Twins’ pickle-jam factory was not under his direct charge, yet help reached the Agarwal brothers miraculously. The goose had started laying golden eggs. With strict information fro their husbands the two young wives took extra care of the dumb and mute under handicap quota.
The brothers spent most of their woken hours either at the factory, or in meeting officers of police, electricity dand water supply department etc. with gift hampers containing jam and pickle bottles. At home, the two young wives, who used to manage the drab household work with two young man-servants brought from their native Jaipur, now had handsome Mulk to keep them in good humour.
What pleased Mulk the most was the presence of Babita, a pretty young film actress living on the upper floor of the bungalow. She was bracketed among the galaxy of new stars of Bombay movie sky. She was courted by many aspiring young suitors, men from film fraternity, not yet going steady with anyone. Often small crowds gathered in front of the Agarwal bungalow just to have a glance of the fair lady.
One day the older twin asked, “Mulk sahib, how do you like the stay at out bungalow. If you have no better option, you may continue as long as you like. Mulk thought, “Neki aur puch puch*”, that meant “If you wish to do a good turn to me, why should you ask me for permission?” He wrote in his notebook page, “You are both like my big brothers. How can I go against your wishes? To stay here and break bread with you at every meal would be a blessing for me.” The brothers went rapturous with love. Their goose had swallowed the bait. They thought of a long haul of precious golden eggs with the goose in their house as a pet.
Days passed. Mulk got settled at the bungalow, and enjoyed the shower of affection and hospitality of the brothers and their wives, lavished on him. Also, surprisingly, the income of the twin brothers increased by leaps and bounds. While settling down in his comfortable room in the Agarwal mansion, he found time to befriend and flirt with the two young wives who mostly had been passing lonely time not only on week days but also weekends. Their husbands were too busy in running their pickle-jam factory, expanding its capacity, finding new ways to cheat taxes (mis)using Mulk’s good offices, and satisfying senior bosses of various departments that looked into different aspects of running the factory, like the licensing, electricity, water, bank loans, etc.
The brothers had little time for wives. It was no surprise that the two couples had no kids, where was the time for that sort of luxury! Resident-servants were so far like lame excuses and temporary measures for diverting the wives’ attention, at least the young wives had the satisfaction of bossing over the two johnnies. Mulk changed the arrangement totally.
Agarwal household started looking more contented and peaceful as Mulk would return home at seven in the evening and keep young wives of the twins occupied in his room till dinner at eleven when the brothers came home. He unwittingly had occupied that vacant post of the youngest brother in the family, so gaining the social sanction of the local culture for flirting with the wives of big brothers freely and keeping them in high splits.
He kept them riveted to games like playing cards, ludo, or snake-and-ladder. He also pretended to know the reading of lines on palms, and by that he made them to open their hearts to him. In case they felt too shy and tongue-tied, they imitated Mulk, and poured out their hearts on chits of paper rather than articulating them. Writing was easier than talking in certain quarters of unspeakable narratives. Mulk also took them to movies and Chowpatty beach in some evenings.
On Sundays, when the tired brothers either visited officers’ houses with gifts to humour them, or, if they stayed home, they preferred to give their tired bones a bit of rest. They left their wives to be taken out by Mulk. The mute Central Excise inspector would take their wives to movies, Chowpatty beach, or fast-food eateries. The ladies also visited the Hanging Garden, Siddhi Vinayak Temple, Mahalaxmi Temple, Haji Ali, zoo, Nehru Cente, Museum etc. where they never had put their feet earlier. Life became rosier for them. They took to Mulk as a fish takes to water.
The servants, whose prying eyes did not miss the nuances of those activities between the threesome at home, and outdoors, suspected a rat while cooling their heels helplessly. They would entertain madams in earlier days with some juicy gossip or a feet massage. They watched the new developments and fumed to see a mean fly from Kerala spoiling their glorious Marwari ointment.
While in frustration they kept whispering plans to cook Mulk’s goose, while boiling a dish of vegetables, or ladling a pot of lentil soup, and sometimes, burnt them in absent mind. Often, they were blowing their fuse listening to the giggles emanating from Mulk’s room, where both the young women camped after their Sunday breakfast or midday meal, when their husbands had returned to beds to catch up with their leftover sleep.
The servants were out of their wits how a mute could elicit those happy titters from the young women. They didn’t know that Mulk felt rather free to write risqué-ridden notes, those would be difficult to mouth, because the expressions had crossed the threshold of mild flirting to enter the zone of sexual undertones.
The servants were spying to catch Mulk with his pants down, but never had any success. They wanted to bring to their bosses, the twin brothers, some proof of Mulk being bad for their wives’ morals and purity. Being illiterate boys from Jaipur’s downtown slums, they could never decipher Mulk’s or the Marwari women’s notes written in English< though the paper chits were lying around.
Another thing unnerved them. Though Mulk looked like a spring chicken and was mute, but the brothers, for inexplicable reasons, addressed him as ‘Mulk sahib’, and ‘Mulk sir’. So far, they were not privy to the ‘goose and the golden egg’ Theory. They would stamp foot, “Ah, sir, my foot”.
The jealous servants noticed another mysterious adventure of the mute. Around ten in the night, when the movie production floor manager would send a car every night to take Babita for shooting, Mulk would go out and smilingly greet Babita, walking by her from the staircase to the car, and opening the car door for her. Often, they would notice Babita and Mulk exchanging sign language and both laughing out loud. They would heard on rare occasions with the wives of the twins about mulk and expressing huge sympathy, “Ah, such a handsome and nice young man and how unkind of God to make him a mute and dumb!” That remark would give the servants more heartburns.
Quickly luck presented itself to the disgruntled servants, as the proverbial adage, ‘every dog has his day’. They were standing by a roadside tea-stall near Mulk’s office in Bombay Central area one afternoon, sharing an insipid glass of tea between them in Bombay’s noble cutting-chai tradition, and what did they see and hear?! It was an out of the world scene.
Mulk, the mute, was in fact a person of great eloquence. He was talking at a paan-shop located behind the tea stall to around five to six well-dressed persons who heard him in rapt attention. They were overwhelmed with joy like Sherlock Homes solving a knotty riddle of mysterious murder.
Keeping themselves well-hidden, they went closer and found the mute central excise inspector appointed in handicap quota talking eloquently to his compatriots including the owner of the paan-shop. There was proof that Mulk was not a mute and he not only had cheated Aggarwal family and taken advantage of the women, but also his Central Excise department by availing the handicap quota.
Like impatient marooned sailors who had sighted a ship in the mid-sea, they ran home and reported their million-dollar finding to the women of the house, the young wives. They declared that they had been outright cheated. The ladies’ first reaction was self-defence. They instantly got worried, rather cautious for all the inner secrets they had revealed to the mute, who was not a mute. They thought if Mulk talked, he might spill their objectionable beans, that neither the servants nor their husbands were knowing by yet.
But their anxiety vanished partly to hear what the servants reported next, “We couldn’t make out a word of what he was talking, some language from South India, we guessed.” They visibly relaxed and were hardly listening to the servant’s reporting further, “But the moot point is that he can talk, he is not a mute. He has cheated you, us, and the government by getting his job in handicap quota.” To this, as the ladies knew the profits that Mulk was generating for their husbands, they shouted in unison, “Get out of our room.”
It was the afternoon time. The servants left the ladies out of frustration and decided to report their findings to their bosses, the twins, when they returned home in the evening. Mulk returned at seven as usual. He couldn’t understand why the two women of the house were silent and sulking. The servants cornered him and told, “We have busted your bluff. You are no mute or dumb. We saw you talking to a a group of people by the paan-shop.” Mulk went serious. Then he took them aside and hissed into their ears, “I will tell you a bigger secret. I am neither a brahmin nor vegetarian. I am a Muslim and relish my chicken tandury, you bloody fools! Go, and f…k yourself!”
Mulk took the young ladies to his room. Wrote to them on a small chit of paper, “My sweet angels, a government flat has been allotted to me. I am to leave just now to take possession of it. I can never forget the two of you, my sweet bhabis (sisters-in-law), so kind to me, a dumb and mute. I will meet your husbands later and keep visiting you. Bye. Bye.” The women didn’t wither away with the pangs of separation as expected by Mulk. To his surprise, they seemed to heave with sighs of relief. They left his room with grim faces.
Mulk could feel, his time was up there. He took his trunk and backpack from under his cot, put the titbits lying about into them, and left by the entrance door before the eyes of the servants and the ladies. He brusquely walked to the compound gate. The women of the house, Mulk imagined, were mutually whispering, “Ah! The fellow has outlived his services, so, let him go. Let his soul sleep in peace in his government flat.”
On his way to the compound gate, Mulk was thinking, “I showed them the movie ‘Mera Nam Joker’ by Raj Kapoor last night. I presume they didn’t do the same thing with me what Meena did to her pet dog in the final phase of that film. He recalled how cruelly Meena (movie actress Padmini acting the role) had allowed her pet dog to be taken away by the stray dog-killing squad of Bombay, and explained her stand to her newly acquired boyfriend Raju (the thespian Raj Kapoor acted the role), ‘Now that you have come into my life, where is the need for this dog?’ Have I outlived my utility value like Meena’s dog?”
But to their dismay, the ladies observed that Mulk returned, dumped bis baggage in the sitting room like loose laundry, and collapsed on a sofa alone like a crumpled beanbag. It appeared like he had seen a ghost outside. His face looked drained and stunned. The ladies and servants went out and noticed a big crowd and a lot of light outside the gate of their bungalow. The two housewives however could not connect Mulk’s distressed return with that crowd or lights.
