POOJA SPECIAL EDITION
Title : Durga (Picture courtesy Ms. Latha Prem Sakya)
Prof. Latha Prem Sakya a poet, painter and a retired Professor of English, has published three books of poetry. MEMORY RAIN (2008), NATURE AT MY DOOR STEP (2011) - an experimental blend, of poems, reflections and paintings ,VERNAL STROKE (2015 ) a collection of all her poems. Her poems were published in journals like IJPCL, Quest, and in e magazines like Indian Rumination, Spark, Muse India, Enchanting Verses international, Spill words etc. She has been anthologized in Roots and Wings (2011), Ripples of Peace ( 2018), Complexion Based Discrimination ( 2018), Tranquil Muse (2018) and The Current (2019). She is member of various poetic groups like Poetry Chain, India poetry Circle and Aksharasthree - The Literary woman, World Peace and Harmony)
Dear Readers,
My heartiest greetings to you on the occasion of Vijaya Dashami, the culmination of the Dussehra festival. For the past two years we have been taking out a Pooja Special of LiteraryVibes, containing only stories, to add joy to the festive spirit. This year also I am happy to present to you twelve scintillating stories which are guaranteed to give satisfaction. Each story is better than the other, the last one is big enough to qualify as a novella.
Hope you will like the stories. Looking forward to your feedback in the Comments Box at the bottom of the page.
Please share the stories with your friends and contacts through the link:
https://positivevibes.today/article/newsview/507
The regular monthly edition of LiteraryVibes will be published as LV134 on 27th October, the last Friday of the month.
Wish you the best of enjoyment during the festive season. May the blessings of Maa Durga enrich your life.
With warm regards
Mrutyunjay Sarangi
Editor, LiteraryVibes
Table of Contents PUJA SPECIAL
01) Geetha Nair G
TESTING TIME
02) Sreekumar Ezhuththaani
DEVI
03) Ajay Upadhyaya
DYING DECLARATION
04) Prabhanjan K. Mishra
KAMADHENU, A SAGA
05) Dilip Mohapatra
DESIRES
06) Meena Mishra
THE HUMAN TOUCH
07) Snehaprava Das
ANGEL’S ANKLET
08) Pankhuri Sinha
NOTIFICATIONS
09) Dr(Col)Rekha Mohanty
LESSON FROM JACKFRUIT
10) Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
YA DEVI SARVABHUTESHU
11) Sujata Dash
OFFERING THE OTHER CHEEK
12) Mrutyunjay Sarangi
RED CHUDAA, PIZZA ITALIANO AND WHITE WINE
“Your father isn't really your father. You’re my love-child." Vasuda was holding out the next spoonful of unsweetened porridge when the words erupted from her mother's oats-smeared mouth. The spoonful landed on the plastic bib that covered the invalid's chest. The empty spoon reared up like a question mark in Vasuda’s hand.
"What did you say just now?" she asked the semi-reclining, wasted figure in front of her.
"You heard me," came the reply in the beloved voice she had grown up hearing. "And he too knows it. Now give me my porridge."
Vasuda fed her mechanically. Shock had sent words spinning out of the room. Slowly, very slowly, thoughts formed in her mind. Black thoughts that scudded across the blankness, heralding fire and thunder.
What could have caused this monstrous truth to erupt from that cropped grey head; a full-grown ogre to knock her down, tear her thudding heart out of her chest and swing it in the still air? That it was the truth, she had not an iota of doubt. One does not lie about such matters to one's beloved child. Especially when death is already a presence in the room, darkening the window like a perched bird of prey.
Suddenly, rage flowed into her. She lunged at the wasted body on the bed; she wanted to fling it to the floor, and stamp on it until it grew still. Was this her mother? Her mother, who all her remembered life had been kindness and honour personified, who even now spoke only to ask after her husband’s health or her daughter’s welfare. How could she? How dare she!
Vasuda straightened up with an effort, biting down on the violence within her. “Why did you tell me this now? Amma, Amma!” she asked the inert figure, her voice vibrating with despair. But Amma had already covered herself in her customary blanket of silence.
He was sitting close to the television set, intent on the talk-show that was screaming from it.
Vasuda looked at the bald patch on the back of his head, at the long, sinewy arm flung across the sofa back, at the glimpse of the white dhoti touching the floor. Father. My father. The calm and efficient man of the house who had nursed her tenderly through childhood ailments, who had taught her the maps of the stars, to whom she had cuddled on cold evenings while he read some book or the other.
“Your father isn't really your father.”
The words kept thudding against her ear drums. Had he always known that she was the cuckoo in his nest? Her thoughts went back to her thirty years in their tranquil home, cocooned in the wholeness of their family. She saw the years as a globe, radiating love like light… Of course, she had always known that he loved her less than he did her elder sister. But Janaki had a deformed body, could barely walk, and Amma had explained to her that parental love generally flowed more strongly towards the less - blessed child. She had accepted that and felt grateful that she, unlike Janaki, could walk, run and play as she pleased.
"Let's have dinner… ", she said. She could not bring herself to add “Appa” to her words. The clock struck eight loud notes. In this house the clock ruled every activity. 8 pm was dinner time. As she served him the brown potato curry he relished, she watched his fingers on the chappati. Fingers that resembled Janaki's, not hers.
She looked at his face, the broad forehead, the small bright eyes, the small nose and the thin lips. The mirror above the wash basin showed her a narrow forehead, large eyes, a long nose... .
"What are you looking at? Haven't seen your face before?" he laughed. “Sit down and start eating."
After dinner, she went in to her mother. She needed to know another truth urgently: who was the man who had fathered her? But Amma was already sleeping the comatose sleep of the drugged. The caregiver they employed for the nights was seated by her bedside.
She went back to where he was locking the front door and sliding the bolts into place. Yes. Everything was beginning to fall into place.
She remembered the two kittens she had found in the backyard one morning. She had brought them to the verandah where Janaki was sitting. They yearned to keep the two furry balls as pets. But Janaki and she knew he disliked house pets. Yet they made an attempt. At first, he had been unyielding but had finally melted when Janaki dragged herself to a corner to weep, one plump kitten at her feet. How delighted they had been, she and Janaki! Janaki. How could she have blinded herself to the fact that it was because of Janaki's Bessie that she too had been permitted the joy of Bunty?
He had reined in his grief when meningitis took away Janaki in her sixteenth year. But when it was time to lift the plantain leaf on which her thin body lay, he had fallen back, crying aloud, "My child, my darling child! I lived for you; how will I live without you? "
It had shocked and pained her then that he should break down so in public, her strong Appa...
Now those words uttered eighteen years ago seared her as if the strong breeze from the pyre had flung them at her. How often he had stressed her lifelong role as Janaki’s protector and companion when their parents were no more! Had his beloved Janaki been her raison d’etre? Had that been the reason why she had been allowed to live as a part of the family, why she had not been aborted, or thrust into an orphanage? Also, why, after Janaki’s passing, he had been luke-warm in his interest in her?
Why had he not arranged her marriage the way fathers did?
Of course, she would not have left her home with her Amma so ill and her Appa so helpless. She had declared she would not leave her mother whose health was worsening day by day. But surely, he should have counseled her, told her to make her own life? He hadn't uttered a word. Now, at 30, she could see she was aging. He did’nt care? Why should he?
In her room, Vasuda switched on her laptop, as always. But tonight she sat staring at the lit screen. It was preposterous, said a part of her mind, Appa not her father? Impossible. And yet... How could she live with this unconfirmed knowledge? Knowledge is pain, she remembered reading somewhere. This knowledge was loss as well. A single line had gifted her an enormous bundle of loss. It had wiped out her past life, had darkened and shattered that lit globe that had been her home.
She could not exist this way.
She had to know.
Her fingers raced over the keys.
"A DNA paternity test can prove a father-child DNA match.
You must be wondering now, can anybody get their DNA tested, is it that easy. And the answer to your question is Yes, anybody can get DNA tested and it's easy.
It's simple, all you need is to provide the blood, muccal swab, nail or hair samples of the family member with whom you want to do the test."
***********************************
Alternate Friday mornings were set aside for nail-cutting. As usual, he folded the sheet of newspaper onto which the nail parings had been made to fall and deposited the little packet in the waste bin. Vasuda picked it up a few minutes later.
At 10 o'clock, Vasuda left home. The huge clinical laboratory where her dear friend worked was just across the road… .
Step -1 of her mission accomplished, she got back in less than 15 minutes.
It was one of Amma's bad days. They had been getting more frequent of late. She would not speak a word or allow herself to be fed. “Tell me, Amma, tell me it was a cruel lie,” Vasuda entreated her, looking down at the inert old woman. Suddenly hatred rose like vomit in her throat. She reached out to squeeze out what remained of life within her mother.
Then her arms dropped to her sides. “Amma! Amma!” she cried. There was no response.
"I am going crazy," Vasuda whispered to herself.
Several times, when she found her mother’s eyes open, she asked her the two questions. Again, and again. “Is it true? Who?” Each time her mother stared mutely at the wall opposite her where hung a photo of her little daughters happily at play on a green lawn.
She avoided her mother's husband as much as she could. He sensed there was something wrong but said nothing. At night she swallowed a couple of her mother's sleeping pills in an attempt to shut out the void within her. It was as if her past- her babyhood, childhood, teenage days, youth, had all been erased, or sucked into some black hole So this was what the loss of a certainty did to one. She remembered with a bitter smile a popular flippant saying:
"Motherhood is a matter of fact. Fatherhood is a matter of opinion."
But that had been before DNA tests were thought of.
One more day to go and the results would be in her hands.
The next morning too her mother's condition hadn't improved. The caregiver had reported that the patient’s sleep had been punctuated by incoherent words at intervals through the night The doctor would be calling soon. Vasuda rushed out. Her friend was waiting with a smile and the just-arrived results.
"They match, of course. Crazy girl!" she said, with a hug.
Vasuda read it in black and white. She was her father's daughter after all. Relief made her slump onto a chair. But she was up in no time, racing home to her Appa and Amma, her losses restored. Why O why had Amma lied to her?
The doctor was at Amma’s bedside when she returned. Appa was next to them, his beloved balding head bent earnestly towards the young man’s words. Her mother’s eyes were open, her face alert.
The doctor turned to Vasuda, "She has slid into another stage of the disease which involves… "
His words were cut short by her mother's impatient exclamation.
“Ramesh Uncle, go on, tell me more about your trip to Rameswaram!” Amma’s bright eyes were fixed on the young doctor’s face.
“Delusions,” concluded the doctor.
As Vasuda sobbed, her father’s arms enfolded her in a shining band of love.
Geetha Nair G is a creative writer and a publisher. She is the author of two volumes of poetry ("Shored Fragments"; " Drawing Flame") and two collections of short stories ("Wine, Woman and Wrong"; "Love, Lies and Laundry"). All the stories in these two collections first appeared in "Literary Vibes"
She has compiled and co-edited two international anthologies of short fiction.
She is a former Associate Professor of English from All Saints' College, Thiruvananthapuram.
I was really amused.
The linguist in me suddenly got up like a child seeing its dad after a long time. I slid to the other end of the sofa to get a closer view and better hearing.
I looked up at the fan making so much noise and cursed it. I looked around and found that no one was as interested as I was in what was going on. Probably it was a usual scene. It might be usual for the manager to behave the way she did and get what she got.
Still, I could not believe it. I had noticed this puny woman sitting next to me at the bank waiting for the manager to call her. Same situation as me.
I was there to avail of a loan from the bank to buy a scooter for my elder son. I had no idea why she was there. Probably she too wanted a loan.
What really got my attention was her fricatives. Malayalam is such a beautiful language, especially to listen to. Unfortunately, very few people pronounce it properly. They get the fricatives and plosives all mixed up or wrong. Of course, they never get any good training.
She came back and sat at the other end of the sofa. I looked at her expressing my respect for her with a subtle smile.
Looking at her, I tried to recall what had just happened between her and the manager.
“Sreedevi, Sreedevi, is she here? Come on in!”
She goes to the manager who asks her where her guarantor is.
She says he is on the way. He has called her from the bus, she says.
“Don’t you know the bank rules,” the bank manager, a lady, yells at her.
She says sorry and comes back to sit on the sofa with me.
She takes a minute to compose herself and goes back to the manager.
She speaks. And I notice her fricatives and plosives.
“Excuse me, madam. I work in a school. I never had the good fortune to work in a bank. So I don’t know the bank rules. But I am thorough with the school rules. I know almost everything about admissions, exams, and all that. Sorry for having sidestepped the bank rules unknowingly.”
She pauses a moment for the manager to respond. Getting no response, she continues.
“But madam, unlike a school, a bank, as far as I know, is a business venture. We are your customers. A lot depends on how you treat a customer. There are too many banks even in our town. If you behave like this to your customers, they will prefer another bank. So, to show your integrity in your job, I think you should behave more welcomingly. Sorry if I am being rude.”