The big crowd and bright light along with cameras with flashbulbs, and white-clad waiters with food and drink trays going around for all and sundry to have a bite or a sip were new experience for the ladies and the srvants. A band started playing popular marriage related Hindi songs from hit movies. Some film stars were there, of whom a few were shaking a leg to the music with their fans from the gathered crowd. Two producers along with their directors were managing the crowd and the event, whatever was the occasion.
The ladies talking to some fans at the gate came to know that the film star Babita, who staying upstairs of their bungalow on rent, was getting married that night, and the producers and directors were there to guard their movie actress who would act in their two upcoming movies on the floor. Their sole interest was that nothing should go wrong in the life of their female lead, marriage or no marriage. They had arranged to presence of the movie stars, the crowd, the lights and cameras, the snacks and drinks with the waiters for obvious reasons. They also confided, “They have brought a dozen or so bouncers and gunmen, apprehending untoward incidents.”
It was around eleven that evening. the brothers returned from work. But Mulk was not seen anywhere, though his baggage were lying around in the drawing room in utter disorder. The servants were itching to divulge their great finding about Mulk to their bosses.
At that time two things happened simultaneously. Babita appeared on the top step of the staircase surrounded by her giggling female friends. Her fans raised their voice in greeting. She looked lovely in her dazzlingly white wedding gown and her rhodium wedding tiara on her elaborate hairdo. Simultaneously, like a discord to the celebratory mood, a howling Mulk appeared at the bottom step of the same staircase in which Babita was on the top-most step. Mulk was bawling like a child, stomping his feet on the ground, and howling incoherently.
Held back from climbing up the staircase by Babita’s fans, he was shouting through his tears, “Don’t marry that fool, that bastard, that ugly duck, my sweetheart Babita. He is not worth holding a candle to your beauty and purity. You are lovelier and purer than a full moon itself.”
The two Agarwal brothers came out of their house, and helplessly watched Mulk, their prize golden-egg laying goose going down the drain. Two burly bouncers physically carried away Mulk before their eyes, perhaps to dump him in a garbage bin or gutter far away from the celebration site.
The Agarwal brothers intervened. They took Mulk from the bouncers’ grip, dragged him physically inside their house and tried to pacify him. Their family doctor came and put Mulk to sleep for the night with a sedative injection. By the time the brothers went to work the next morning, Mulk had not stirred from his bed. But when they returned home by eleven O’ clock that night, Mulk had left their house with bag and baggage.
Two anxious days passed. The brothers had no direct or indirect news on Mulk. They were worried about their factory, their golden eggs, about Mulk, the pet goose, and about the future that looked gloomy. Three days later, they read in the Bombay Times, an article about Mulk, that informed them about his whereabouts but bringing no cheer –
Mind-boggling Claim by the Film Star Babita
We have heard of phrases like ‘blinded by beauty’ or ‘breaking head against stubbornness’; but very few would know something like ‘muteness turning into eloquence by beauty’. Yes, exactly that happened when pretty Babita came out of her house in her wedding finery on the night of her marriage. A born-mute, Mulk by name, who was incapable of uttering a word, started shouting aloud his undying love for the diva. The mute had turned eloquent by Babita’s stunning beauty. A miracle. A record in film industry.
The lanky dark and handsome fan of Babita was howling to stop his goddess from getting married. But the two directors present on the spot were observing the youth with wonder. They had found in Mulk a natural actor. They spoke to yours truly, this reporter, about their discovery. They have already signed a film each with Mulk in male lead, in which Babita had already been assigned the role of female lead. Babita has expressed her eagerness to act opposite Mulk, the new wonder.
There was a snapshot of Mulk’s face below the article. Mulk was rapturously smiling in his mug-shot as if he was having the last laugh in the whole drama that had started in a train at Kanyakumari around two years ago and had its last scene just three days back.
A short synopsis –
Mulk, a self-proclaimed speech-challenged youth, having landed a job in Central Excise department as inspector in handicap quota, traveled to Bombay as a co-passenger with Agrawal twin-brothers, who took over as the handicap’s guardian. Mulk lived in their house, and as inspector, played role of the brothers’ golden egg-laying goose, by helping them evading duty on goods manufactured in their pickle factory. Mulk developed a crush for a movie actress living upstairs and his passion led him to start talking. Apparently Mulk was not a mute to start with, but all his cheatings got legitimized when the movie star took the full credit of transforming a mute by her beauty into an eloquent actor, for she had got two directors sign Mulk as her male-lead in two new films on the floor.
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is a poet/ story writer/translator/literary critic, living in Mumbai, India. The publishers - Rupa & Co. and Allied Publishers Pvt Ltd have published his three books of poems – VIGIL (1993), LIPS OF A CANYON (2000), and LITMUS (2005). His poems have been widely anthologized in fourteen different volumes of anthology by publishers, such as – Rupa & Co, Virgo Publication, Penguin Books, Adhayan Publishers and Distributors, Panchabati Publications, Authorspress, Poetrywala, Prakriti Foundation, Hidden Book Press, Penguin Ananda, Sahitya Akademi etc. over the period spanning over 1993 to 2020. Awards won - Vineet Gupta Memorial Poetry Award, JIWE Poetry Prize. Former president of Poetry Circle (Mumbai), former editor of this poet-association’s poetry journal POIESIS. He edited a book of short stories by the iconic Odia writer in English translation – FROM THE MASTER’s LOOM, VINTAGE STORIES OF FAKIRMOHAN SENAPATI. He is widely published in literary magazines; lately in Kavya Bharati, Literary Vibes, Our Poetry Archives (OPA) and Spillwords.
It was the auspicious day of Mahalaya Amavasya. It was the day when Maa Durga was created by the Tri-Deva, Brahma, Vishnu, and Maheswar to defeat the demon king Mahishasura by synergizing the energies from all the Devas. In the morning, Tapas babu had offered Tarpan to his ancestors to give them farewell at the end of Pitru Paksha and then entered the puja room to clean it up thoroughly to welcome in the evening Maa Durga for the upcoming Dussehra celebrations.
In his ancestral home the puja room was considered a special place where the deities were worshipped from generation to generation with all prescribed rituals. Maa Durga being their family deity adorned the puja room, personified in a large brass icon at the centre of a large throne made of marble stone. Poised on her mount, the ferocious lion, she is seen slaying the unconquerable buffalo demon with her trident yet her eyes full of compassion showering her blessings on her devotees. The walls of the puja room displayed Maa Durga's weapons (Aayudh), like crossed swords, scimitars, bows and arrows, tridents, axes, etc. Tapas babu systematically pulled them down, cleaned them to get back their shine and put them back against the walls as before. This was an annual ritual. Then he surveyed and took stock of palm-leaf manuscripts stacked behind the throne. These were considered a treasure by his grandfather and were worshipped along with the deities. It was supposed to contain ancient wisdom in form of powerful mantras and texts which his grandfather claimed had magical powers to heal and do good to the humanity. But he had warned that if the books fell into the wrong hands of the unworthy then the results could be disastrous. Tapas babu remembered his grandfather consulting these manuscripts once in a while to prescribe some Ayurvedic medicines to some needy people in the village. His father who was a doctor by profession, however was sceptic about them and never bothered to explore them. Tapas babu as a child was curious about them and thought that he would surely explore them but he would wait till he inherits them. But it so happened that except for dusting them as an annual exercise before the Durga Puja, he had not made an effort to open them. He had been procrastinating the exploration year after year and telling himself that one day he would surely research the contents.
Tapas babu started removing the manuscripts from the dusty stacks one by one to dust them individually. The process was a bit monotonous for there were thousands of such manuscripts stacked back to back. Suddenly one of the manuscripts slipped from his hands and made a metallic sound as it struck the marble floor. Tapas babu picked it up and immediately realised that it was somewhat different from the others. While all manuscripts were bounded by wooden plates and tied with silk strings, this one had metallic plates as covers and were bound by a metallic chain like string. There were some illegible carvings on the cover plate. Tapas babu sat down on the puja mat and started polishing the plates with zinc oxide powder that is used to shine silver. Soon the blackened piece got back its original silver shine and the pictures engraved on it came to life. On the left end it was the picture of Kamadhenu, the celestial cow Surabhi, with a human female head and breasts, the wings of a bird, and the tail of a peafowl. She is venerated by the believers as the miraculous "cow of plenty" who grants her devotee whatever he desires. On the right side was the picture of a well laden tree. He recognised it as the Kalpavriksha or the 'Wish-fulfilling tree'. He remembered his grandmother who had told him the story of 'Sagar Manthan', the churning of the milk ocean. In this primordial churn, Kalpavriksha had emerged from the primal waters along with Kamadhenu, the divine cow that bestows all needs and desires. Seeing both the celestial symbols Tapas babu realised that this manuscript must contain some incantations or magical methods of wish fulfilment.
He sat down on the puja mat in the lotus pose and tried to open the manuscript after untying the silver thread that kept the palm leaves together between the silver cover plates. As he flipped the cover, the first page popped out. The writings on it came live with a heavenly glow. Tapas babu cleaned his glasses with his dhoti to read the etchings in Sanskrit. It was a set of instructions similar to that one finds in a users' manual. It outlined the conditions and methods of the use of the book for one's wish fulfilment.
The first part laid down the conditions and the second part the method. It clearly stated that the wishes must qualify to be pure and just only if they don't contravene Nature's laws and don't upset Nature's equilibrium. The wishes should not cause hurt or harm to anyone nor bring injustice to anybody. Once the wishes are clearly formulated in mind, the user will put his index finger on the icon of Kamadhenu on the front cover for material wishes or do the same on the icon of Kalpavriksha for universal and higher order wishes. After making the wish he should open the book to be auto-directed to the appropriate page where he will find a mantra, that is to be recited with correct intonation thrice. Then the wish will come true. In case the wish does not qualify to be pure and just, the page cannot be accessed. In case one wishes to cancel or reverse a wish, he should go to the back cover where he would find the icons engraved upside down. He will touch the appropriate icon and make his wish for its reversal. But this has to be done before the wish completely materialises. The first step to the entire process would however be a five minutes' meditation while focusing on the celestial icons on the cover plate.
Tapas babu was excited to go through the instructions and took a deep breath to calm himself down before experimenting with the book. He sat on the mat in the lotus pose with the manuscript in his hands and focused his eyes on the images on the cover plate. Slowly he transcended into a trance, a state of half wakefulness. Then he started formulating in his mind the first wish he wanted to come true. He put his index finger on the image of Kamadhenu and spelt out his desire in his mind, 'Mother Surabhi, please make me the wealthiest man of all.' Then he tried to open the book to access the corresponding page for the mantras. But the book refused to open. He tried to force it open but all in vain. The book stood resolute and didn't yield. Finally he gave up and in his mind suddenly a light flashed. He could then hear a soothing female voice echoing in his ears. ' My child, do you think your wish qualifies as pure and just? Have you ever heard anybody creating wealth out of nothing? For earning even one coin, one has to do something. If you had asked for enhancing your capability and opening more doors of opportunity you would have been on the right track. Wealth creation would have become an automatic outcome. Further the world has limited resources which are distributed amongst its inhabitants depending on their karma. If you would be granted unlimited wealth as a boon, won't you create a massive imbalance in the world? Won't you be depriving someone who had strived harder than you to create wealth for himself?'
Tapas babu, disappointment writ large on his face, then changed track to contemplate on his next wish. As a child he was always fascinated by the eagles soaring high in the sky. He identified the majestic and mighty bird of prey with Garuda, the celestial mount of Lord Vishnu and always fantasised to fly like one. He thought if he may be granted this wish it won't harm anyone. Neither will it contravene any natural law. He then put his index finger on the icon of Kamadhenu again and concentrated on his wish to gain the capability to fly like an eagle. With bated breath he then proceeded to open the book to reach the desired page for the magic hymn. This time he was not disappointed. The palm leaves fluttered on their own and finally stopped at a page. The page had an inscription in Sanskrit that read as:
‘ o? tatpuru??ya vidmahe suvar?apak??ya dh?mahi tanno garu?a? pracoday?t '.
It was the Garuda Gayatri mantra, which meant, ' We meditate on Garuda, the Great Soul, the manifestation of Supreme Consciousness. May He, who has golden wings, give me clarity. Oh Garuda, please bring me enlightenment and inspiration.'
Tapas babu recited the mantra meticulously three times as prescribed. As he was wondering if the magic had worked or not, he suddenly noticed his body undergoing some drastic change. His fingers started changing into strong talons of the eagle. He felt that his body had started sprouting feathers and behind his shoulder blades two small wings had sprung out, which started growing in size. His lips had turned into the beak of an eagle. He was horrified and didn't know what to do. He surely wanted to change himself back into his human form. He realised that if his wish had to come true and he has to fly as an eagle, that can happen only if he changes completely into an eagle, in body, mind and soul. He had to trade off his human body, instinct and soul for that of an eagle. He surely didn't want that to happen. He knew that just to make his dream come true he could not compromise with the reality and could not give up his human identity. He pulled himself together and frantically looked for the back cover. He then put his index finger on the upside down image of Kamadhenu wishing hard to reverse the earlier wish and regain his human form.
Sweating profusely and relieved to see him back in his human form, Tapas babu heaved a deep sigh and took some time to regain his composure. He then thought of changing his strategy. He thought, ' let me pick up a wish for universal good. That way I would also benefit because the wish would benefit the entire mankind.' He then remembered the famous humanitarian peace mantra for universal well being:
' o? sarve bhavantu sukhina?
sarve santu nir?may??
sarve bhadr??i pa?yantu m? ka?ciddu? khabh?gbhaveta?
o? ??nti? ??nti? ??nti?? ' , which means:
'May all sentient beings be at peace,
may no one suffer from illness,
May all see what is auspicious, may no one suffer.
Om peace, peace, peace.'
He put his index finger on the image of Kalpavriksha and passionately recited the sloka.
He then waited for the book to open again and lead him to the appropriate page. But nothing happened. He tried to force it open but failed to do so. When he gave up, he again heard a soothing voice in baritone amidst rustling of leaves, ' My child, you must be wondering why such a noble wish is not being granted. Imagine what would happen if this wish is granted. The world will become heaven, what it is not meant to be. If God wanted it to be that way He would have created it as such. While happiness, health and well being are definitely to be sought after, pain, sufferings, diseases, are also part of a worldly life. They are there for a good reason too. The very concept of opposites to exist simultaneously is inherent with the idea of equilibrium. Good and evil are supposed to co-exist in the world created by God. Let me elucidate the very basic idea of Devas and Danavas and what they really mean for the Manavas.
The evil forces are represented by the ‘Danavas’ (the demons), who are in constant battle with the ‘Devas’ (allegorically, the battle of the good versus evil within our minds). The devas and the danavas are both sons of the same father, but two different mothers – Diti and Aditi respectively. Both the good and the evil, or the ‘daivic’ and ‘danavic’ natures, reside within humans, the 'Manavas'. Qualities such as fearlessness, cultivation of spiritual knowledge, charity, self-control, austerity, simplicity, non-violence, truthfulness, freedom from anger, renunciation, tranquility, aversion to faultfinding, compassion, gentleness, modesty, steady determination, forgiveness, cleanliness, freedom from envy, etc. are classified as ‘daivic’ or godly qualities. Materialism, arrogance, pride, anger, conceit, harshness, ignorance come under ‘danavic’ qualities. If your wish would have come true then it would cause serious imbalance to the eco-system. That's why it is denied.'
Tapas babu looked dejected and exasperated. Then he stilled his mind for some time and went into a deep thought. After few minutes he looked determined and started the process for his fourth and last wish. He put his index finger on the icon of Kalpavriksha and wished,'Let all my desires die. Liberate me from the cobweb of wishes.' His face was impassive yet had a heavenly glow. Now the pages of the book fluttered on their own and came to rest at a specific page. The inscriptions on the page read:
‘Ashaya ye dasaste dasa sarvalokasya
Asha yesham daasi tesham dasayate lokah’, which means:
‘People who are servants of Desires
Are also servants of the whole world,
For those to whom desire is a servant,
The whole world also is a servant.’
Soon Tapas babu found himself as light as a feather smoothly gliding in the cool skies basking in the glory of a newfound divinity, and the book was no longer clutched in his hands, as if it had vanished, evaporated into the thin air.
Supriya Devi, Tapas Babu's wife who was looking for him around the house, entered the puja room and found him sitting still on the mat in lotus pose, his hands resting in his knees in yoga mudra, his eyes half closed. She shook him up from his trance and told, ' Hello, get up. If you are feeling sleepy go to the bedroom and take a power nap. This is no place to sleep.'
Tapas babu slowly opened his eyes and took some time to focus on the surroundings and spoke,'I'll take few more minutes to finish my cleaning of the puja room. Then I will go the local market for getting the provisions for home. Keep your list ready.'
' OK. Now that the Pitru Paksha is over, I plan to make your favourite fish curry for dinner. Get me a fresh Hilsa fish from the market.'
'As you wish, my dear.'
Dilip Mohapatra, a decorated Navy Veteran from Pune, India is a well acclaimed poet and author in contemporary English. His poems regularly appear in many literary journals and anthologies worldwide. He has six poetry collections, two non-fictions and a short story collection to his credit. He is a regular contributor to Literary Vibes. He has been awarded the prestigious Naji Naaman Literary Awards for 2020 for complete work. The society has also granted him the honorary title of 'Member of Maison Naaman pour la Culture'. His website may be accessed at dilipmohapatra.com.
The gory images he saw during the day played an abstract in the screen of his forehead. His sleep was quite disturbed. It was just past midnight and, Venkat, in his subconscious mind, felt that he was being watched. He tried to ignore that ill feeling and turned to the other side in the bed, but it still persisted. Venkat slowly opened his eyes and got up. What he saw startled him. A silhouette was looking at him.
Venkat had been received in the airport of Ghatnabad by a chauffeur arranged by his company and the car went straight to the hotel, where his stay was arranged. He tried to resist coming into this city but his boss insisted that Venkat himself should go and get the deal done. Their company was trying to buy some land for their new factory in Ghatnabad.
Venkat had heard a lot about the city of Ghatnabad. It was a city not just notorious for its polluted air and water but the people too. It had the highest crime rate in the country. The ride from the airport to the hotel itself was quite disturbing and it displayed the character of the city. Just minutes after leaving the airport they saw a horrible accident where a truck had rammed into a car. The truck was evidently on the wrong side of the road. Venkat saw two people in the car with severe head injury and blood was gushing all over their face. Attempts were being made to extract them from the mangled car by the fire service personnel.