The manager says it is OK. The petite figure turns around, smiles to herself and joins me on the sofa. And here she is with her small victory over the manager.
I didn’t tell her but I did appreciate her guts. The manager could refuse to float the loan even for personal reasons. So this little one risked all that to teach that arrogant manager a lesson.
“So, you are also here to avail of a loan.”
“Yes”
“Pardon me, but how much?” I knew this bank was mostly for microfinancing.
“25,000. I want to fix my house.”
I didn’t expect it to be that small. She could not find anyone to help her with such a small amount? The bank is nothing but trouble.
“Sorry, I overheard you. So, you are a teacher?”
“No, I used to work in the KG section of a school. They don’t want me there anymore.”
“O, sorry about that.”
“That is OK. True, I gave the best 20 years of my life to that school. For a very poor salary. 7500 per month. My cousin is a salesperson at a textile shop. She gets 12,000. Hahaha”
“Really?”
“Yes, but I have no regrets.”
“Why so?”
“My life with kids. There is nothing like it.”
“Can you share some of your experiences?”
“God, this sounds like a TV interview! Are you an anchor?”
“No, I am not an anchor. I am basically a linguist.”
“Linguist? Never heard that word before, I am sure.”
‘Theercha’ is how we say sure in Malayalam. When she uttered that word, I was charmed by the beauty of the Malayalam velar fricative ‘cha’
“Can you say that again?”
“Why?”
“Your ‘cha’ is so fascinating. We call that sound a velar fricative.”
“Pardon.”
“I told you I am a linguist. I study languages. No, not languages, but about languages. I was mesmerized by how you spoke so beautifully to the manager.”
“But what was that velar….what is it?
“Velar Fricative. You see there is a ridge behind our teeth where the teeth are fixed. When you say “cha” you are supposed to keep your tongue close to the teeth ridge and let your breath slide out. Most people would let the breath explode and utter a plosive. Too ugly for me.”
I noticed her trying that and listening to her own voice. She did that in different pitches, including the male bass.
“Do you sing?”
“A little bit. Mostly I was teaching dance, drawing and music at school.”
“Wow, a complete artist. Where did you study?”
“GHSS, Pulamanthole.”
“No, where did you pursue your talents.”
She laughed.
“I quit schooling after my twelfth and took a diploma in Early Childhood Education. Never pursued any of my talents. Was not fortunate enough to do so.”
“That is a pity. But where did you pick up this beautiful enunciation, dance, music and art?”
“I have no idea. From all around, I should say. But since I am teaching small kids, I make it a point to be as correct as possible in everything. What they learn that early might stay with them their whole life.”
“Do share with me some of your experiences at school. I am in no hurry and that manager lady is not going to finish my papers any soon.”
“Too many things to talk about and be proud of. I could ask my son to drop me at school. But I walked every day to school because then there was a group of kids walking with me. A duck and ducklings!” She laughed.
“I used to ask the kids what they pray and several times they told me they pray to god to make me go home with them and stay there. I wish I could do that. My own home is not that inviting.”
I didn’t want to dig into that. So, I let it slide.
“One day a girl didn’t open her eyes even after the prayer was over. I shook her by the shoulder to tease her. She slowly opened her eyes and told me she was “seeing” me with her eyes closed.”
“Wow!”
And once another teacher asked a girl whom she liked the best. She named me. It was not surprising because she would sneak into my lap and sit there whenever she got a chance. Of course, she would like me the best. But, the teacher asked a second question…. and her answer gave me a shock.”
“Really? What was it?”
She smiled.
“She asked the little girl whom she liked second best. And she said….” she could not continue, she chocked.
“O, come on tell me…what did she say?”
“She said, “My parents.” That is when I realised that for the first question she was not referring only to teachers. She meant all. All…”
I saw her wiping her eyes.
“You would have been such an asset to the school. Then why did they let you go.”
“They were not letting me go. I didn’t want to leave. I applied for three months leave for health reasons and they gave me permission over the phone. Not in writing. Then they dumped my leave application and removed me giving me no notice. Reason: Absent without permission. 20 years and no benefits or consideration of any kind. Not even an experience certificate.”
“Why?”
“Because if they give an experience certificate of 20 years, I might claim retirement benefits.”
“But why did they remove you?”
“They sold the post to a younger scapegoat.”
“O, God. You didn’t go to the authorities.”
“I did. The education officer told me the school does not come under his authority.”
“What do you think of the profession now? You know it is underpaid, unstable and all that.”
“I still love my profession. Once a teacher, always a teacher. I give tuition classes to a couple of kids now. Mainly teaching them to read through art, music and dance. It works.”
“And how much do you charge for that?”
She quoted an amount. As much as what I spent on food each day.
“Do you write?”
“Not really. A collection of rhymes for children got published. A couple of poems got into a textbook.”
“God, you are a very talented person.”
“You are the second one to say so.”
“And the first?”
“A writer who sort of discovered me. He now gives me regular work. Almost a living. I sing poems for video presentations and help him with some clerical work. He runs a publishing company.”
“Good that you got noticed. Where did you meet him?”
“I had never met him till a week ago. Like they say ours is a case of “met on net”.
She smiled.
“What is it?”
“Nothing, life has not been the same ever since.”
The manager called her and told her, this time very politely, that the business hours were over.
She came back to the sofa and neatly inserted all her papers into a folder.
“I am leaving. The business hours are over.”
“I think they may say the same thing to me. Are you coming tomorrow?”
“No, tomorrow is a holiday. Navratri Puja.”
“O, I forgot.”
She got up to leave.
I got up to say bye to her.
I got up not as an etiquette.
I got up to show respect.
I watched her as she walked down the steps and hailed down an auto.
She looked back and waved at me before she got in.
On Puja Day, I had decided to visit the local temple at Angadippuram.
As I stand before the Sreekovil of the temple, whose smiling face would be superimposed on the stone idol?
I didn’t have a doubt.
Sreekumar Ezhuththaani known more as SK, writes in English and Malayalam. He also translates into both languages and works as a facilitator at L' ecole Chempaka International, a school in Trivandrum, Kerala.
“Dear Mama, It pains me to no end to know the grief, I have caused you from my single mistake. I realise, that day, I should have never ventured out on my own. The first lesson on survival, you taught us, was: Stick to each other at all times. The key to our strength is our number; we are the eyes and ears for all of us.”
That morning, the rabbit had woken up early. As he looked around, he was the only one awake, while others were still asleep. He remembered the strict instruction from Mama, never to go out on his own. He should have curbed his impatience and waited until others woke up and joined him to start the day. It couldn’t hurt if he just nipped our for a peek, he thought.
As he crawled out of the burrow behind the dense thicket, he entered a grassy meadow. He wondered what danger might be lurking around. But, he could not see any. He had long since sharpened his sense of sight, hearing and smell. Furthermore, he had mastered the art of blending them into a finely tuned sense of safety versus danger. He was confident, he had acquired the most critical tool in his survival kit — that uncanny ability to anticipate danger from a distance. He had ample opportunity to practice his survival skills thoroughly. Every time they were put to test they had not failed him, no matter what the danger was. Now it was his chance to venture into the unexplored terrain to his heart’s content. Surely, he would be able to work out his escape route in case danger did strike unexpectedly.
The temptation was too hard to resist. The open heath was so inviting.
Finally, his self restraint snapped.
Next, he found himself, hopping away. The dark night had just broken into a glorious dawn on the sky. The air was crisp and cool. The grass was soft and bouncy. There was no danger in sight. He hopped in abandon without a worry. He would hop for some distance before changing direction and would carry on. He didn’t come across anything new, nor did he encounter anything interesting. No matter where he went, it was a boundless stretch of green.
Across the heath, stood a row of houses. Their doors were firmly shut, windows as yet unopened. There was no sign of human activity, no sound of movement from the houses. It was perhaps too early in the morning. People inside were probably busy catching the last lap of their sleep and savouring their dreams. Another edge of the Heath backed against what looked like the gardens of houses across. In the pond of one of the gardens a few ducks were swimming aimlessly. Like the rabbit, they were perhaps feeling a bit sorry for the ducks who were still not up and about. Those ducks didn’t know what they were missing: the blissful interlude between the night and day, with its ephemeral blend of soft light that does not dazzle and the gentle silence that does not overpower you. It is so precious because it soon gives way to the blazing light and cacophony of the hectic day.
He had never tasted such freedom before. The exhilaration of his escapade made him mildly dizzy. He forgot that he was a mere rabbit: he felt like a free spirit, uncontainable and invincible. The last thing on his mind was safety.
He found himself at the edge of the green grass, poised to cross the road. He had travelled beyond all the other boundaries of the heath, but this was one road he had never crossed before. His curiosity over what lay beyond the road was too hard to resist. Before he could plan his next move, he found himself hopping onto the road.
All on a sudden, a gigantic machine roared along the road, moving at lightning speed. Its thunderous noise was deafening. It was so massive. It was as big as a house on the edge of the Heath, but unlike the houses, it was on the move.
Suddenly, everything changed in a blink of the eyes.
He felt a heavy thud from the machine roaring down the road. The pain was blinding and wiped out the world for me. All that was left was a darkness, thick and impenetrable.
“I lay on the spot for how long, I can’t tell. The next thing I can recall, is an experience, so strange, it’s hard to describe. I could feel my spirit rising from the road into something soft, like the clouds.
I must be in heaven, I thought. It felt so different from anything I had known before. I was floating merrily in the company of an angel for a tour of the new world that would be my home now. I forgot my pain, altogether. The angel’s voice was like a balm, soft and soothing, although I couldn’t catch most of what she was mumbling let alone understand her. Again my mental clock failed me. How long the tour lasted I am not sure.
Then something came over me; I could sense a tightening of my chest. I found my breathing laboured. In no time, it was inordinately hard to breathe. Next, I couldn’t breathe at all. I knew my end had come. But it was all too confusing. Heaven was this other world, free of pain, suffering and distress, which belong to the world of mortals. How come I was still feeling pain?”
I must tell you this before it is too late. You made us believe, humans were the most diabolical creatures on earth. They are smaller than many animals but their small size is beguiling. They possess tiny explosives which they can fire at will with deadly effect. They are also endowed with an even more devious mind which works in mysterious ways. Sometimes, they kill us just for fun. The glow of satisfaction on their face when their explosive hits us defies all explanation. It is hard to understand how the death of one of us gives them so much pleasure. How the sight of suffering of a dying animal creates ripples of joy in their hearts is mind boggling.
I accept, you have lived much longer than me. You possess a wealth of experience, which I can’t match. Your wisdom is, likewise, unrivalled. Nevertheless, you have failed to fully understand the humans. You are probably too quick to judge them. They are not all the gun wielding, blood thirsty devils’s incarnate, out to kill us for fun. Mama, humans are two faced and it seems you have seen only one of them. They can be the most caring creatures imaginable; capable of the most angelic acts.
If I succeed in rectifying your distorted opinion about humans, I would have the consolation that my life wasn’t totally wasted. I would depart peacefully in the knowledge that I didn’t die in vain.
“You must be wondering how I could be so certain. You have to trust me. When we are about to die, we don’t tell lies.”
Now, I know, I was mistaken about what was going on. The angelic pair of hands, that picked me up and comforted me, belonged to a human. As I began to correct myself everything fell into place. I know now what happened to me. I can piece together the last period of my life from the conversation between my saviour and her daughter.
I was hit by a massive lorry while crossing the road. The blow to my head was deadly, but it didn’t kill me instantly. I was stunned by the impact. When I briefly recovered from the concussion I tried to run but I was paralysed and couldn’t move at all. The lady picked me up and carried me in a cushion of her soft linen scarf all the way home. It felt so surreal; for the first time in my life I was looking at everything from a height. It was an entirely new scene never seen before. It was so different from the world viewed from the ground level. Upon reaching home, she met with her daughter and they talked briefly. By then I was gasping for breath. Probably she also sensed that my end was near. She walked round her garden, holding me close to her bosom until I breathed my last. She kept stroking me all the time until my body was absolutely still.
“I can almost hear you asking: How could I be so sure, it was a human who comforted me in my dying moments?” I was probably too dazed by my head injury to know what truly happened.
“Yes, my life was too short to learn everything about angels. Nevertheless , I know one fact for sure: angels do not weep. No doubt, they are reservoirs of kindness and compassion. But, unlike humans, their hearts are made of special stuff; they never melt into tear.”
“And, I am in no doubt, she was weeping. I could feel her tears dropping on my back. At the time, I thought it was raining but I realised my mistake when I was put to rest on her garden. The garden was dry.”
These were the last words of the dying rabbit.
There lay his body, silenced for ever, resting in the laps of loving care lavished on him until his very last flicker of life was snuffed out.