Once inside the city, the traffic got congested and it came to an absolute halt for several minutes at almost all the junctions. Venkat was observing the city from the comfort of his car. He saw butchers slaughtering cattle and the carcasses hung on hooks dripping blood. At a traffic junction, he saw some goons chasing a person who too looked like a criminal. Finally they caught up with the man who ran ahead of them and stabbed him. They kept stabbing again and again till the long knives were dripping with blood. Venkat shrieked. The driver of his car asked him to close his eyes or look the other way. The driver tried to pacify his passenger by telling that it was a common sight in this city.
The hotel was beside the Kali temple and a figure of the goddess stood there with the tongue lunging out of her mouth, thirsting for revenge and blood. She held a beheaded head in her hand and a blood covered sword in her other hand. Venkat, a religious person, felt as though there was a bad omen for him in this city.
Once inside his hotel room he felt a bit comfortable. He switched on the air-conditioner but it was not working. He called the reception and the repair man came in a few minutes. He worked on the remote control and then on the unit itself. Finally he said he was helpless. It couldn’t be repaired the same night. The hotel manager came and offered his apologies. They had no other room with an AC to give Venkat as all the rooms were filled with people who came for a marriage function. As a consolation the manager told Venkat that he will charge the bill only for that of a non-AC room.
Later it was the room boy who came with Venkat’s dinner who told him that there was actually an AC room but they were not permitted to give it to the customers. When Venkat asked for the reason, the boy said quietly that it was under police control for some pending investigation. Just one year back a female had hanged herself in that room. The police was yet to come to a conclusion whether it was a suicide or a murder. Before the room boy left, Venkat out of curiosity asked the boy in which floor that room was. “It is the room opposite to yours sir”, saying this the room boy left. Venkat immediately slammed the door. He somehow wanted to clinch the land deal tomorrow itself and get out of this city at the earliest.
He had his dinner and then he switched on the television praying that at least it should work. It worked and he kept the news channel. It was a time for the news channels to concentrate on the crime news. In one channel they were reporting on a gruesome murder of a family of four. The channel kept repeating the clipping of the blood splashed room. Venkat had a nauseating feeling and he changed the channel. He didn’t know that he was now watching a horror movie. It was a romantic scene where the man gently eased up to the female character and kissed her. The white moon was in the back ground and it slowly changed its colour to blood red. The female didn’t realize that the man who was kissing her was turning into a zombie. By the time she found out, the creature had torn off her face, splattering blood all over.
Venkat was aghast and he immediately switched the television off. He couldn’t take any more of such stuff. What kind of day was it, he wondered, with beads of sweat all over his body. The room was humid and he was suffocating. He felt the need to take in some fresh air. He went up to the window and allowed the fresh air to seep into the room. It was a big relief to Venkat. The whiff of cool breeze eased him. He could see the full moon in the sky.
From the tenth floor of the hotel where he stayed, the moon appeared to be quite near his window. He smiled at the moon. It looked as though there were only these two in this universe - he and the moon. ‘What sort of bloody things were they showing about the moon in that movie’, he thought to himself. Watching the moon he realized that it was after a long time he was seeing the moon. He tried to remember when was the last time he had seen the moon. He couldn’t remember. He felt pathetic. He was so busy in his life that he couldn’t observe this huge thing which was right above him in the sky! He just had to look up, it was there on most of the days, but he didn’t have the time.
He stood there near the window for some time and reminisced on the poem he wrote about the moon in his school. He looked at his watch and it was past ten pm. He decided to sleep. The next day was going to be important for his company. He was about to close the window, but he thought otherwise. He decided to leave the window open. He wanted to sleep looking at the moon which was quite clear from his bed. He soon slept off.
All the clocks in the town struck midnight but the air was silent. Something big was about to happen. That was the time when Venkat felt that somebody was staring at him. He was very much asleep but he had a perturbed feeling as if somebody was looking at him intently. Till then the disturbing images of the day were playing in his sleep like a film reel through his head. He opened his eyes, got up and sat on the bed. He looked around the room in the darkness even as he was searching for the switch of the bed light. There was nobody to be seen. He could hear the howling of the dogs in the street below which cracked the still atmosphere. He looked towards the window and it terrified him. There was a silhouette staring at him. A silhouette of blood-red colour. In his desperate state he didn’t know what to do. He screamed once. After a pause he again tried to cry out for help but he couldn’t. The voice was not coming out from his larynx. Somebody had seized his throat. He gasped for breath and finally fell down onto the bed.
It was the ringing of phone that brought Venkat out of his unconscious state the next morning. His ten year old son was on the phone and he was excited.
“Papa, I saw the lunar eclipse yesterday night. I saw the blood moon.”
Venkat looked out of the window. The morning sky was clear. He remembered one stanza from his old poem in which he mocked the moon.
“You are not fair, do not deceive me.
Painted in borrowed white light,
You hide behind a silhouette
To win praises from the poets.
But you do not deceive me.”
Then he realised the clever moon had mocked him back last night with a red silhouette if he didn’t like the white one.
Dr. Nikhil M Kurien is a professor in maxillofacial surgery working in a reputed dental college in Trivandrum. He has published three books. A novel , "the scarecrow" in 2002 and "miracle mix - a repository of poems" in 2016 under the pen name of nmk. His latest collection of short stories has been published recently by Partridge International under the title "Familiar Strangers."
AN EVENING OF CHAMPAGNE AND A WET ANTHILL
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
I was about to disconnect the call. Someone had obviously dialled a wrong number. The voice at the other end was unmistakably American and I could think of no American who would call me.
But, wait a minute! My heart skipped a beat. The man had said, "Hey, Abi, guess who is this?"
Abi? Only close friends and relatives called me Abi. Otherwise in the office I am Abinash to my boss and Acharya Sahab to the subordinates.
So who was it on the line? Before I could finish guessing, a song came floating, it sounded grotesque in American accent, but the meaning was clear:
Bandaa parwar,
Tham le jigar
Ban ke pyaar phir aya hoon,
Khidmat mein,
Aapki huzoor,
Phir wahi dil laya hoon.
Devdutt! Yes, it was Devdutt, the evergreen romantic. Wow, after twenty four years!
My voice trembled,
"Devdutt, is it you?"
The American accent got thicker,
"Yes Sir, Dave to the Yankees, but the old, yaaron ka yaar Devdutt to his friends. See, I found you Abi, how long can you hide from me?"
I roared with laughter,
"Me? Hiding from you? You shameless idiot, you are the one who ran away from everyone's life and hid yourself in America. Where did you get my number?"
Devdutt got serious,
"For a CIA agent getting the telephone number of a government minion like you is just a sleight of the hand. Now get ready for some serious interrogation!"
I panicked,
"Devdutt, you are a CIA agent? Are you recording this call?"
Devdutt laughed, an ear-splitting, roof-shaking roar,
"Hah, stumped you buddy! If I were a CIA agent, then you must be the Defence Minister of India! Ha, ha, Abi, tell me, the sweet voice of the telephone operator who gave me your number from one-nine-seven, must be that of a dazzling beauty, a slim, fair, tall girl with cascading hair and a million dollar smile, ain't it? A voice can't be so sweet unless the girl was even sweeter, a pretty lass of mind-boggling beauty. Ah, India, my incredible India, the land of fairies and angels!"
I smiled, I saw these mind-boggling Punjabi beauties everyday in dozens, their hair dyed with henna, the mascara on the eyes horrendous. But this was no time to waste on Punjabi women, Devdutt had called after twenty four years!
"Devdutt, you incurable romantic, still thinking of slim, fair, tall girls? Won't you ever grow old, you scoundrel? You and your young dil!"
Devdutt laughed on the other side,
"Dil jo Bhi kahega maanengey, duniamein hamaraa dil hi to hai. And you know Abi, what's great about dil, it's like a piece of diamond, the more you cut it into pieces and give away, the more it shines. Don't you remember my favourite song from the school days? Ik dil ke tukudey hazaar huey, koi yahaan gira, koi wahaan gira...I left some fragments of my dil in India and took some to America."
A mild euphoria was coming over me,
"Devdutt, I still can't believe I am talking to you! Twenty four years since I heard your voice!"
He interrupted me,
"Twenty four years and seven days, to be exact."
I was stunned,
"Wow, you have become a mathematics genius! You remember even the number of days since we talked?"
He let out a small, disarming laugh,
"Arrey, nehin bhai, if I become a nerd like that the young girls in my office will run away from me. Actually, today is my twenty-fourth wedding anniversary. And I remember, seven days before my wedding I had called all my friends over phone to invite them for the function. Many came, but you didn't, you unfaithful wretch!"
And Devdutt broke into another song. It looked like a fountain of emotions had come unstuck and he was flowing in a nostalgic current,
"Dost dost naa rahaa, pyaar pyaar naa rahaa, jindegi humey tera aitwar naa rahaa."
I laughed,
"Devdutt, you know it is so difficult to take leave in a government job. We are made to believe as if the government would collapse if we take leave, but we know pretty well, government will function much better if half the government servants are on leave all the time! It's easy for you to come from America to India, but tough for me to go from Delhi to Baripada. So where are you speaking from? Which city of U.S.? Chicago or New York?"