Author’s Note: The plot of this story came to me when on my morning walk, one day, I was startled to see a dead baby dear on the road. Sadly, this tragic scene of dead deers on the road, killed by vehicular traffic, is no longer a rarity, presumably because of human encroachment into their natural habitat.
Dr. Ajaya Upadhyaya from Hertfordshire, England, is a Retired Consultant Psychiatrist from the British National Health Service and Honorary Senior Lecturer in University College, London.
An ordinary cow, my full name Kamadhenu, I was born and brought up by my human family with a lot of love and care. I grew up in their cowshed behind the house. They used to call me by various affectionate nicknames, but mostly as Kammu, that I loved. I hailed from an ordinary Indian cattle family.
I grew up by my Abba, my human papa, who was called Hasan bhai Ali, a Gujarati from Morbi town in Kutch. My Abba, after class twelve in science stream, had joined the B-Pharm course. But before he could complete his full course in Pharmacy Diploma of four-year duration, his family circumstances compelled him to leave studies and join a job as the assistant manager of a tannery in the outskirts of Morbi Town.
I would learn in my later years that such weird things happened to young men and women all over my country. Their jobs did not benefit from what they learnt in their schools, colleges or technical institutes like IIT, IIM, MBBS, or Polytechnique.
While lying in lazy evenings in our inner yard, and chewing the cud, I would at times eavesdrop on Abba sharing bits of information with my Amma, his wife, or his two children, Ameena and Abbas, my human sister and brother. It could be some information from history, geography, science, or philosophy that was relevant to their small talk. I would also overhear when Ameena and Abbas, my human sister and brother, prepared their school lessons aloud. Those were my sources of learning, whatever little I knew about the world.
***
Now I am old. Though poor but a proud cow at the dusk of my life. I am lying down under my favorite acacia tree in an open grass field, my present shelter. I am chewing my cud as I have no other work. I had a meal minutes ago at the nearby garbage bin. But surprisingly my mouthful of cud tastes like unchewable plastic. Out of disgust, I put it out of my mouth. Yes, it is a big plastic bag, I might have swallowed in agony of hunger at the garbage dump.
This has been happening for around the last five years with all my aging peers, all retired cows, oxen and bulls, who have outgrown of their productive years. Cows having stopped providing milk, or the oxen having grown too feeble for old age to serve as beasts of burden. A few of us left home on our own to forage food from outside, but many were asked to leave by their helpless owners who could not provide them food or shelter.
The chaotic situation was not of divine origin. It was man made. The chaos was let loose because of a new stringent law, framed for our welfare, a cow-welfare law banning cow-slaughter. It was a pity and irony that a welfare law could turn turtle and be so harmful.
I would like to mention that my papa, Hasan Bhai Ali, worked as a deputy manager in a tannery located on the outskirts of Morvi town and his factory’s raw material was cow-hide. A new cow-welfare law was announced which strictly banned cow slaughter, without detailing other norms how the shortage of cow hide and leather could be compensated in factories by other means. The abrupt ban of cow slaughter created a scarcity of cow hide. Factories started drawing down shutters until new arrangement could be done.
Further, the law was inflexibly worded; and was unclear without any planned alternative. It had scope for misinterpretation and misuse. It gave rise to self-appointed cow-vigilante groups to watch over the anti-slaughter law. The groups in their over enthusiasm and also to grease their own palms, adopted selfish antipublic methods.
They attacked every cow-transporter as smugglers of cows to supply them to slaughter houses for making beef. Even a cow, or cattle suffering from a disease could not be taken to a vet. A cow in heat could not be taken to a healthy bull for servicing. The excess number of cattle in a owner’s shed could not be transported to a cattle fair for sale. All movements were so-called suspect smuggling in the eyes of cow-vigilante. But the cases where palms were greased, even cattle were allowed across border to where cow meat was not banned.
People who used to skin the dead cattle, were suspected to have killed the cow and were beaten black and blue and in some occasions were lynched as used be for the cow-transporters. Dead cows were not disposed of by the trained people out of fear. They rotted and stank. The vigilante-groups mobilized mobs who ruthlessly attacked people and vehicles transporting cows or cattle for the purposes of selling, buying, treatment at vet-hospital or taking to cow-shelters. In most cases, the attack resulted in lynching and death.
The menace of vigilante mob created deadly fear and all sorts of transport of cows or cattle stopped. Also, the people who used to skin the dead cattle refused to take out the hide. The tanneries and factories of leather articles like shoes did not get their raw material. Licensed abattoirs that slaughtered goats, lambs etc. were also closed down as all meat was suspect, assumed to be beef until proved otherwise by lab tests. Leather industry went to ruins.
One day, my papa, Hasan Bhai Ali, lost his job as his tannery closed down finally. He came home in tears as his tannery was closed for want of cow hide, the raw material. My family depended on his income, he, the only earning member. His small savings saving got quickly exhausted while he was searching for a job in Morbi town.
One day he gave us painful news, he would do manual labour. He bought a hand cart with his last saving and started transporting goods manually by pulling the loaded hand cart for small merchants of Morbi town. But his income hardly supported us, and the hard labour often took its toll by causing him ill-health.
Even people keeping cows to run milk-business had to close shops. Their sick and infirm cows could not be taken to vets for treatment. The cows in heat could not be taken to a bull for mating. The cowsheds overflowed with sick, old and barren cows. They could not be fed for there was no money. They were let loose to go out to search for food at garbage-bins, markets and street corners.
They returned to their cowsheds only to sleep by evening, but that also, over the passage of time, stopped as owners wanted to use the space for some other profitable use. Those stray cattle roamed the streets, driven cruelly from here to there, as the hungry animals became a threat to vegetable patches and standing crops. Stray cow menace became an agricultural threat.
Once, a proud animal, who had lived a dignified life as Gau-mata, now, roamed the orphan roads, though still wearing that grand crown of ‘Gau-mata’ but living a homeless and hungry existence in misery. The grand new cow-welfare law, announced for the Gau-mata’s betterment became her bete noire, her most harmful curse for them.
Here I would confess with a heavy heart that my Abba never asked me to leave my cowshed in spite of his worsening finances. I came out to roam streets on my own to look for my food. I could not stand the agony of my family going hungry while feeding me. But how I finally adopted this patch of grassy ground under the Acasia tree was a sad story.
***
My ‘Riches to rags’ story would sound to you like a fairytale in reverse gear, as generally they narrated ‘Rags to riches’ stories. A Gau-mata like me had turned into a skinny shabby pariah cow with no home, no guarantee of the next meal, no one to care or give a loving pat.
I had a caring home once, that word ‘once’ sounds today like ‘once upon a time’, a hoary past, to my own ears. But all changed in in the last five to six years. A shed housed me and my cow-mother, behind my Abba’s house. We had a manger each for having our food. We ate stomach full meals twice a day, in addition to a little bits of chewable refreshment, my favourites being green shoots and tender grass.
In festive occasions when Amma made goodies for her husband and children, she prepared mouthwatering laddus for us, my cow-mother and me, from a mix of roasted and rough-ground corns, groundnut oil, and jaggery. It was a favorite sweetmeat for all cows. We loved it.
My cow-mother and I provided milk to the family. A part of the milk went to supplement family’s food basket, as milk or milk products like curd, buttermilk, ghee etc. The rest of the milk was sold by Amma to neighbors and the money funded the family needs, in addition to Abba’s salary from the tannery where he served as a Deputy Manager.
My cow-mother’s seasonal pregnancy stopped after a few years, indicating the unset of retirement from her milk-giving years. Abba declared, “Kammu’s old mother, Rebi, has retired from her active service. It is her time to eat, rest, and enjoy the joy of leisure. We all would take utmost care of her.” My cow-mother, Rebi, was overjoyed to hear our Abba.
The family, especially my Abba, would show a lot of affection for me whenever we came face to face, either in the shed or the house’s inner yard, or on my way to grazing in the meadow. He would have a pat or a kind word for me always. He was expressive in his affection unlike others in the family who loved me as much but would show it only in action, like giving me a bite from whatever they were eating, or taking me to the vet for treatment or to get me mated by a bull, or filling our mangers with food.
I heard that new ‘cow-laws’ had come into force to promote our welfare. It gladdened me and my cow-mother. Then I heard, some fringe elements behave like hooligans and misuse those new laws to their advantage and for their personal benefit.
They were called cow-vigilante. Those groups grew more violent as days passed and roamed in little gangs and harassed cow-transporters on their route between their own house and cow-fairs where cows were sold or bought, or to the vet for treatment or for servicing by a bull. The menace brought the business related to cattle and leather industries to draw shutters.
When Abba lost his job as his workplace, a tannery, closed, Amma consoled him, “We will manage eating two rotis less a day each. We would use less milk from Kammu as our food-supplement and sell its major portion to finance our house.” I grunted softly in agreement, “Abba, I would graze more green grass and try to lactate more milk.” I rubbed my head against him as my moral support. I would never know if my Abba understood my grunts but he gave me loving pats, all the same.
My Abba had become a handcart puller after his tannery had shut down. By evening when he returned home with so little an income, might be only enough to buy peanuts for children, his palms were scabbed with ulcerated skin. He had never done that sort of menial labour. It broke my heart when Amma would apply ointment to his wounds to heal overnight.
His income became meagre and irregular. He still maintained me and my old mother along with his family, though we all lived more frugally. My old cow-mother died quietly one night. In my shed I felt very lonely after my mother’s death. Some nights Abba would come with a reed-mat and a pillow to sleep by me in my shed. His soft snores were so reassuring!
Around that time, another shocking development followed. They called it Note-bandi. Overnight the old currency notes were scrapped by the law, and new notes were introduced. The replacement was so slow and cumbersome that many small and medium scale business closed down. The town was full of job seekers, hand cart numbers increased and my papa’s income grew slimmer.
One day I heard Ram Rajya had arrived. This overjoyed me, because I understood Ram Rajya to be a period of plenty and peace. Whenever I was taken out for grazing by a common cowherd appointed for aur area, I looked for Ram Rajya at nooks and corners I passed. I looked for prosperity and peace quietly creeping in. But I found none. I couldn’t believe our responsible leaders mouthing lies. I presumed that some bad people like cow-vigilantes might be stopping the Ram Rajya from entering our Morbi town. But how long could they hold it back, it would definitely bring plenty and prosperity soon.
The day, Amma’s larder turned empty of food provisions and Abba’s pocket went totally empty, two important decisions were taken by Abba. Abba decided to sell his handcart at a throwaway price to have money for about a week’s frugal supply of ration and declared that from the next morning he would turn into a day labourer.
The second decision he took, saying, “I can’t see Kammu starving. We can’t give her adequate food. Her cowherd has reported no grass in grazing grounds left, as hundreds of stray cattle have finished grazing the grass to the last blade. From tomorrow after milking her, she would be left loose to roam our neighborhood to look for reject eatables and return home whenever she would feel like. The outside food would supplement whatever little we can feed her.” I saw his silent tears when he made me free the next morning after milking me and feeding me with one oil-smeared roti. I grunted, “I understand Abba.”
After a year and half, Abba declared, “Kammu has also retired, our family’s last earning cow-member. But let us give her more care and affection than before. She served us so lovingly all her active life, it is time we return her debt.”
To meet family’s expenses, Abba sold his house and shifted to a hutment in a slum area, with our family including me. I had a little corner on the backside of Abba’s hut for lying down. It was kept spick and span by Amma. Abba had got white sand from a construction site to spread it in my small enclosure to make me a dry and softer bed. There was a little solvency in the family for a year after the sale of the house.
Ameena graduated, and Abbas passed his tenth with flying colors. Further education seemed impossible as funds had vanished over the time, most part gone to wipe out earlier loans on high interest rate in family’s slim time. So, Abba planned moving to the City of Ahmedabad. It was a decision in desperation. He had information of getting work in construction sites, Amma getting work as a house-help. He said, Abbas could study in a better school. Ameena could pursue her postgraduation in some technical institute like a course in designing or management.
The day my Abba and others of my human family boarded a bus for the city, I walked up to the bus stop with all, nudging them with affection with my head and wishing them with the best of luck. Each of them patted and gave me their love, and hugged me before entering the bus. They were sorry with hangdog faces, perhaps feeling guilty for leaving me behind alone without any arrangement for my care. I grunted several times, “Don’t worry. I will manage.” But I never knew if they understood my grunts.
Abba whispered into my ears, “Ma Kammu, my Kammu, like a brave girl keep yourself fit by eating whatever you get till we return. You lie down inside our hut in nights and guard it for us. I have talked to Abdul bhai, the man in-charge of the hutment colony. He loves you he told me. He would not harass you. We will return. We all will live together again. Until..then.” He boarded bus.”
I stood alone for hours at the spot after the bus had left blowing dust into my eyes. I wailed my heart out for my family. I felt, my world was crashing around me. I cursed the new cow-laws and note-bandi. I stood at the bus stop until the breeze blew away the last scent of my loving family.