"Abinash, you donkey, I have been talking of Punjabi beauties, and you think I am in U.S.? Arrey, idiot, I am here in Delhi for the last two days, running around, fixing things. Abi, come to my hotel this evening, Hotel Meridien, we will have a grand party. We will celebrate my wedding anniversary with a few bottles of champagne. Bring your wife and kids also."
I shook my head,
"No Devdutt, we will be meeting after so many decades, let no one disturb us, we will keep talking, only you, me and a heap of memories over champagne. We will unwrap the layer of memories and look at them deep and hard. God knows what nuggets we will find! I am so excited about the prospect, my friend, I already feel today is one of the best days of my life."
Devdutt felt equally elated, I invited him to my home the next evening to come and have some home made delicacies, but tonight was only for memories. He accepted.
Devdutt continued,
"Abi, who else is here from our school days? Shouldn't we invite them also?"
I thought for a moment,
"Sorry, Devdutt, I have no news of any one from the school."
He seemed impatient,
"No one, not even a single class mate?"
"Sorry, you know I am in Delhi for more than twenty five years, have not kept track of Pranab, Chitta, Bikash or any one of our close friends."
He sighed, and continued where he had left off,
"Not even hers?"
I was taken aback. Hers? What does he mean hers? Then it hit me like a bolt. I shouted,
"You mean Deepika's?"
Devdutt sighed, a loud audible sigh,
"Yes, Deepika's. Don't you remember the song I had composed for her in our school days,
The beauty who walks on air.
The one who moves the stars and the moon,
When she walks with a smile on her dainty lips,
Ah, she makes me forget myself and swoon."
Yes, I suddenly remembered that song, it had become a sort of anthem for us. But I was shocked to know he was still pining for her,
"Hey idiot, today is your wedding anniversary, your wife must be missing you in U.S. and you are chanting the Deepika mantra here! Can someone be more shameless?"
Devdutt laughed,
"Abi, anniversaries will come and go, but there will be only one Deepika in my life!"
I was speechless. In a moment I gathered myself,
"Ok, what time I should come? I would like to go home and take a shower to wash off the office grime from the mind before coming to enjoy your special anniversary champagne."
"Come at seven. I will wait for you in the hotel lobby. Ah, Abi, bottles of cool champagne and hordes of memory! What an evening it is going to be!
Devdutt disconnected.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I shook my head in disbelief. Devdutt! After so many years, unbelievable!
I opened the file on the table. I tried to read it, but nothing registered in my mind. Long forgotten faces came alive, my friends and class mates from the school whom I had hardly remembered all these years.
I looked at the wall. Images floated before me like scenes from a movie - the class room with Devdutt sitting on my left and Jatin on my right, the play ground, the auditorium, the water tap. The water tap? Why does the water tap come to my mind? A smile came to my lips. Because that is where the boys and girls used to come in the school recess to drink water.
I could see in my mind Devdutt, Bikas and I sitting on the steps leading to the class rooms and waiting for the three beauties to come to the water tap. They were always together - Deepika, Sushama and......what's the name of the third girl? My girl, as Devdutt used to say! The slim one with cute dimples on her cheeks! And her eyes! When she swept her eyes over anything the sky would light up, the air would vibrate with music and there will be colour everywhere like holi had come unannounced. We always believed God must have taken rest for three days after making these three beauties, because after attaining perfection he would have run out of ideas.
We would be looking at them, they were like three pretty dreams conjured out of thin air and would melt into it after drinking, throwing water at each other, giggling and then looking startled like three fairies being disturbed while bathing in a deserted lake in a valley. It appeared to us the path they were walking on was like a garden of flowers and they came out of it to get back there, to merge with other flowers. Vikas would be gawking at them, spell bound. Devdutt would be leaning on me, his head would gradually tilt towards my shoulder as if he was in the process of swooning.
I suddenly remembered the day I was alone during the recess, standing and staring at the girls. Bikas had not come to school, Devdutt had been called by a teacher for some work. I was mesmerised as usual, and a bit resentful that God had given so much beauty to the three girls and only two eyes to drink in the heavenly bliss of watching them. Suddenly I came down to earth with a thud, someone had given a huge kick to my butt. I shrieked and looked back. It was Devdutt grinning from ear to ear,
"You can't give those hungry looks to your Bhabhi, you idiot!"
I protested,
"Are all the three of them my Bhabhis? Oh, you busted my butt with your football kick, you swine!"
Devdutt shook his fingers at me,
"Don't you ever look anywhere near Deepika. Your hungry look will wither her delicate beauty."
With that he dragged me to the class. When the teacher got busy in teaching geography, the romantic Devdutt immersed himself in drawing doodles and images of Deepika on his note book.
Tall, lanky, handsome Devdutt was easily the smartest boy in the school. He was a fine football player - a deft centre forward - and captained the school team. Every time he scored a goal he would look at the stands and blow a kiss towards an invisible Deepika. He told us all his goals were dedicated to her. The teachers loved him, because his family owned all the important businesses in the town - from Petrol bunks to two wheelers and electrical appliances. He was from the famous Saraf family, the richest in the district, next only to the Mayurbhanj king. Some of us were hostellers and Devdutt's mother made sure to send ample quantities of home made sweets or savouries through a servant for Devdutt to share with us every afternoon. On all festivals Devdutt would drag us to their huge house in Baghra Road. His mother, and Bhbhi would fawn over us like we were the honoured guests. In return they only wanted us to "keep an eye on their Debu, who had mischief running in his blood, inherited from a gang of unruly ancestors."
Devdutt practically spent the whole day with us in the college and in hostel. Some days he would 'forget' to go home and at ten in the night one of their servants would appear at the hostel with huge tiffin carriers filled with paratha, mutton curry and thick, sweet khir. We would have finished our dinner in the mess long back, but the moment the servant vanished, we would pounce on the food like hungry jackals over the carcass of an unfortunate deer.
Devdutt was by far the most popular among the friends. His mind would always be full of mischief, the eyes restless, roaming around, looking for something or someone to play his prank on. When we asked him who was he looking for, he would smile and say 'Deepika' and break into an instant poem "Dying for a glimpse of you, o elusive damsel, for just a smile from you, I will go through heaven and hell!"
But Devdutt's favourite target was Pranab, our serious, studious room mate, the topper of the class. It was a fair saying among friends that some people have been made by God to play, like Devdutt, and some to study, like Pranab. The moment Devdutt came to our room in the morning, he would take the broom from the corner and clean the floor under Pranab's chair. The first time he did that, we asked him the reason. He smiled and said, "Others do studying, Pranab does tapasya like the sage Balmiki. So when he studies late into the night, anthills get formed under the chair. If I don't sweep them clean, soon the whole room will turn into an anthill!"
Our friend Pranab would often moan that there are but twenty four hours in a day, an hour or two extra would have been no big deal for God, but would have given extra time for Pranab to study. It was his ambition to get a medical degree and be the best surgeon in the state. He would get up at four in the morning and sit down to study. The other four room mates, including me, would get up at seven, go around the hostel trying to pilfer bits of snacks from unsuspecting victims, and by nine would be sitting in the mess howling and badgering the cook to serve hot, hot food. We would keep eating till rice threatened to come out of our eyes and ears and then leisurely amble back to the room. Pranab would get up from his chair, startled by the noise made by us, and rush to toilet with a neem twig in his mouth (we often joked that he used both ends of the body at the same time while trying to mug up Newton's laws of motion). Pranab's bath would be over before he could finish counting ten. He would eat his lunch in a tearing hurry and then rush to the class to make sure he gets to sit in the front row at his usual place.
The teachers would be ecstatic to see Pranab, sitting with wide eyes, all eager to drink in the nectar of wisdom and knowledge from them. The Sanskrit teacher would often recite a sloka which probably roughly translated as "A student may get a good teacher just like that, but a teacher has to do meditation for seven births to get a brilliant student." And he would beam at Pranab while reciting this sloka. The next moment his gaze will turn stony, fire will spew from the eyes and he would sweep them over the rest of the unworthy idiots in the class as if it was his dearest wish to burn us down. His final target would be Devdutt, the poorest in studies. He would promptly lower his head to give an impression of serious studying of the book. A few times the Sanskrit teacher would grandly announce, "Pranab, my son, you can come anytime to my house to clear your doubts, my door would be always open for you." Devdutt would scribble something in his note book and nudge me to take a look,
"Son or Son in law? The old man's doors would be open even at midnight! Lucky Pranab and the old sod's nubile daughter! He would probably give her an injection every night!"
I would die of laughing, trying my best to hide my face from the stern Sanskrit teacher.
Devdutt's favorite pastime was to make fun of anyone found studying. Whenever he saw me at the study table he would stand in the centre of the room, "Study, you idiot Abi. I won't. If I fail in exams I will join politics and become a minister. You will be a clerk somewhere, I will take you as my PA. I will call you home to take dictation. When Deepika enters the room if you don't stand up and salute her, I will drag you to the operation table of Dr. Pranab Das and order him to remove the most important organ from your body, you know what it is."
Pranab would lift his head for a moment from the heap of books and say, "I will remove Abi's stomach and connect the entrance and exit of food in one pipe. Whatever he eats will come out straight."
The idea would appeal to everyone, there will be loud clapping and dancing at the prospect. I would tease Devdutt,
"You will be minister, what will Deepika be?"
He would smile,
"Of course the Ministress, you idiot!"
Despite all the bravado, the fantasy and the fanciful songs, poor Devdutt could not express his love to Deepika. The girls were in a separate section and except the daily sighting of Deepika at the water tap or occasionally at the end of the school hours, Devdutt could not see her, but there was not a minute when he did not think of her. To make matters worse, she was the daughter of our mighty head master, a terror, who was referred to as the Yamraj. We often wondered how the monster could father a delicate flower like Deepika. Devdutt could never muster the courage to approach Deepika even for a small talk, let alone a prolonged romance.
Once our high school exams were over, we went different ways. I left to study Economics at Ravenshaw College, Bikas and Jatin stayed back to pursue their studies in the local college. Pranab made the school proud by securing the third position, among the "best ten" students in the state. He was welcomed with open arms at the SCB Medical College, on his way to realize the dream of becoming the best surgeon of Odisha. And Devdutt who just scrapped through the exam, got a seat at the Government Engineering College at Burla under sports quota. Our Head Sir, the Yamraj, also got transferred to far off Nabarangpur a few days after that and Deepika left Baripada.
All of us got scattered to different places and hardly met again. After my M.A. in Economics I got selected for the Indian Economic Service and came to Delhi. I remained there ever since and gradually lost touch with everyone. Pranab, after his MBBS, had joined as a government doctor somewhere.
Devdutt played football for the University and after his Engineering degree got a job with the state government. He was working as a Junior Engineer in Anandpur sub-division when the Executive Engineer visited his office for inspection. Devdutt was staying in his small government quarters and invited the EE for lunch at home. He had asked the cook to prepare some good dishes, but the EE flared up, taking a look at the lunch,
"Devdutt, don't they teach you at the college how to take care of the bosses during inspection? Is this lunch fit for an Executive Engineer?"
Devdutt was upset,
"Sorry Sir, this is all that I can offer, with my meagre salary."
That was like the proverbial red rag to the bull,
"Salary? Who asks you to spend from your salary for my lunch? What for contractors are there? After a hard day's work one needs some beer, mutton biryani, chicken fry and prawn curry. What is this you have put here? Fish curry and omelette? This what my coolies eat. Is this meal fit for an Executive Engineer?"
Devdutt had never imagined that he would be insulted for the lunch he was offering at home. He seethed with anger,
"Sorry Sir, you are my guest, I can't ask a contractor to bear the cost of a lunch I host at home."
The EE got violently angry, after all Devdutt was questioning the very ethics of the hallowed department. Ever since he had got into the job he had learnt that contractors were the ones who had to pay for lunches, packets of sweets, gifts, marriage expenses, air tickets, and stay at hotel for the bosses. What was this young brat doing, breaking the sacred traditions of the department! He exploded,
"Again speaking with the lowly mentality of a coolie? Are you from a coolie's family?"
If Devdutt had one fault, it was his obsessive pride with the Saraf name. At the EE's word a bomb went off in his head, he gave a resounding slap to the boss and his famous centre forward kick at the butt brought the poor, diminutive man shrieking to the door.
Devdutt was beaten up by the EE's staff waiting outside. He left Anandpur within an hour. The resignation letter to the state government was sent the next day from Baripada. Devdutt became a regular at the local stadium, coaching youngsters in football. Luckily his second brother who was a young professor at an American University came home on vacation after a week. He took Devdutt with him to the U.S.. Devdutt enrolled for an MBA degree in the same University where his brother taught Computer Science. When Devdutt had come to get married we heard that he had joined some company as a sales executive.
I didn't know where Devdutt had gone after that and today I was going to meet him after so many decades! I left office a little early to get ready to meet my best friend of the school days.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
I could spot Devdutt from the entrance itself, standing tall and distinguished. We shrieked like a couple of gorillas and hugged each other, much to the amusement of the onlookers in the lobby. We didn't care.
Devdutt shouted,
'Abi, you poor government slob, you are looking pathetic! Don't they pay you enough? Why are you looking like a refugee from Somalia? But let me tell you, my friend, you haven't changed a bit, the same thin, famished look, your face is exactly what it was thirty two years back!"
Devdutt had a right to say that. He had changed a lot. Gone was the lanky footballer's frame. Before me he appeared like a giant, a robust man. With sleek hair and thick sideburns, he would have passed off as a Columian drug lord or Italian mafia in any crowd. I just smiled at him. Words failed me, seeing him after so many years.
Devdutt dragged me to the lift, whispering,
"Four bottles of champagne are waiting in an ice bucket, like succulent girls from a Sheikh's harem. Let's go and ravish them. We will order room service and I bet the walls of the room will shake and collapse tonight, when we open the wagon of memories."
What Devdutt referred to as a room was actually a suite, with a separate sitting room and bedroom. The daily rent must be a quarter of my monthly salary. My eyes popped out,
"Devdutt, what are you? The president of an American multinational?"
He shook his head modestly,
"Corporate Vice-President. I am here on a recruitment spree, to carry the best Indian brains away to the land of opportunities. I interview a few dozen candidates everyday."
"Here, in this suite? The poor chaps must be nervous entering the suite!"
"No, no, not here, I have asked the hotel to enclose a space in the lobby for that. In this country everything has to be open and transparent, you know."
He winked. I knew this was vintage Devdutt in his elemental form, making fun of everyone and everything.
We opened the bottle of champagne, I toasted to him and wished him a happy wedding anniversary. The champagne was just heavenly, the snacks, heated in the micro wave by Devdutt tasted divine. I sat on the sofa and looked out of the 10th floor suite. Delhi sky with its twinkling stars looked mesmerising, like out of a fairy tale.
Devdutt ordered food over phone, a few more plates of snacks and tons of food. I was amused,
"Devdutt, so much food for just the two of us?"
He smiled,
"Let's eat well, in memory of the frugal meals of your hostel mess. Remember, I used to stay back with you guys in the hostel before the exams. We used to go and buy tea from the stalls near the bus stand. And return to the room with a flask of tea. Pranab used to plead with you for a few sips. When you refused he used to curse you, "Wait, when I would be a big surgeon you would come to me to operate on your hydrocele. I will throw you out of my clinic, after removing half of it, you miserable miser!"
Mention of the word 'hydrocele' suddenly electrified us. We had already finished a bottle of Champagne and were unto the second bottle. A tipsy lightness was descending on us like soft clouds on a mountaintop. I said "Hydrocele! You remember the hydrocelised time we had in the hostel?"
He nodded. We had a day scholar, Harishankar, who had a big mole with the size of berry on his forehead,. Oneday, some creative genius among our friends exclaimed "Look, look at Hari's hydrocele!" And everyone rolled with laughter. In a very surrealistic way the word created a magical appeal and assumed an universal use. After that the word spread over our our conversation like soft butter on a coy bread. We referred to everything as hydrocele. Someone wanted two pieces of biscuits from a packet, he would say, hey, give me couple of hydroceles. If Bikas wanted to borrow Ajay's razor for shaving, he would ask for the hydrocele, if someone wanted a pen to write, he will ask for a hydrocele. Oneday Sushil, the one with the voice of a foghorn stunned everyone in the mess by screaming at the cook, "Nana, give me two pieces of hot hydrocele!"
Remembering those fun-filled days, we started laughing. For two sozzled friends it was no ordinary laughter, it sounded like the roar of a waterfall on a rainy day. We rolled on the sofa and started thumping each other's back. And just when we thought one of us would collapse on the floor the bell chimed. We restrained ourselves with great difficulty and Devdutt opened the door. It was the bearer with a trolley of food.
I had read somewhere that in God's scheme of things coincidences are his way of playing funny jokes on the feeble human mind, to remind us that he alone is the supreme master and we are just puppets in his hand. When the bearer entered the room, it felt like our old friend Harishankar had walked in, his mole larger than ever, his broad smile matching the dazzlingly white uniform.
One look at him and we broke into the loudest burst of laughter, like a gun firing in quick, unending succession. The young man got a shock as if one of the gunshots had pierced his leg and the pain had stunned him. He came to senses within a few seconds, arranged the food in a hurry and ran out of the room like he was being chased by two hydra headed gorillas.
Devdutt was still not prepared to believe I had lost touch with all our friends,
"Abi, are you sure you don't know the whereabouts of any of our friends?"
"I swear Devdutt, I had no time to keep track of anyone, having more or less settled down in Delhi. And let me tell you despite the frugal salary the government pays, it extracts work from us like we are indentured slaves. I have so many meetings, visitors to deal with, and so many files to clear that most days I go crazy by the time I return home. My wife Anjali says she has sometimes seen me signing my name in the air in the night when asleep."
Devdutt broke into another huge, thunderous laugh,
"Signing your name in the air? That's funny, absolute baloney! Show me how?"
In our champagne journey we had already tripped over to the wrong side of sobriety. I replied to his thunder with my own thunder and signed my name in the air with my finger. Once, twice, thrice .....it went on and on. Devdutt collapsed laughing, it appeared as if laughter would flow from his eyes and ears. He also joined the fun and started signing my name in the air. To an onlooker we would have easily passed off like two laughing monkeys gone completely bonkers.
Devdutt was the first to recover. He suddenly remembered Pranab and asked me,
"Where would Pranab be now? How many hydroceles he would have operated upon by now? A thousand? A million?"
"I am sure he would have graduated to something bigger than hydrocele now. May be operating on hearts? Or could it be brains? I wish I knew!"
"Abi, do you remember the night before the Saraswati puja in our final year of school?"
A smile spread over my face. Yes, of course I remembered. In fact none of us who was present that night in the school would have forgotten it.