I then walked away, walked aimlessly wherever my feet took me, ate whatever looked and smelled edible lying on roads or in garbage heaps. By evening I returned to my father’s empty hut, made of sticks, gunny bags, and plastic sheets. I rested my tired bones. It somehow made me believe my Abba would return and take me home. I felt like a bereft little Casabianca, standing on the deck of a burning ship, and waiting for his father to return, a story was told by Abba to his children.
When I reached my resting place one evening, another poor family had started living in my Abba’s empty hut. A woman whom her neighbor addressed as Komal Apaa, meaning the soft-hearted sister, drove me away with a stick. Had I not hurried away, the stick in her hand would have badly bruised my rib bones sticking out of my thin body.
Most humans had no idea how it pained in old age for a cow when she was struck on her sticking out skinny bones. But I decided to forgive the poor woman, I knew, poverty would drive anyone mad. That evening I chose this spot on a grassy patch under the Acacia tree and adopted it as my shelter at nights.
Recently, I heard things I did not know. The seventy-fifth Independence Day was approaching, and a lot of talk was going on about our nation builders like Gandhi, Nehru, Patel, the Maulana, Indira, Rajiv, and, the last, one Modi from my Gujarat who was still at it, actively, I mean nation-building.
A little smile played on my face that day. I thought it over deeply. What of my contribution to my nation? Am I a less nation-builder? Shouldn’t my saga, rather the saga of our cattle fraternity, as nation-builders be put on record for posterity? For the nation building chapter I especially would like to put on record -
“I, an old cow, Kammu, and our community have humbly contributed to the nation building, not less than other builders. We gave our milk to humans to make them healthy and brainy, the future architects of India with strong bones and immunity. We have fed hungry children with our milk if their mothers failed to lactate adequately or avoided breastfeeding for cosmetic reasons. That very thought makes me proud for the title ‘Gau-mata’.
Our sons and grandsons, daughters and granddaughters have been tilling the land to give bumper harvests to the country and providing milk to add to human food-chain. Oxen and bulls have drawn carriages transporting goods and humans from ancient times.
We have fertilized fields with our dung and urine, the biggest source of organic manure in our land. Our dung has been dried in rural India to feed the cooking stoves in poor families in villages as a major fuel. Our dung has been used to keep rural houses clean, deodorized, and pest-free when mixed with water and mud, to smear on mud-floors and mud-walls.
If we added use of diluted dung and urine used as pest-repellants on standing crops in fields, and their use as medicinal ingredient in Ayurveda, the list of our services would go on and on, almost unending. Our contribution to human mental health and spirituality has been immense. Cow-worship and feeding Gau-mata has cured more patients from mental insecurity and guilt than any band of psychiatrists.
I want to bring it on record that our name, Gau-mata, has been smeared with the dirty mud of politics. Our names have been used to spread hate, division, riots, lynchings, and endless miseries by hooligans and goondas. Even my Abba and his family, and, at last, me, Kammu, and our peers have been at the receiving end of this glorified title ‘Gau-mata’, all becoming nomads in their own land. But I hope a day would arrive and bring back the goodness and kind thoughts to these misguided mass.”
I feel miserable to hear that lakhs of our countrymen, who made their living by skinning dead cows, tanning hide in tanneries, making leather footwear and other umpteen leather articles; repairing, selling, or being connected in hundreds of other ways to the leather industry, have lost their jobs and livelihood for the laws purportedly made for our welfare, the cow-welfare.
I feel very tired. I doze off and dream a lovely dream under my Acacia tree. Abba and his family have returned. They have found me out under my Acacia tree in deep sleep. Abba is trying unsuccessfully to break my sleep, make me alert, and whispering into my ears, “Kammu, get up. Bad days are over. We are going home. We would live together in a nice house and there would be plenty of food for all. Get up my old girl.”
I try to open my eyes that gets heavier. But I am happy. I enjoy Abba’s caressing hands all over my skinny hide, and picking out my ticks one by one. I decide to enjoy it forever, my dreamland, never open my eyes to see the miserable land around me again (END).
Prabhanjan K. Mishra is an award-winning Indian poet from India, besides being a story writer, translator, editor, and critic; a former president of Poetry Circle, Bombay (Mumbai), an association of Indo-English poets. He edited POIESIS, the literary magazine of this poets’ association for eight years. His poems have been widely published, his own works and translation from the works of other poets. He has published three books of his poems and his poems have appeared in twenty anthologies in India and abroad.
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 an imposing 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 bound by wooden plates and tied with silk strings, this one had metallic plates as covers and were fastened 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 tatpuruya vidmahe suvar apakya dh?mahi tanno garua pracodayt '.
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 nirmay
sarve bhadrl payantu m kaciddu khabhgbhaveta
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.
I woke up with a start and looked around. Nothing seemed familiar. The bed, the room, the attendant, the interior all looked so different to me. “Where am I?” “Who are you?” I bombarded the attendant with a volley of questions. He lifted his T-shirt. I could see a screen there. It blinked and flashed a message for me where each word was supplemented with sound.
Dear Mr. Right,
I am elated to know that you have regained your senses. Congratulations!
I would be meeting you in a short while.
Regards,
Aphrodite.
How I wish I could believe this ! “Am I receiving a message from the Greek Goddess of love, Aphrodite?” I inquired. The screen flashed again and there was another message—
I beseech you to have patience, my dear.
I wondered what was in store. I closed my eyes and lay on bed trying to recall my past. The questions remained the same but unanswered. I had no other alternative but to wait.
After few minutes, the front door opened and appeared there a monstrous apparition. “Sorry for the delay sir,” said she, approaching towards me. I was petrified to see her .I closed my eyes in apprehension.
“I vouchsafe your safety sir,” she said. I opened my eyes regaining my courage. “I have come to escort you sir, please come with me.” I had to follow her to get my answers.
Is this earth? If yes, where is the azure sky, the green grass, the cool breeze, the birds and animals? Where am I? Who are these people? Are they human beings? Why can I see only women around and no men? Ruminating over these questions I continued walking.
On reaching a huge court like hall I could see a divine lady sitting on the throne. “Welcome Mr. Right,” she said with a mesmerising smirk on her face. I immediately recognised the voice. I exchanged greetings with her. She requested me to sit on the throne kept next to her. “Don’t exhaust yourself, my dear,” she said. “You are my guest and I will tell you everything.”
I was astounded with the events happening around me but waited for her to enlighten me. I could see a young and handsome man being escorted by some of the women I had seen outside while coming here. He came and sat next to Aphrodite. “He is my brother,” she said introducing him to me. We exchanged pleasantries. Without further delay he shared his story.
Many many years ago, you used to live on earth. “Am I not on earth now?” I asked. “No my dear, you are on an exoplanet “Pindaruch”. In the year 2016, the earth came into the path of an oncoming asteroid that burst it into pieces. “Which year is this?” I interrupted. “Well! It’s 3016,”he replied. I almost jumped at the information. 100 years and I am still alive. He motioned me to keep quiet and listen to his narration. I tried to suppress my feelings as he continued.
So, as the earth burst into pieces, it caused a nebula that travelled across the planets. This nebula finally turned into cosmic dust and entered Pindaruch. It brought with it a man who had braved the changes and was in a state of coma. That man is none other than you. Since your arrival, you have been taken good care of, including embalming your body to protect you from ageing.
An augerer had once told me that I need to get a young man from another planet and make him touch the hands of my beloved, to bring her back to life. She is in coma for ages. “Are there no men on this planet?”I asked. He replied in negative and told me the reason for it.
He was madly in love with this girl ‘Morphosis’ but she showed no sign of love. He requested his sister to help him. She cast a spell on her and made her fall in love with him. Those were the best days spent by them. But as soon as the spell lost its power, Morphosis started hating him. She wondered how could someone stoop so low to sway her. She couldn’t bear the guilt and shame of being forced into a relationship by her cautelous lover and went into coma.
I was kept in the adjacent room there, in hope of getting back his love, to life, through me.
What an incredible narrative!
I was not only a survivor but also a saviour. I was amazed at the important role that I was assigned with. “Tell me one thing?” I inquired. “Why only women around?” I asked further.
“I thought that if I eliminated entire men folk from Pindaruch, when Morphosis gains consciousness, she would not see any other man but me.” He confessed that he didn’t fear my existence since I was an earthling.
I was taken to the room ceremoniously .I was informed that even though they were at the pinnacle of technological advancement, they needed human touch to bring her back to life. I wondered how important my touch was! They drew the curtains and there was pitch darkness in the room. Aphrodite led me to Morphosis. I touched her and she opened her eyes but couldn’t see anything. I was immediately taken to the adjacent room that had been my abode for 100 years. I could see the same monstrous apparition approaching towards me.
With a clicking sound he opened my skull, removed my brain and kept it back in the freezer. After all they had thawed it for a purpose.
An award-winning author, poet, short-story writer, social worker, novelist, educator and a publisher, are some of the words which describe Ms. Meena Mishra to whom The Impish Lass Publishing House owes its existence. Her poems, stories, and book-reviews have been published in many international journals and she is a recipient of several prestigious awards as well. Besides being an active member of Mumbai English Educators’ Team, in accordance to the request of the Education Department of Maharashtra she is also a part of The Review Committee for their new English text book. She has been working as the II International Coordinator for British Council activities for more than 11 years.
Meena Mishra has judged several illustrious and popular literary competitions and festivals notably the Lit fest. of IIT Bombay and the NM college fest., of which she is one of the sponsors now. She is also a regular panelist for various literary and educational platforms like the Asian Literary Society. Her poems are published in several magazines including the prestigious periodical Woman’s Era. They have been translated and published in Spanish magazines as well. She has been a contributing author and poet for more than 200 books. Her books include The Impish Lass, Emociones Infinitas, Within the Cocoon of Love and The Impish Lass Book 2. Her latest book – The Impish Lass Book 2 (TIL Stories and More) has received rave reviews from its readers including the highly distinguished Indian nuclear scientist Padma Vibhushan Dr. R. Chidambaram. It has achieved a remarkable five-star rating on Amazon. Ms. Mishra has received high acclaim from esteemed newspapers like The Times of India and Mid-Day. Her articles have been featured in The Times of India ‘NIE’ and in ‘Brainfeed Higher Education Plus’ a leading educational magazine of the country.
She has been a guest speaker on ‘Sony TV’ for their first episode of ‘Zindagi Ke Crossroads,’ based on the needs of differently abled children. She was invited to express her views on the special episode of ‘AajTak’ featuring the PMC Bank scam victims. Ms. Meena Mishra is the proud recipient of multitudinous awards in 2020-21 for her contribution to the field of education and literature. Some of them are the ‘Vishwa Shikshavid Samman 2020,’ Appreciation Certificate for Support Covid-19 challenges in education by Government of Maharashtra, ‘Regional Academic Authority Mumbai,’ ‘Pathbreaker of the Year Award,’ by Harper Collins, ‘Acharya Chanakya Shikshavid Samman 2020,’ for valuable contribution to empower the society, ‘Nation Builder Award,’ Super 30 Teacher nomination by IB Hub, ‘Most Outstanding Teacher of the Year’ award during World Education Summit in February 2021. She is the winner of the ‘Womennovator Award’ as well as ‘1000 Women of Asia Award,’ given in association with the Indian Ministry of Electronics and Information technology. She has been nominated for the ‘2021 ELTons Outstanding Achievement Award,’ by the British Council. Ms. Mishra is currently a member of the Maharashtra Women’s Indian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (Special Needs). Her poem ‘Smile a Lot’ has been chosen as an unseen poem for the LL student’s workbook by State Council of Educational Research & Training (SCERT), Maharashtra. ‘The Impish Lass’ SSC EDU Warriors,’ is her latest initiative for improving the standard of English in SSC schools across Maharashtra. Her book “The Impish Lass -Book 2,” was published as a research paper in American Research Journal of English and Literature under the title- Meena Mishra’s The Impish Lass Book 2 – A Study of Socio- Cultural Issues in India.
It was still a bit dark. The skyline in the west was slowly getting clear. I opened the front door noiselessly, careful not to wake up my parents and came out. Closing the door softly behind me I jogged across the narrow street to reach the park on the other side. I have a habit of getting up early in the morning and go for a half an hour jogging either on the road or a park. I am not a person who is absurdly health conscious like many young people of our time. But I am very particular about this early morning exercise. I enjoy walking and jogging in the cool morning air, breathing the calmness around me that gets occasionally disturbed by the sleepy warble of exotic birds and the murmur of the breeze-blown leaves in the trees around. Now and then the distant blares of automobiles cause irritating distraction, though. I have developed this habit since my college days and still practice it with an austerity.
After completing my post-graduation in Statistics from a recognized university I joined the LIC services and got a posting at Latur, Maharastra. In the initial days I used to stay as a paying guest in the house of an amicable Maharastrian family. Later I shifted to a house in an apartment building located close to my office. My father, who has retired from service a year before, and my mother came to live with me. My mother is a sociable person and soon she got friendly with quite a number of families, despite her inability to communicate with the local language. She could manage to maintain a wholesome relationship with our neighbours using her broken Hindi. We had hired a couple of women to do the house cleaning and cooking. Father, too, had made quite an impression in the senior citizens’ circle of the housing society and had a good number of friends. In short, we were living a happy and complacent life even though we were far away from our hometown.
Kusum auntie was mother’s closest amongst all. Hers was not a Marathi but a Sindhi family. She was an expert cook and often brought us delicious Sindhi cuisines like stuffed parathas and okra curry which they called Bhindi Bhasar , sweetmeats of different varieties which she cooked herself. They were living at a different area earlier but now had shifted to this building. She had a son who lived in Dubai and a mentally retarded daughter who needed constant attention. Kusum auntie took extremely good care of her, but she was worried who would look after the girl when uncle and auntie won’t be physically capable enough to do that. Despite her worries Kusum auntie always wore a smiling face. She was very talkative and kept engaged her listeners with her lively narration about the people and places around. Her narrations were interspersed with interesting anecdotes that greatly entertained her audience. Her tales were mostly woven around the 1993 earthquake that had wreaked havoc on Latur and shattered the lives of the people with a vengeful violence.
‘This place was not like the way you see it now,’ she told. ‘There was a big pool here at this spot where this building is constructed. The street is also constructed after that and the park, too. The land where the park is, was a residential area before the quake struck. Many well-to-do families lived in their own houses and bungalows there. The earthquake razed the structures and hit the families with the force of a huge runaway train. Many of the people who lived there succumbed to the calamity. I have heard that the rescue teams found a number of people, mostly women and children, buried under the debris. The earth quake happened at around four in the morning. Most people were in the bed, asleep. They didn’t find time to escape and died in their sleep. Those who survived had left the place for good and settled elsewhere.
The horrifying tales of the disaster narrated by Kusum auntie with meticulous details gave me the shivers. Looking at the elegantly structured buildings, malls, market places, parks and tree lined streets now, it was difficult to imagine the monstrous mayhem that had devastated the place nearly two and a half decades ago.
I had completed the jogging exercise. I sat down on a bench and mopped my face and hands. The park and the street and the adjacent buildings looked fresh, now washed with soft light of the dawn. The park was getting crowded. People of different ages were beginning to stream into the park for morning walk, yoga and other exercises. I do not like to exercise in a park crowded with people and that is the reason why I do not go into the interior of the park and choose the pre-dawn hour for my jogging. At that hour there will be only one or two walkers in the park. I am always done with my exercise before it is daylight.
A cool breeze was blowing. September is always a humid month in India, but the mornings are cool. Sometimes it rains in the afternoons and nights and that keeps the grass wet. But there was no rain in the previous day and the ground was dry. I waited for a while to get my normal breathing restored, and then got up. I stepped on to the track and walked a little faster than my usual pace. I was to reach the office early that morning since a senior officer was making a visit to our branch and we were to be present there before eight. As I was hurrying back home my eyes fell on a swing to my right, near the entrance. A small girl in a pink frock was sitting on it quietly. She turned to look at me as if she could guess I too was looking at her. In the faint light of the early morning her tiny face framed by a mass of dark hair glowed like an angel’s. ‘Who must be this girl,’ I wondered, ‘sitting alone here. Perhaps she had come with some elder member of her family, father or grandfather who was taking a walk or doing yoga. I did not have time to think more about that. I hastened back home, ate my breakfast and rode to the office. The girl on the swing went out of mind soon.
The next couple of days passed uneventfully. They followed the regular pattern beginning with the jogging in the park, going to the office after breakfast, watching television for some time in the evening, talking to my parents and then to bed.
I saw her again on Saturday. I sat on a park bench after the jogging, resting my body. She was sitting on another bench a little away from mine. She sat calmly. She must be coming here frequently with some elders of her family. I was coming to the park since a month or so, soon after shifting to this apartment building. I wondered how I had missed her all these days. Perhaps she was sitting somewhere a bit inside of the park in those days.
I turned my gaze towards her. As if she could sense it instinctively, she too turned her face to look at me. I gave her a smile. She did not smile back, but got down from the bench and walked into the inside of the park. Driven by curiosity I followed her noiselessly, maintaining a safe distance, careful not to arouse suspicion in her mind. She walked to a spot where people were busy in their regular workouts. I saw her move to a spot by the row of flowering bushes. A few kids were playing there.
‘Hey, Rajesh!’ Someone called from behind. I turned to look back. A young man of around twenty or twenty-two was waving at another youth who was running along the edges of the park. I looked at the spot where the girl was standing. She had disappeared. I could have caught sight of her parents or the people she came with, had I not been distracted by the young man’s voice. I would try another day, I decided and returned home.
Next week it rained most of the days. The jogging path had become squishy. The park was comparatively less crowded most of the days. I went out to jog in my regular time. I looked at the swing and the bench, half hoping to see the little girl. I knew that no parents would allow their child to come out to the open in the wet weather. I did not know why, or how I had developed a liking for that kid, though she was a complete stranger to me. More days passed. The girl did not return. Was she sick? I felt concerned somehow. The weather was nasty in the previous week. Maybe she has caught a cold or something, I tried to think logically. My office work kept me preoccupied and the picture of the girl was beginning to dim in my mind. Now and then while taking rest on the park bench after the jogging my expectant eyes were drawn towards the empty benches nearby. I watched the young parents entering the park, wondering if one of the pairs was accompanying the girl.
I saw her again, after more than a month.
It was mid-October and the nights were becoming longer. I waited for the dawn to break before I went out to jog. It was Dussera time and the atmosphere was festive. I was enjoying a week-long puja vacation. Because the office was shut for the festival, I jogged for a little more time than I usually did and sat on the park enjoying the morning breeze till it was fully lit up with the beams of the nascent sun.
I sensed her presence before I could see her. My gaze travelled in the direction of the bench to my right automatically. She sat their quietly as she always did, looking at the entrance of the park where joggers and walkers were entering in ones and twos. Careful not to arouse her suspicion, I wandered leisurely over to the bench where she sat. She was alerted by the sound of the footsteps and turned towards me. I moved closer. ‘Hello, there!’, I smiled at her. She did not smile back, and stood up. ‘Have you come alone or with your parents?
She looked back into the depth of the park. I guessed that her father or mother or the person who had accompanied her might be somewhere inside the park. it was a big park and one cannot see the insides of the park from where we were.
‘Is your companion here?’
Without answering she pointed a tiny index finger towards the inside of the park.
‘Where is your house?’
Again she pointed a finger towards the west side wall of the park. ‘Over there.’
I let my eyes wander in the direction. But there was no residential area in the west side of the park. There was a big departmental store, a garment shop and a bakery house as far as I knew.
‘By the way, what is your name?’
‘Anjli.’
‘That’s a nice one. Syncs with angel. And in which class you are? You must be a good student, aren’t you?’ I said encouragingly.
She did not reply to that. She appeared to be quite a laconic child.
‘You didn’t tell me which class you are in,’ I said flashing a warm smile hoping it would thaw the cool indifference and hesitance of the strangerhood.
‘Two,’ she said looking down at the ground.
‘And, where is your school?’ I asked, ready to carry on the conversation even though her answers were short and evasive. ‘Won’t you tell me the name of your school?’ I prodded on.
She turned her face towards me before answering. A shadow of gloom hung over her face, and her eyes looked dull as if she was in some kind of pain. It made me a bit uneasy. Children of that age usually are full of energy and bubbling with vibrance. But not this one. I wondered what could have been the reason.
‘Over there. Saint Convent school.’ She said pointing her finger once again to the west side wall of the park. I smiled, amused at the way she pronounced it. ‘The school must be named after some religious figure as Convent schools usually are, which she was not able to say correctly,’ I thought and let it stop at that.
She rose to her feet and walked away into the interior of the park before I could ask anything else. I did not follow her this time. ‘I will wait till she opens up to me,’ I decided and walked back home.
She did not come the next day, nor the day after.
It was a Sunday. I was relaxing at home. Kusum auntie came with her special delicacies. She brought us koki, a thick and delicious paratha made by wheat flour, onion, pomegranate seeds , curry leaves and coriander leaves cooked in desi ghee, and Vaishnu Bhaji, a special mixed-veg dish that was an in-between of a fry and a curry.
‘Mmm! Smells so good!’ I exclaimed as I sat beside her on the settee.
‘How is the office work going, beta? She asked fondly.
‘Fine, auntie.’
‘And your work out? Are you going for your walk and exercise regularly?’
‘She will not skip that,’ mother cut in before I could answer. ‘Come rain, come sunshine, nothing can stop her.’
‘That is a very good habit. You must keep it up.’
We sat chitchatting on random subjects. Suddenly I remembered about the school the little girl had mentioned.
‘Is there a school, a convent school for small children, off the west side of the park, Kusum auntie?
‘A convent school? No, I don’t think so. There is a Government Higher Secondary school at the chowk area. Why do you ask?’ She looked at me questioningly.
‘Just like that. I met a little girl in the park a few days ago. She told me that she studied in some Saint Convent school located somewhere to the west of the park.
‘Wait, I remember now. There was a convent school close to the colony which was destroyed in the quake. Didn’t I tell you that day that they have built the park there now? Your little friend in the park must be confused about the location of her school.’ She smiled.
‘Seems so,’ I said and let it drop at that.
She did not come to the park for quite a good number of days. School and homework must be keeping her occupied, I tried to reason out. But I was beginning to feel increasingly disappointed on each passing day. It was an inexplicable attachment on my part for the little mystery girl and her absence disturbed me.
She returned nearly after a month. I saw her sitting on the bench in the familiar posture, her eyes fixed at some invisible point close to the main entrance of the park. I was beginning to lose hope of seeing her again and her return had filled me with happiness. I went over to the bench and sat beside her. ‘Where had you been all these days? Were you sick?’ I asked.
She shook her head.
‘Exam over?’
She nodded her head in reply.
I took out my phone and adjusted the camera, ‘Would you mind if I take a snap?
She eyed me uncertainly, but did not refuse. I took a couple of clicks. I zoomed the pictures and looked closely at them. They had come out nicely. The girl looked like a tiny angel. It would have been more lovely had she smiled a little. I could see a faint mud stain on the lower part of her pink frock. I turned and looked at her frock. There was a distinct stain of mud , or may be dirt just above the frilly lower hemming of the frock. I wondered why her mother hadn’t washed it. Mothers happen to be very keen about keeping the clothes of their children clean. But I did not ask her anything. She would perhaps not have given a proper reply to that, I guessed ruefully. ‘I will get you a big chocolate tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Will you come here tomorrow?’ I looked expectantly at her. Without answering she got down from the bench and headed towards the interior of the park. I too stood up and walked after her keeping a good distance between us.
I heard it then. It was so small a sound that I thought it to be a figment of my imagination. A soft, delicate tinkling sound. I let my eyes sweep past the surroundings to detect the source of the sound. Nothing, nowhere! Suddenly it struck me that the sound was coming from the girl’s feet. The tiny bells of her anklets produced that delicate tinkling. I wondered how had I not heard it the day I had followed the girl to the inside of the park when she went to stand by the flowering bushes with some other children. I must have heard it but had ignored, or she might not have worn it that day, I thought.
I glanced at the girl’s feet. There was a thin bangle like anklet on her left foot. Tiny bells hung from it making a soft chime as she walked. My gaze travelled to the other foot and I was shocked to find that there was no anklet around it. How come she was wearing only one anklet? Where was the other one? I wanted to ask her if she had lost it somewhere. But my phone rang at that moment distracting my attention. I took the call and by the time the conversation was over the girl had gone out of sight.
The next day I went for jogging a little earlier than my usual time. I had made up my mind to ask her about the missing anklet and waited for her. She was not on the bench near the main entrance of the park. She might not come today, or she is somewhere inside the park, I thought and looked about here and there. I sauntered towards the inside of the park. Not many people were there at that early hour. Some youngsters were working out in the big, open gym, and a few elderly people were walking on the cemented track. Disappointed, I turned back thinking that she would perhaps come later or might not come at all.
There she was!
Not on the bench but on a swing close to it. She was not sitting stiff as she usually did but was dangling her feet. The tiny bells of her single anklet tinkled like some soft musical notes. My heart leaped at the sight of her. I walked over to her and stood there leaning against the iron post of the swing. She stopped dangling her feet and looked at me.
‘Can I sit here, on the swing?’ I asked.
She nodded her head in reply.
I sat down and shifted closer to her. The swing moved a bit as I did so.
‘Why are you wearing only one anklet? Where is the other one?’
‘The girl gave me a searching glance, as if she was not sure whether to trust me or not.
‘It is lost.’ There was a deep sadness in her voice.
‘Do you like the anklets a lot?’