Saraswati puja and Ganesh puja were great occasions in our school days - good celebration, a sumptuous feast and strictly no studies! Infact these were the only two occasions when Pranab reluctantly dragged himself away from the study table. We installed an idol of the goddess in a pandal and decorated it with great care. Coloured papers were cut and designed into flowers, festoons, joined by glue made out of maida. All of us would be awake much beyond midnight, consuming a few rounds of tea. The girls didn't come, but they were the subject of bawdy jokes and banters. Devdutt would be telling jokes and playing pranks. His mother would send poori, aloo dum and lots of sweets and we would do swift justice to them.
That year, in our final year, we had been busy with decorating the pandal till midnight and gone off to sleep in the hall under quilts. It was February and the cold was biting. Suddenly we heard piercing screams from outside. We woke up, they appeared to be anguished shrieks of a dying man. It was dark outside, and some of us started shivering, thinking of the resident ghost of the campus. A student had committed suicide in the school a few years back. He was a jilted lover and his spirit was said to be roaming in the school, often breaking the silence of the night with blood-curdling screams.
We guessed one of the students had gone out to relieve himself and the ghost had caught him. The screams got louder and we could hear a few expletives in between. Somehow the voice sounded familiar and we realised it was Pranab. And through the loud abuse and expletives we heard Devdutt's name and detailed description of his dubious parentage and the parentage of the ancestors. We ran out and saw Pranab bent painfully holding his groin and alternately whimpering and throwing expletives at Devdutt with the most colourful expressions. Seeing us he became more violent and swore that when he became a doctor he would cut Devdutt's head and switch it with a dog's head and then dismember his male organ, chop it into pieces and feed them into the newly installed dog's mouth.
All of us ran to him and when we found out the cause of his agony some of us started laughing. It seemed when Pranab was in deep sleep, someone had taken the sticky maida glue, inserted his hand into Pranab's pants and applied the glue on his urinating organ. The glue had hardened and blocked the passage. Pranab had got up towards early morning, gone outside to relieve himself, and found the passage sealed with glue. The bursts of pain were agonizing. He assumed it was the job of Devdutt, the master pranker. Devdutt pleaded that he had nothing to do with it and if he ever found out who it was who thought of such a cruel prank, he would smash his head with a big stone.
No one believed him and no one knew what to do with Pranab. Suddenly Devdutt ran to the tap and got a bucket of water. He poured it slowly on the groin of Pranab. Despite the unbearable cold Pranab braved it. Gradually the glue melted and a stream of urine spurted out and hit Devdutt on his stomach. Everyone clapped. Pranab sighed in relief and promptly forgave Devdutt for saving his life, promising to operate on Deepika to deliver their first baby.
That should have made Devdutt happy, but he was seething with anger, trying to guess who did the mischief on Pranab. Next day he got a big stone from somewhere and kept it in our room to catch the joker and smash his head. A few weeks later the boy who had done it bragged about it to someone, and we came to know it was Sanjay who always came second or third in the exams and was terribly jealous of Pranab. Devdutt wanted to smash his head, but exams were only a few days away and we didn't want any trouble. So we persuaded Devdutt to forgive him.
Remembering that episode we started laughing again. We were on the fourth bottle of champagne by then and fairly sozzled. I moved near the window. The lighted Rajpath and the India Gate at a distance were looking majestic, like an empress from the pages of history. There was an aura of mystery outside and I was mesmerised by it. Devdutt came and stood near me and recited a poem:
After me for thousands of years
The roses will bloom
The stars will shine,
But those who knew
The secrets of my heart
Will come and visit my grave.
I looked at him, his face looked serious, very serious. I was stunned, how did he transform so suddenly? And the poem? Did he write such a deep, soul-stirring poem?
Devdutt gave me a tragic smile,
"No, I didn't write that. It's some Persian poet and the poem appears in A Passage to India of EM Forster."
Before I could reply, he looked outside and asked,
"Abi, where would she be now?"
I got a shock,
"Who? Deepika?"
He nodded,
"I don't know where she would be, but one thing I am sure, wherever she is, she would be an old lady, around fifty years old, like you and me. And she may be a grand mother by now, playing with a grand daughter somewhere! She must have forgotten you and all of us by now. And you idiot, why are you thinking of her on your wedding anniversary? If you were to pine for her for the whole life, why didn't you meet her and tell her about your love?"
Devdutts's face broke into a sad misery. In a subdued, sunken voice, he asked me,
"How do you know I didn't tell her?"
With that Devdutt got up and went to his bedroom. I waited for him to come out and tell me when he had met Deepika. He didn't, I went in and checked after a few minutes. He had gone off to sleep. I gathered a pillow and a quilt from the bed and came to the living room. The sofa was big enough to sleep in. I was feeling drowsy, I finished the left over champagne and went off to sleep. Next morning I got up at six, Devdutt was still asleep. I quietly left for home.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxx
In the evening I went to pick up Devdutt from the hotel. I was driving my car. He was unusually quiet. I kept looking at him, hoping he would return to his normal self. He suddenly smiled,
"I know what is in your mind, why you are looking at me again and again."
I smiled back,
"How do you know what is in my mind?"
"Abi, I don't know about you, but I always feel that school days were the best days of our lives. There was no competition, no running after success, no worrying about money. It was like all the joys, the pleasures we craved for, floated in the air and we just had to raise our hands and pluck them. Abi, when you and I have shared such days of pristine purity, can't I read your mind? If I can't, then I don't deserve to be called a friend."
I smiled,
"Ok, ok, enough of your lecture. Now tell me, did you meet Deepika?"
A shadow fell on his face, like the shade of a dark cloud over a green valley on a fading afternoon,
"After I joined the Engineering College, I tried my best to immerse myself in studies and my football game. But Deepika's thought shadowed me like a tragic tune, refusing to go out of mind. I went crazy Abi, every waking moment I thought of nothing other than Deepika, did she love me, did she think of me as much as I thought of her, did she even know I existed? She became an obsession, a persistent ache in my heart. And a time came when I couldn't bear it anymore. One evening I got into a bus from Sambalpur to Nabarangpur. You know that is where the head sir had got transferred to after our results had come out. It was a twelve hours journey, but I measured the distance by the thousands of my nervous heart beats. Would Deepika welcome me, express her love for me? Would she come out of home and accompany me to a park, where we would sit and plan for a sweet future?"
I was getting impatient,
"Cut down the intro Devdutt, come to the point. Did your Juliet meet you, my dear Romeo?"
He nodded,
"Have patience my friend, I have not told this to anyone in my life. Just listen. I checked into a lodge near the bus stand. Waited till ten when the head sir would leave for the school. I knew Deepika's mother was a sickly person, she spent most of her time on bed. I reached their house at ten thirty and rang the bell, nervous, panicky, my heart beat loudly, like a rail engine. No one opened the door. I rang the bell again, after a few minutes. In a few moments the door opened. There, standing before me was Deepika, the queen of my dreams, in a pink dress, her hair cascading over the dainty shoulders, her face soft and shining from the just concluded bath. My heart which had sounded like a rail engine suddenly stopped, I would have collapsed had I not held on to the door for my dear life."
I almost exploded, the suspense was killing me,
"Move on, you idiot, come to the point, I am dying to know what she told you."
Devdutt almost broke into a sob,
"Told me? Abi, she told me nothing, just stood there, staring at me, as if I was an alien from the space. I swallowed a few times and blurted out, 'Deepika, I am Devdutt, from your school. Don't you recognise me?' She peered at me and slowly shook her head. I persisted, 'I was the captain of the football team', I felt like telling her, each and every goal I scored was dedicated to you, every moment of my life for the last few years has been spent thinking about you, every breath of mine bore your name. But Abi, I couldn't say all this. After all I was not a hero in a movie mouthing some dialogue, I was just a desperate lover who wanted to know if his beloved pined for him as much as he pined for her. Abi, her silence bore down on me like a huge mountain. She stood there, a smile frozen on her pretty face, and my heart broke into a million pieces, like jagged pieces of glass they pierced it and made it bleed in a way it had never bled before. I kept looking at her, waiting for her to say something, to call me in, to offer a glass of water. She again shook her head, and I knew that was the final rejection of my millions of dreams. Before I could burst into tears I turned and started walking, hoping against hope, Deepika would call me back and say she was just joking with me, yes, I was her secret sweetheart, yes, all her friends were jealous of her because the most handsome, dashing boy of the school had fallen for her like a ton of bricks!"
Devdutt sighed, a long deep sigh that came from the depth of his heart,
"Nothing like that happened Abi, such things are the stuff of romantic novels and movies, not of real life. I returned to the lodge. It was the longest walk of my life, my heart aching with an unbelievable pain. But once I reached the room, and drank a glass of water, something strange happened. Suddenly my head felt light, as if it had been emptied of all emotions, all burdens. I lay down on the bed and had the soundest sleep after many years. I returned to my college by the evening bus."
Devdutt remained quiet for a few seconds and then smiled at me. I was moved, overwhelmed by the thought that I was the only one who was privy to a secret chapter of his life. Time stood still, I had stopped the car on the wayside because we were very close to my home. I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Devdutt asking me to move. We reached home in a few seconds.
Devdutt showed nothing of the sadness that had weighed down heavily on him a short while back. My wife was delighted to get a video camera as a gift and the kids could not take their eyes off this tall, handsome, dashing uncle who looked like a Hollywood film star. Devdutt had of course won them over with a few bottles of perfume and heaps of chocolates.