‘Yes, Papa gave me those on my birthday.’
I was feeling more and more excited. I had been seeing the girl for so many months but she had never talked with me like the way she did that morning.
‘How did you lose it? Did it fall somewhere while you played?’
‘I lost it the night the storm came. I was sleeping. It was gone when I woke up.’
‘How could that happen? It must have fallen in the bed or in the room.’ I was getting a bit puzzled. It was a strange way to lose one’s anklet. Her parents should have searched and failed to find it. How is it possible that a piece of ornament got lost inside the house and is never recovered?
‘It must have got entangled in the bedspread and later when the bedspread was washed it must have flown away along with the water. That’s why you couldn’t find it.’ I said, trying to use the logic more to convince myself than her.
‘I was not sleeping in the bed.’
I looked sharply at her.
‘You were not sleeping in the bed, in a stormy night?’ I was even more puzzled.
She did not say anything.
‘Where did you sleep?’ I was not ready to give up.
‘Oh , I slept under the staircase. I was very tired.’
‘Where did your parents sleep?’
‘I do not know,’ she said and got down.
I did not say anything. She looked at me for a brief moment and walked away.
The anklet was lost in a mysterious way. I could not work out any logical inference out of what the girl said. A small doubt nagged at my mind as I walked back home. Her unusual quietness, her reservations, and the glazed look in her eyes made her different from other children of her age. Could it be so that the girl was a bit sick in the head? There could not be any other plausible explanation for her abnormal behaviour. A sick mind can imagine many absurd things. That might be the reason why she loved to sit alone, avoided the company of others and invented tales about a stormy night and the missing anklet. At that point of time, it was the only possibility that explained her aloofness. I was deeply disturbed. I wondered what kind of unconcerned and careless parents could have let their mentally disoriented child to roam alone in a public park. ‘I must meet her parents or the older member of her family who accompanies her to the park tomorrow and speak about this,’ I decided before I reached back home.
But the girl did not come the next day and many more days after that. In the mean while I got my transfer order to my hometown. I had been sending representations to the authorities requesting for a transfer to my native place on the ground of my parents’ ill health. I was advised to continue for a year at Maharastra since a transfer of an employee could not be done as per the official guidelines before he or she completed at least a year of service at the place of her first posting. Fortunately, they had considered my case sympathetically and complied to my appeal.
My parents were both happy and sad. Both of them had developed their individual circles with like-minded persons in the short span of just one year. But, as most of us, they too are emotionally linked to their native place. After all we have our roots there. So, the transfer came as a welcome change for all three of us.
Kusum auntie as well as the other neighbours were not happy about it. ‘I am going to miss you a lot, ‘Kusum auntie said sadly. ‘We too will miss you and your delicious dishes,’ Ma and Papa said. ‘I will visit your place whenever I come here on official tour,’ I said placatingly though I knew it was a remote possibility. ‘We are not leaving immediately, ‘ I said to auntie, ‘I have some pending assignments that would take me some time. Besides my substitute will not be joining till the end of the month. You can feed me with all your choice delicacies until that time.’ I added with a broad smile. It did not bring a smile to Kusum auntie’s face, though.
I longed to meet my mystery girl just once before I left Latur for good. But she never came again. Every morning I sat on the bench for while waiting for her to show up. And returned with a heavy, disappointed heart.
I found it more through an accident than by a chance.
It had rained a little the previous night. The jogging path was wet and the grassy patches in it were squishy. There were some more minutes left for the dawn -break. The park lights were still on but the jogging path along its edge was partially dark. I jogged on listening to the music on my ear phone. Suddenly I stumbled upon something hard and was pitched forward. It was sheer luck that I landed on my knees and palms instead of falling on my face. That could have been dangerous. I might have broken my teeth, or my nose or my face would have suffered a damage. I escaped only with some scratches on my palms and forearms and a slight sprain at my right ankle. What could have been the thing I stumbled upon? I tried to see and switched on the mobile phone light. I saw some object that was metallic and gray partially protruding out of the ground. I tried to pull it out but it had gone deep inside. I looked around for a splinter of wood to dig it out. There was none. I took out the key of our front door from my pocket and tried to scrape out the earth from around the object. I succeeded after an effort of a few minutes. I could see the object now. It was something like a silver bangle. I hooked my finger under its rim and wrenched it out of the ground.
I held it up in my hand and looked closely at it.
It was a small silver anklet! Just like the one the girl wore! I do not know why but my palms felt moist. Was this one the missing anklet of Anjli? How did it reach this place? The way it was buried in the ground I could guess that it had been there for quite a long time. Why I, amongst all the people, had to chance upon it? I felt a bit spooked. I put the anklet in my pocket and strode back home. ‘Anjli will be happy to get back her missing anklet. She was probably very fond of them and had not let anyone to take the other one of the pair out from her foot. I could not wait to see the sparkle of happiness in her glazed eyes as I gave her the anklet.
I waited for more than a week.
She did not come.
I was losing patience. We will be leaving this city in less than a couple of weeks. How shall I return her the anklet? I lay in the bed through a sleepless night wreaking my brain over the problem. Driven by a sudden impulse I selected a comparatively clear photo of Anjli from the ones I had taken in the park, superimposed the picture of the anklet on it and uploaded it on my social media site, captioning it as ‘The Missing Anklet’ and distantly hoping that someone of her family would come across it by some chance.
I had nothing else to do but wait.
I came cross the comment day after the next.
‘Want to talk to you urgently about the picture of the girl and the anklet you have posted. Please share your contact no.’
I was filled with a sudden enthusiasm. Finally, I have discovered someone of Anjli’s family. But I did not want to post my phone number on a public site.
‘Can’t share my phone number on the social media site. You can give me your number if you need to talk to me that urgently.’ I wrote my comment.
The person posted the contact number without any objection.
I decided to make the call in the night. I was feeling excited and nibbled at my dinner. Mother eyed me in concern. ‘Why aren’t you eating properly, dear? Are you okay?’
‘I am fine Ma, just not hungry tonight. Had some snacks at the office.’ I lied and came to my room.
I closed the door and sat down on the bed. Oscillating between anxiety and inquisitiveness I rang the number on my phone and held it to my ear listening to the burr…burr at the other end.
‘Hello.’ A male voice answered.
‘You wanted to speak to me about a photo I had posted.’ I said feeling ill at ease.
‘Yes. I want to know where did you get the photo and where did you find the anklet?’
‘Is the girl in the photo related to you in any manner?’ I asked without answering his question.
‘She was my daughter, Anjli.’ The voice at the other end seemed to quiver.
‘Was? You mean she is your daughter.’ I was feeling slightly edgy now.
‘She was my daughter. The anklet was hers, too. We have lost her years ago, in the earthquake. I would be greatly obliged to you if you could courier the anklet to us. ’
My throat had gone dry. My palms were clammy. The phone slipped out of my grip. I picked it up with a trembling hand.
‘H..how did it happen?’ I asked. My voice sounded hoarse to me.
We lived in the upper floor of a two storied building, I, my wife, my son Anish and my daughter Anjli. Another family stayed in the ground floor. The tremors happened at about four in the morning. We were all in deep sleep. The loud noise startled us. The lights had gone out. I picked up Anish and my wife pulled Anjli out of bed. We ran out of the door blindly groping for our way in the darkness. I do not know when Anjli’s hand slipped out of my wife’s. We ran down the flight of stairs. Just as we stepped down on the first landing the stair case gave in with a loud crash. We were all thrown out. It was difficult to find one another in the clouds of dust. After a long time that appeared like a century, we were lifted up by the rescue team. Anjli was missing. The rescue team searched under the debris for the missing people. A number of men women and children were buried under the rubbles. Some were alive, some were dead and some were dying. But Anjli was never found. She must have been buried deep under the earth and that was why the rescue team failed to get her. We have left the city for good and now are settled here at Nasik.’ He took a deep breath.
‘Please note down my address.’ He resumed. ‘I will be grateful to you forever if I could get back my daughter’s anklet. You may value it as a cheap piece of jewelry but to me and my wife it will be a priceless relic of my daughter,’ his voice broke towards the last.
I picked up a note book and wrote down the address and assured him that I will send him his daughter’s anklet by courier the next day. He thanked me and broke the connection.
I could not sleep for a long time. It was not possible to believe that the little girl I met in the park was the one the man spoke about. No amount of reasoning could convince me that the girl I spoke to, the girl I sat by on the swing and the girl whose pictures I had taken actually did not exist!
I did not go for jogging the next morning. I broke the routine after a long, long time. Mother was worried. ‘Are you okay, dear? Why didn’t you go to the park this morning?’
‘It’s nothing Ma. I worked on my laptop till late last night. You know I have to wind up certain work assignments before getting relieved. I woke up late in the morning. That’s it.’
We were to leave the place two days after. I had engaged the Movers and Packers packing services to do the packing. I avoided going to the park before it was day light and reasonably peopled. My eyes instinctively travelled to the bench and the swing where the girl used to sit. But they remained vacant.
It was our last day at the place. The furniture and other home appliances were getting loaded on the truck. We would start after the truck departed. Kusum auntie had invited us for lunch at her house. We surely would miss Kusum auntie and her hospitality. The truck left at about midday. My parents were at Kusum auntie’s house. The house where we stayed for about a year looked empty and desolate now. I had developed an attachment towards the apartment in the past one year. It hurt to leave the place, but the thought of going back to our hometown did help a lot to overcome the sense of loss. There was still some time left time for the lunch. On a last minute impulse I decided to take a look at the park. There would be no exercisers or joggers at the park at this time. I felt a bit uncertain, though. Yet I could not resist the temptation to make a visit there. I walked in through the main entrance and gazed around. The park was almost noiseless and empty except for a couple of security guards who sat gossiping on a bench to the left of the entrance. I sat down on a bench for a few minutes sipping the cool silence. ‘I won’t be coming here again,’ I thought nostalgically. I breathed out a deep sigh and rose to my feet.
I heard it then!
It was so soft at first that I took it to be the buzzing of some insect. Then it became more distinct. The delicate tinkling of bells! Just like the tinkling of Anjli’s ankles! My heart gave a start. I looked at the bench to my left. The security guards were not there. Was I alone in the park? I walked fast towards the entrance. The sound grew a bit louder. I stopped at the entrance and compelled by an irrepressible urge I turned on my heels and glanced at the swing towards the right.
She sat on the swing and dangled her little legs. The swing moved gently under the impact. She wore the same mud-stained pink frock which she was wearing all those days I met her. My eyes travelled to her feet. Both her feet were adorned with the bangle shaped silver anklets. The tiny bells tinkled as she swung her legs to-and-fro. I stood transfixed, my unblinking eyes riveted on her. I wanted to walk out of the park but my legs felt stiff.
She climbed off the swing slowly and moved towards the depth of the park. My eyes followed her. She reached the bend by a big flowering shrub and turned.
There was an enchanting, angelic smile on her face.
It was the most beautiful and most enigmatic thing I had ever seen.
A lone bird flapped its wings on a tree startling me.
I looked again at the bend by the flowering bush.
She was gone!
Snehaprava Das, former Associate Professor of English is a noted translator and poet. She has five collections of English poems to her credit Dusk Diary, Alone, Songs of Solitude, Moods and Moments and Never Say No to a Rose)
Just one more click and she will be done! As in really done! Done for the day, and done for good! May be, she should unsubscribe to that real estate website! No way! The pictures of them streets ran inside her like life-blood! Any day, they were more effective than any energy drink, protein supplement or them over-the-counter medicines so famous for relieving all symptoms of cold, and all feelings close to being feverish! Just one more click and that lovely street lined up with trees, beaming with fall colours, will get closer and you can even get the feeling of walking on them, with leaves crunching! Actually, there is even an arrow to facilitate the virtual walk! But sweetheart, let’s stay with the clicks! Strictly, with the clicks! Just one more click and you will get to the chandelier like leaves dangling from the weeping- willow next to the colourful garden blooming with perennials infront of the brick faced tiny little house! And oh! The million addresses of maple and oak leaves from this and that angle! These pictures begin to talk louder than words can ever do! Not only do they transport you, but actually get out the you in you! And yes, they made her talk in that slang, she only learnt after getting to the States! And yes, that slang made the place feel closer and the language more intimate! Just one more click and she would be close to the giant poplar leaning over a sunroom, and the woods behind the decks in so many backyards! With or without the Jacuzzi!