The kids looked at Devdutt like he was the king of a small princely state. He didn't disappoint them, he gave them a royal talk,
"Hey kiddos, your dad must be telling you to study all the time. Don't do that, if you study hard you will become like your dad, a government official. If you play all the time, do exercise, build your body and be smart, you will become like me, a Corporate Vice President of a multinational company."
Our daughter Arunima could not contain her curiosity,
"Uncle how much salary you get?"
Devdutt flashed a big grin,
"About a million dollars a year, including bonus of course."
The elder kid, Anirudh, immediately started calculating - a million, means ten lakh dollars, a dollar is sixty rupees, so ten lakh dollars would be six hundred lakh rupees, that would be six crores, fifty lakh rupees per month! Their eyes popped out, I almost thought they would get up, fall at his feet, and ask him to adopt them. Anirudh asked,
"How do you become a Vice President in a multinational company?"
"Well, I will tell you how I got there. Twenty five years back I completed my MBA and joined as a sales executive at a salary of a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. In two years I became an area manager, and kept climbing the ladder. Everytime I switched to a new company, I negotiated a raise and a joining bonus. In twenty years I became Vice President of a multinational. That's it kiddos, be smart, think big! Come over to America, that is where all the money lies, just come and pick it up."
The two kids nodded, as if given a chance they would pack a bag and leave for the U.S. in the next available flight.
Then suddenly out of nowhere Arunima asked,
"Uncle, if you are earning six crore rupees a year, how much does your driver earn? A crore?"
For a moment that question stumped Devdutt. Then he laughed, a big, uproarious laugh,
"Hey kiddos, we have no driver there, we drive our own cars."
Arunima was scandalized,
"No driver uncle, then who buys your vegetables and fish?"
"We do it ourselves. Mostly my wife does it."
"And who cleans your house, your clothes? Auntie?"
Devdutt was getting the drift of the questions by now,
"Hey, we do everything ourselves. Driving cars, cleaning the house, buying groceries, mowing lawns, doing laundry, dish washing, even disposing of garbage. We have to do everything. If we engage people to do all these, half our salaries will be gone."
The kids sat up,
"Then forget it uncle, we are not going to America. Our Baba's job is much better, he has an official car, a driver, a peon comes from office to buy vegetables, fish and fruits, a didi comes everyday to do jhaadu pochha and an auntie comes to cook. We just sit and enjoy. We would prefer this type of life uncle. Sorry!"
We had moved to the dining table. Devdutt smiled,
"It's ok kiddos, sometimes we miss your kind of life. There we don't have a single day of pure relaxation, just stretch our leg and do nothing kind of day. Like you have it all the time here. Ok, tell you what, next year I will bring Auntie and we will spend a whole week here in Delhi. Our daughter cannot come because she has just got into Medical school. When we come, let your daddy take leave. We will hire a big car and go to Agra, Jaipur, Amritsar and enjoy."
My wife, Anjali, who was peeved for being left out of the champagne party, brightened,
"And lots of champagne in the evenings!"
Devdutt added to the excitement,
"Yes, lots of champagne, and also barrels of beer for me and Abi."
Anjali's eyes danced with joy,
"Promise?"
"Promise."
xxxxxxxxxxxx
With that promise Devdutt vanished from our lives as magically as he had appeared. That was more than three years back. He never phoned me again, nor was there an email message.ftom him. He had faded from my memory like a letter from the past, tucked away somewhere and forgotten. But tonight is different. It is much past midnight and for the last two hours I am tossing on the bed, reliving the experience of a rain soaked evening.
I had returned to Delhi from Bhubaneswar by the evening flight. Two days back I had gone to Odisha for inspection of some rural industrial units sanctioned by my Ministry. This morning I had hired a taxi and visited Betnoti, about hundred forty kilometers from the state capital. Around two in the afternoon I started my return journey. My flight to Delhi was at seven thirty. A few kilometres after Betnoti I had to answer nature's call ant I asked the driver to stop the car somewhere. It had started drizzling and despite the green fields and the lush avenue trees I was feeling a bit depressed. I had started missing my family and was looking forward to reaching home.
The driver stopped the car under some tree and I got down to relieve myself. I walked a few feet, but found a huge ant hill. Looking at the numerous pits I knew there would be snakes there and I shuddered at the thought. So I kept walking and found a slightly secluded spot. After I finished the job, I found there was a small one room house a few feet away. Somehow I had not noticed the house, it being partly hidden by a tree. Under the branches a signboard was hanging with an arrow pointing to the house: Dr. Pranab Das M.B.B.S.. Pranab Das? Could it be our dear friend Pranab? But then I dismissed the idea. Pranab must be an eminent Professor of Surgery in some Medical College or may be the Chief Surgeon in some Government hospital. This must be some other person.
I started walking back, but then thought, no harm in checking. So I went and knocked at the door. When the door opened, I heaved a sigh of relief. Thank God it was not our Pranab. The old, bald man with a haggard, bearded face and sunken cheeks looked nowhere near our bright, fair, healthy friend from the school days. I smiled at him and said, "Sorry, I made a mistake. I had a friend with the same name as yours. But you are different. Sorry again, to have bothered you."
I turned back. The next moment the ground slipped from under my feet, when the man said, in a voice choked with emotion,
"Abi, won't you come inside? Won't you have a cup of tea with me?
It's difficult to describe when you have a feeling of being struck by lightning. I almost felt like I was about to collapse. I looked at him, and I could swear there was not a trace of resemblance to the Pranab of our school days. His eyes were brimming with tears, he dragged me inside through the open door. There were two chairs, one was obviously for him as the doctor and the other one for the patients. I sat on the second one. Pranab just stood there and broke into uncontrolled sobs. I stood up and patted him on the back, trying to console him. I kept wondering how Pranab, the third best student of the state of Odisha in our batch, with the dream of becoming the best surgeon in the state, had come to this pathetic situation. What went wrong in his scheme of things?
Pranab went to the basin, washed his face, kept a pot on the stove for making tea and came to sit before me. The tears had dried up on his face, the eyes had become red and swollen, he was not even a shadow of my friend from the school. This was a different man, ravaged by the many storms of life, someone who had been squeezed like a piece of orange by a merciless crusher leaving only a few remnants of skin and flesh. Unknown to me, I had also shed a few drops of tear. I asked him how he came to such a pass.
In a quivering voice Pranab told me a sad and bizarre story symbolic of government apathy and indifference. We knew Pranab came from a poor family, his father an ordinary farmer, burdened with a big family of two sons and three daughters. Pranab joined a government job as an ad hoc doctor, waiting for an opportunity to get an admission into the post graduate course. Unfortunately, there was some error in the application process by the government, so even before selection could be made a group of students approached the High Court and got a stay. The government decided to fight the case and it went for four years.
In the meanwhile Pranab's mother passed away two years after he joined the job and his father wanted him to get married to take care of his brother and three sisters, the youngest two were only six and eight years old. The selection for post graduation was made after four and half years, but someone challenged the selection. Another three years were wasted, the selection was set aside by the court.
Meanwhile Pranab had been blessed with a son and a daughter. With all the stress of frequent transfers in his adhoc job, the uncertainty of court cases, Pranab could not qualify in the next year's exam for post graduation. Added to that the selection process for regular posts of doctors also got stuck in court cases. By the time those got cleared, Pranab was thirty five years old and became ineligible as over-aged for a government job. The new crop of doctors joined and Pranab lost his ad hoc job. So he came back to his village, his old father was now dependent on Pranab and his wife, two youngest sisters were yet to get married. So he left his wife and the two kids at his village and came over to the nearest small town to build this small one room which was his clinic cum residence. He visited his family once a week.
I peeped through the curtain to see a small bed covered with a mosquito net, a few old utensils and an earthen pot to keep water. Looking at Pranab I knew his earnings from the medical practice must be meagre. The dream of being the best surgeon must have been buried long back in the unfathomable abyss of time.
Pranab knew that I was working as an officer with the Government of India, someone had told him. He asked me if I had news of any other class mates. I didn't know anything about others, but I did tell him about Devdutt's visit three years back. Holding the cup of watery tea in my hand, I didn't have the heart to mention the four bottles of champagne which we had finished in the evening of his wedding anniversary. Pranab's face fell when I told him that Devdutt was a corporate vice president in an American multinational company. He looked at me with sad eyes brimming with tears. Then with his head bent with grief, he muttered: "lucky chap, really lucky".
I left Pranab in his den of misery and walked to the car. A spell of heavy rain had made tbe air damp and depressing. The anthill looked polished by rain, but somehow more intimidating, as if it stored many dark secrets of life within it, waiting to come out and hit with a hissing fury.
I returned to Delhi. My heart had shattered to pieces when Pranab had said, "lucky chap, really lucky". For the past eight hours those words are ringing in my years. I still cannot believe, the third best student of Odisha in our batch of high school students is living a life of utter misery, his monthly earning probably less than what the four bottles of champagne would have cost the academically worst student in our class. I wonder if that is not the play of destiny, then what is it? I wish I could ask God to answer this riddle from the bottom of his heart, but then, my dear reader, you know as well as me, God has no heart.
(Writer's Note: This story is based on actual facts. It was told to me by a friend from the Indian Economic Service in Delhi in 2008. All incidents described in the story are true, including the gruesome glue episode. It happened in my school to a friend of ours when we had stayed overnight to decorate the puja pandal.)
Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing poems, short stories and editing the eMagazine LiteraryVibes . He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He lives in Bhubaneswar.
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