It was all so doable! The house without the husband? A new life! That famous thing called the second chance? Who needed to deny it so bad? Who needed this? Who needed her removal? Her deportation? Was a big question, and as a history student she knew, there could be a lack of coherent plan but clumsily, they had been spying on her since the day she got there! She will find that long and complicated answer and the footprints of their espionage game, no matter what it takes! The notifications helped there too! This wasn’t like raison d etre in the age of enlightenment, and neither were they therapy! How can people be banished from their beloved places where they have built homes, and intended to plant a garden! How much would they miss the fauna and the flora, the deer and the rabbits that changed colour and the turkey that came for a walk with its chicks, almost like a scene from a battery charged toy store! Just one more click and she will get to the daffodils along the streets, the tulips infront of the subway, the red maple infront of the nachos, and, and, and……! How she still loved the place! The green of the grass, the blue of the sky, the raspberry season, the sale on the last of the cherries, the curves of the walking trails, black ice, snow storms, wine tasting, gouda cheese! Had she been drunk romancing the white man? Of course, not, she knew how to hold her drink, and her senses! Someone had asked her!
Then how had she lost her immigrant status while travelling outside the country? There had to be laws for that, still valid, and if a fight was needed for that thing called justice, then, let there be one! But right now, one more click and she would see that perfect sunroof they had talked about adding real soon! And boom comes another notification of a house with a new England façade on military road, just off of Sheridan! And like the ring of a stolen old phone , or a cascade of light pouring in from a tiny window, or like an official display of firework, or even a single cracker being lit up by a child, come in these notifications, one after the other! How she would have loved to do the house more and better! But this is now, as the famous phrase goes! And how she would love to do one! With or without a man! Really? Wasn’t love going to be the fire place, or rather the nicest thing in the house? Yes, but she wanted to make sure she was there too! Yes, how she wanted to walk into the bank and sign the deal! But even more than that golden dream of home making, the notifications in this moment, in her trapped situation of not knowing how best to leave the motherland, filled her head with the song, ‘One more sunset, baby I’d be satisfied!’, playing years ago in her car, when she was falling in love, slowly, and did not know how much, with that town, where she learnt how to drive! Indeed, that town still holds the distinction of being the only town where she used to drive and get away for long drives! May be, she was falling in love with herself! Getting to that stage of being at peace with oneself, contentment within!
But no, she was brutally alone, desperately seeking, that elusive happiness called a soulmate! It was the latest round of health-checks in the so-called romance talks that had made her open them notifications, one after the other! Just one more click and that blue fur tree, perfect for Christmas decoration, like the one she had saved at the far end of the backyard, standing infront of the pretty red ranch will take her in her arms like a mother or a long lost sibling! ‘Good morning sunshine earth says hello’, plays another dear song on her favourite radio station, left behind! But are things ever left behind? A triangle rises over twin garages, a hexagon cuts itself in half over the extended living room, an attic protrudes from the top floor somewhere, a bay window juts out near the dining table on a street most enchanting, stairs run up and down from most interesting places, homes for sale, still decorated with pictures and pianos!
People moved all the time! They also broke their families! The percentage seemed highest in that country! They met and unmet, did and undid things just with the ease with which he had arrived in her life! An extremely handsome, green eyed, curly haired body builder had walked up to her, one fine evening in the gym, and asked her, ‘why don’t you work out with me?’ The question hadn’t made so much sense, was he just talking about machine sharing? Why? He could have said, ‘Can I get a set while you are resting?’ Happened to be the same day she had had a major encounter with hubby, deciding to confront him over simmering issues, being carried over since ages! Her enthusiasm of decorating the apartment with tribal paintings fetched from India, had been met with strange coldness, bordering on aversion, day after day! It had surprised her as well! They had talked about a house, decoration, home making, kids, baby sitting and so much more as lovers! It seemed like he didn’t want to talk at all! She had seen a blatant display of a deliberating confusing attitude that went no where! And that is when, she had decided to walk out leaving the conversation in between!
Was she mischievously extending his question, casually proposing would you like to get a set on that machine? ‘Sure’, he had replied, and had come real close, pulling the lat down, curving his back into an amazing arch, and turning sideways to look at her with a wink! He wanted her to notice the heavy weight he was lifting, his muscles flexing and shaping with each lift! She could feel his breath, the heavy inhale and exhale, on her stomach, rather a little above it…! Doing the upper back next, he reached over, grabbing her hands clutching the machine handles, and began to pull with her. “Like this”, he gently said. He had increased the weights by about seven pounds. She could feel his warm breath on her neck. An adrenaline shot up through her spine straight into her head and came gushing back down to swim through all her nerves, finally resting in her heart, which began to beat like she had just run a high school race and even won it! Though she didn’t care about winning and loosing! That’s what love is, she carelessly thought, clinging to the machine that evening, when he suddenly did not come. But how can someone not come suddenly? There was a bit of a discomfort and pain around her neck, where she had felt his breath, and inside her heart where the adrenaline had been resting. “That guy you work out with, he is a serious body builder. Competes for titles! Watch out my pretty lady! The weights might get heavier!’ A friendly familiar face, took a jibe, gave an advise, or a warning, she could not decide. She smiled back. They had been greeting each other for a couple months now. She took pride in these polite friendships she was making in a foreign land. But this guy was different. In two days, he had shaken the ground beneath her feet, and make her shake like a leaf!
“Where were you? I waited like….like….anything!” She was out of words and expressions! My, god, she had to say something to him. It was urgent. “I was at the chiropractor’s. These weights take a toll!” He was as calm as ever. His breath as warm as ever, was caressing her chin. In no time, the madness of his sweet smell was slipping down her neck, throbbing inside her cleavage and dancing on her belly button. He was wearing a very strong musk like perfume. How did he know, musk was her favourite? She was going to ask him. His lips were going to touch her, he was so close bending over to give a spot for her chest press! Somebody had to break the ice. “I think, I like you”, she heard herself say, and didn’t know where to hide her face, but found herself looking at his chest. “Come with me”, he said, like he knew what he was doing. Lovers have a way of finding a way! “Follow me”, he said, getting inside his car. “Wait! I don’t drive on the freeway”, she almost exclaimed, jumping! “Ok, just follow me”, he coolly said, tying his seat belt. She got inside her car, turned the keys, caught hold of the steering wheel. ‘oh my god! Was she sane? What was she doing? She was married! The car too belonged to him! The husband! Precisely! He was the master to whom everything belonged. Not her, not anymore! She was no one’s property. He did not own her. He simply was not the lover, he had once been. He was so busy being the master!
This was not a moment of contemplative, feminist rebellion. She turned the wheel. The car smoothly pulled out of the parking lot. What a beautiful drive it was through down town! She had never driven on Delaware! Beautiful streets of beautiful names turned right and left. And then, he suddenly, stopped someplace. It was in front of a small house downtown, with street parking. It was a friend’s house, he said. He opened the door. He had the keys. Howcome? The question struck her like lightening, now, only now. It was after their little rendezvous, that he had said, his wife had left him. She couldn’t remember what her first feeling, her initial reaction had been. It was a difficult thing to respond to. She remembered that moment crystal clear. That evening, he had said, let’s go to a park. It was a park she often used to visit with hubby dear, even in these days of practically no talk, no love making, not even a kiss. She couldn’t remember when they had kissed last! When he had lovingly, responded to one tender gesture offered and extended by her. Perhaps, she was expected to share all this with him, the ongoing tensions within her marriage. But all this she understood only now. At that point, she had hoped he would simply understand it wasn’t a happy marriage she was cheating on. She expected him to ask, rather tell her, how was it that he had shown up on that deadliest day, when she had the most severe fight with the man she had married, leaving many. That evening she had thought, for the first time about separation. And no, they had not screamed or shouted while fighting. They had used piercing, poisonous words in whispers to hurt each other’s mind, body and soul. She had walked away very bruised, and just then he had arrived with a similar type of pain reflecting on his very handsome face. She couldn’t stop wondering how!
We had been having fights constantly, he had been telling her. And there were other issues. “She had been having an affair with a fellow trainer, I think”, there were tears in his eyes. What would be the universe of those sea green eyes like? Love was a distant coral underneath the deep sea of those eyes. Was she willing to jump and dive? She did not even know how to swim! Did she know this man at all? How could she stand with him in such intimate moments of revelations and soul searching? What if he was a dark and dangerous man sent to harm her? What if he was a political agent? What if?.......the ifs seemed infinite. But had these thoughts occurred to her then? Or was she only thinking now, now after the deportation and his complete disappearance! She had searched and searched for him online. Nothing had appeared except his old office address.
It was so weird to have been so cut off from her old life. It seemed like there wasn’t a new life at all for her, but a barrage of memories that made up her existence! She remembered that evening clearly. It was during the spring season. Leaves were jutting out of her favourite maple tree, from where the buds had been, and she had thought flowers would burst and bloom out of them! It had been her surprise blooming leaves tree! A black winged red robin had just spread both her wings and had flown away, god knows where! Back in that house, they had embraced each other like magnets cling to a fridge! That kiss was the most beautiful she had ever tasted. They had been inside of each other, for the longest time one could live outside their bodies. Tearing each other’s clothes, they had reached out for the other’s skin like bloodthirsty spring of nations should sweep across continents together. There were bites, but the pain was unbearable elsewhere. She could not let him finish even this second time. They stood under the warm waters of the shower together for a long, long time. He still caressed her softly, melting her into a person, she did not know she was or could be.
Then, they reversed the pattern. Shower first. Made sense. Was so relaxing to slowly take off the gym clothes together, in that unknown shower and relax the sore muscles together, finding the curves of each other’s bodies. She thought she even enjoyed it more than the spicy, volcanic love making they did later. This became something of a routine. He now, came to the gym, only on the days, when he wanted to sleep with her, so she thought. How could someone who was so tender and loving in shower and bed, be so callous, so aloof, outside of it? Was this cultural difference? This wasn’t going anywhere, except the two places, where their bodies met. Their love had no soul! Was he waiting for her to talk about her marriage? Did it still matter? Could he not understand her body language? Was it very unmodern of her to think nothing more and nothing else was left to be said, after the total surrender of her body? Had she been naïve or a total fool? Were they growing apart in a brand new way?
Was she moving away from both of them, the husband and the lover? Was it a process of finding her own two feet, balanced and stable? But why did it have to be in distance with the two of them? The two of them? Oh! Where could all this lead eventually anyway? The last fight with hubby dear, had been deadly. And in the silence that had descended uncomfortably upon the two of them, he had sought for her body like a wild animal and had taken it against her desire. If she had been feeling guilty earlier, she felt insulted now. Torn apart, in a war of wanting to belong, to feel right, she had decided to be completely alone. She had decided to file for divorce. Love had strengthened her. She would meet him again, as an unmarried, single woman for the first time in her life. Or who knows, she might meet someone else? A brand new lover, with whom the soft tender kisses might lead to the fulfillment of that good old dream of making a home together, with love in the centre. This guy was too obsessed with his broken home, broken family, there were kids involved. Actually, it was very weird. His second child, the daughter, had been born during their estrangement. So, had they grown apart during the pregnancy? Or was this second baby a last desperate attempt to save the marriage and had proven unsuccessful? She could not ask these questions? She wanted to make a baby herself, get a life of her own! She could not go back to the husband. The road was open for this lover. But she suspected, he did not want to make a baby! Did she also suspect, he did not want a permanent relationship with her at all? There was no point thinking about it.
And then, the unthinkable had happened. While she was away in India, getting a divorce done, she was fired. The job she had worked so hard for, and so hard at, had politely told her, she was not needed. How could they do it? That job was her whole life. Her entire future depended on it. She was inseparable from it, nothing without it. She could not exist away and apart from that job. It was unbelievable that they had told her to go, to no longer come. The letter was in her hands. She sat down reading it, regretting being literate. Then, she had also called and confirmed. She could not believe the calm and cold voice, on the other side, politely telling her “that’s right, my love, we decided we could not process your work permit. We wish you the very best.” She had obtained that job, just six months back, once the green card processing had cleared the labour stage, allowing her to work. Multiple Indian wives worked once the labour was cleared. But they had neither filed for a divorce, nor had had a relationship with another white man. A steaming physical relationship, that everyone in town would have known about. She had seen some very stern looks of people, everywhere, including at work. Although, there was no law preventing a married immigrant woman from falling in love with a white native of the land, in America. Rather, adultery was a crime for a man.The native and the race question, could be analyzed for days at end, but for now, what sufficed was that she had been fired. And she could not find another job without any political backing. No one was willing to process her work permit, allegedly, with the little expertise she had. But, she knew of the massive lines for the Immigrant jobs. She looked and looked and kept looking, with no result, for either a job or that lover! He could so easily rescue her, but he was no where to be found! Had he not looked for her at all?
Almost an year passed. She asked a friend to keep her things. At that work place, she had earnestly requested her lady boss, to provide her with the work permit, citing some personal reasons, basically irreconcilable differences with her husband, including mental and physical torture. The lady boss had kindly agreed. But it seems, she had been transferred, and replaced by a tough white man. He had very deftly, done away with her. Without any qualms or second thoughts. It seemed he had been brought to do so. The decision to lay her off, had come from above. Was she dealing with white supremacist forces? But was it just white supremacist thinking, she was fighting? What about her own people? Had they no role to play in the way in which she had been stranded? The ladies of the town had seemed suspicious from day one, wanting to get into her personal life. Of course, there were exceptions, she could count on her fingers, and was very glad to have those few selected friends. She had to go back and retrieve her things.
For nearly, a month, she sat in front of her computer, shocked, aghast, numbed into silence, simply looking for jobs around that area. There were none in sight. Slowly, she realized the best possible way out was to apply to study in a University, and then, look for a job. But after digesting the initial pain, she concluded, she wouldn’t apply right away. Instead, she joined a job right there, in her parent’s home town. It was of a similar nature that she had in the states, teaching the languages and social sciences, to little kids in school. She had a BA, MA, and a Bed, all from India. None of her colleagues in the states had an MA. The appointment required them to complete one within five years of joining the job. Such, were the provisions of the law in the state. It applied to government and private schools alike. The American school she had joined, was a private little kinder garden, a step above day care, where she taught four year olds, history and geography, with different colourful maps of the world, nations and states. Her job was to make history and geography, interesting to kids. Well, she would get back to it!
In the meantime, there were kids here, with questions, dreams and desires. She was teaching high school here, and enjoying it to an extent. There were challenges presented by some unaccepting kids, and some very dominating guardians. That too, was manageable. There were dusty streets, severeness of all weathers, and lack of a greenery, that she wanted to talk about, but nobody wanted to talk about these things. She was a loner, an introvert. But she had hardly any time to socialize anyway. Living with her parents allowed her to save substantially, and in turn, to plan concretely for her return , joining the University. Reading news felt like a nice thing to do. She increasingly found herself reading international news. And then, came the desire to google these places, her old school, her house, the walking trails she loved, the creeks, the parks, the restaurants, and to top it all, her beloved library. And somewhere, in between, clicking on all this, she didn’t remember how, she hit upon that real estate website, showing homes available for sale in the states, including her home town. And it became, like a pain reliever, a best friend, inside her dear friend, the computer! There were notifications, each time, she turned the computer on, as she got up in the morning, came back home and so on.
It was during these days of dullness and duality, that her mother told her that awful, heart breaking news. A close family friend’s son had died in a road accident in the States. It was most painful. Horrifying. She suspected it to be a murder. But it was hard to prove. They spoke to a few people, emotionally involved and then, everybody went on with their lives, like they always did. Only, her entire attitude changed towards reading news, towards the notifications. The newspapers were full of accidents, along with news of crime, and so much more, but they had not touched and shaken her like this. Of course, there was good news too. She tried to find them, in order to move on. The house notifications were a big part of it. They represented a possibility, difficult and distant, but yet a possibility. And thus, her mornings, became addicted to a virtual walking tour of that old town, along with a fresh cup of tea.
Pankhuri Sinha is a bilingual poet, story writer and translator from India. Two poetry collections published in English, two story collections published in Hindi, six poetry collections published in Hindi, and many more are lined up. Has been published in many journals, anthologies, home and abroad. Has won many prestigious, national-international awards, like the Girija Kumar Mathur Award, Chitra Kumar Shailesh Matiyani Award, Seemapuri Times Rajeev Gandhi Excellence Award, First prize for poetry by Rajasthan Patrika, awards in Chekhov festival in Yalta and in Premio Besio Poetry competition in Italy, Sahitto award in Bangladesh, and Premio Galateo in Italy for poetry in mother tongue. Has been translated in over twenty seven languages.
She has studied in Delhi University, Symbiosis Pune, SUNY Buffalo, and the University of Calgary, Canada. She has worked in various positions as a journalist, lecturer and a content editor. Has done writing residencies in Hungary and Bulgaria, and attended the Tranas Literature Festival in Sweden.
This is a hilarious story from the summer in 1943 in British India. My father who was a police officer was posted in Udala in Mayurbhanj of Odisha. It was then a princely state which was later integrated into Odisha by efforts of Sardar Ballabhbhai Patel. Father had narrated the episode to us with all its humour.
There was a small police station in a village near Baripada, Mayurbhanj. The Thana building consisted of 3 small rooms and one bigger room with wide verandah both in front and behind and had red earthen tile roofing.
All rooms were interconnected and wash room for Thana Officer was separately located, little away from main office complex.
The officer incharge, a newly posted Sub inspector was from British regime. There was one English Assistant sub inspector. The other staff of two constables and two chowkidars were from Odisha .
About 100 metres away was the official quarters of SI Saheb. His sahayak, one constable, was staying in the adjacent room of Saab. There were four rooms in the building with attached bathrooms. Kitchen was big and it occupied half of the backyard area.
All rooms had high ceiling and big windows with wooden railings painted olive green.
The officer used to go to police station sharp at 9 a.m. in the morning and came back to his quarters around 1.30 in the afternoon. After lunch and little rest he used to go out for an evening walk. He was staying alone and his family was in London.
One day while in office, one of the chowkidars came and saluted him. He wanted leave for two weeks as his mother was sick. The officer granted him leave and the other chowkidar did double duty.
After a couple of days one farmer of a nearby village who had a tree full of ripe jackfruits came to police chowki residence in the evening with one jackfruit as a gift for Saab. People in villages were simple and used to offer their homegrown vegetables and fruits to Saab as a token of respect. The constable at home took the big ripe fruit and kept it on the floor of the room next to the master bed room.
At night Saab went off to sleep after dinner but could smell the sweet, strong aroma of the fruit kept in the next room and enquired about it. The sahayak showed the big yellow fruit kept there.
The officer had never tasted it before. He got tempted to try it at night itself. Around midnight when the helper went off to sleep, he got up from bed and quietly went to the other room submerged in pure darkness. Accidentally he stumbled and stepped on the fruit. The ripe soft jackfruit gave way and thick juice started flowing out onto the floor with scattered edible pulpy seeds. The Saab sat down on the floor and just put his fingers into the fruit and tasted the thick juice. It was sweet and very tasty. He started savouring the delicacy. Soon he was confident like an expert and was dipping into the fruit deeper and deeper, exploring the interior with both hands. He was eating the fleshy juicy pulps and enjoying the heavenly taste. He was spitting away seeds indiscriminately in all directions in the room. A long time must have passed when he realised that he had eaten almost half of the fruit and was feeling satiated. He got up and came to bathroom to discover to his horror that all his fingers and both the hands were stuck with sticky white glues of the fruit. The yellow juice was spilled all over his dress. Oh shit! He tried to wash his hands with soap and water but to his horror the glue became harder and more sticky. Exhausted, he pulled at his hair in anger. Lo and behold! The sticky devil crawled onto his hair which gave him the look of a lunatic when he looked at the mirror. He took a head bath but there was no respite from the rubbery white devil. More he was trying to cleanse more his hair got entangled. Desperately the officer took the help of a shaving razor and scissors to cut the beard, moustache and then shaved off his hair, the crowning glory on his head. Ultimately he got rid of the sticky glue somehow after an oil bath. Then he had to rub the skin of his hands gently to remove the notorious gum.
By the time he was done it was almost dawn and he was damn tired. He quietly sneaked into his bed and tried to sleep. In the morning as usual the sahayak came with bed tea. He got surprised to see the mess in the adjacent room and the altered image of Saab over the eventful night. He just laughed to himself and guessed the whole scenario. He did not ask the Saab anything out of fear and started cleaning the room.
The punctual officer got ready and reached the office at 9 am. He put on an English hat to cover his tonsured head.
After sometime the chowkidar who had finished his leave came back to rejoin the duty. He stood at the office door and gave a salute to Saab. The officer acknowledged the salute and looked at him in a very surprised, inquisitive manner. Because the chowkidar also had a tonsured head like him. The officer immediately asked him, ‘Hello, did you also eat jack fruit?’
The chowkidar gave a blank look and left. The poor chowkidar had lost his mother and had finished the rituals in his village, which he explained later.
It seemed the officer got two lessons in one day. First, the Hindu ritual of tonsuring the head, followed by sons in India on the death of parents and second, the more important one, that one should never mess with a ripe jackfruit!
Rekha Mohanty is an alumni of SCB Medical College.She worked in Himachal Pradesh State Govt as a medical Officer and in unit of Para military Assam Rifles before joining Army Medical Corps.She worked in various Peace locations all over India and Field formations in High Altitudes.She was awarded service medal for her participation in Op Vijay in Kargil.She is post graduate in Hospital Management and has done commendable job in inventory management of busy 1030 bedded Army Base Hospital ,Delhi Cantonment for six years and offered Sena Medal and selected for UN Mission in Africa.After the service in uniform she worked in Ex Service Men Polyclinic in Delhi NCR till 2021.She writes short stories and poems both in English and Odia as a hobby and mostly on nature.Being a frequent traveler,she writes on places.She helps in educating on health matters in a NGO that works for women upliftment.As an animal lover she is involved in rehabilitation of injured stray dogs.
She lives mostly outside the state and visits Bhubaneswar very often after retirement.She likes to read non political articles of interest.She does honorary service for poor patients.
YA DEVI SARVABHUTESHU
Prof (Dr) Viyatprajna Acharya
Sandhya stood by her bedroom window and was lost in the far horizon. The sun was about to set and sprinkled the rays of orange and red like a spoilt rangoli on the floor. Birds were returning to their nests. To a poet’s eyes, the scenic beauty was enough to entice him to pen down few poetic verses yet know not why, the scenic view as if reflected Sandhya’s bleeding heart and made her even more depressed.
She reflected back on her life…why, she had achieved everything in life in perfect proportion. Since childhood she was a bright student and cracked medical entrance and is now a successful Microbiologist. She has been successfully married to Siddhant, who works as a senior executive in an MNC for past 18 years with two beautiful kids, one 15-year-old daughter, the other 13-year-old son. Prosperity kisses their feet. To have a harmonious life, she wakes up at 4am in the morning every day, bows at the pedestal of the trinity and swiftly finishes all the chores, sends the kids and her husband to school and office and heads to her workplace. She balances her work life and family life very adeptly and has been lauded innumerable times, some even envy her. She eavesdrops everything but with a smile dismisses everything to work with equanimity of mind.
A sad Sandhya turned towards her dressing mirror. After a long time, she looked at herself in the mirror. Astonishingly, she had developed a few streaks of grey hairs shining like arborising lightning amidst a thick black cloud. She’s recently turned 41…wow, she never stopped a while to reflect on her journey even! Siddhant is 5 years elder to her…yet how can he get involved with a girl half of his age!! Shit! The moment she recalled the entire incident described by her friend and confidante Aparajita, she felt very weak and desperate, a shiver of hatred spread through her.
She had lost both her parents long back on whom she mostly leaned on at such occasions. She felt like crying out aloud, but was afraid to disturb her kids who were studying in the other room. She felt very desperate. Usually, she played the role of agony aunt for everybody, but today whom she can turn to seek help! She looked at the rounded eyes of Lord Jagannath and tears started rolling down incessantly.
Aparajita said that Siddhant is being seen with a colleague named Rashmi of his office very frequently in different public places and hence she thought to put a word of caution to Sandhya. Sandhya’s mind was filled with anger, anguish, hatred, jealousy, lack of trust….all together, yet somewhere her heart told her not to believe all these. But Aparajita had been a very close friend to her for years and she has affirmed with evidence.
Sandhya looked at herself in the mirror again. Yes, amidst juggling multiple roles, she has forgotten to take care of herself. Love handles have been added, ten kgs have been added since her marriage days. But is it only about physical appearance in a relationship! Didn’t her commitments, sacrifices are not enough! “No, I can’t accept that it is my fault. I can’t demean myself. It is Siddhant who is at fault.” She almost told aloud to herself.
She has been always a fighter and has overcome all problems in life. In school days, someone taunted her of stammering once. She took it as a challenge and not just got over stammering, but bagged the first prize in debate competition. At the age of 38 she went to reach up to Everest base camp and returned victorious.
She never doubted her husband even a bit and had been deeply engrossed in raising the kids, looking after the in-laws, working hard to maintain her professional success too and never ever thought she lacked in any aspect so as Siddhant can get distracted from her warm cocoon. Why, she has been also surrounded by so many male colleagues, some caring, some advancing, yet she never felt a tug for anyone…then why Siddhant!
She pulled herself and started thinking how to deal with this new challenge. Her face stiffened, silenced and then glowed in determination; altogether a play of emotions that matched with the pace of her thoughts. Challenges in life have given her always an impact of that like a stone kept in the flowing stream and the stream jumps off high to overcome the obstacle.
“Well, Siddhant, here I come”, said to herself and proceeded for evening Puja.
But before taking any such step. she wanted to verify the facts by herself and followed Siddhant everywhere he went and to her dismay, whatever Aparajita said was true. Rashmi had joined his office 3-4 months back. The affair has culminated in bed too.
“Aah, now I understand the reason for late night client meetings! Such a fool I am!” Tears welled up in her eyes but she tilted her head back and sucked them into the nasal path. “For whom am I shedding tears! Traitor! You’ll definitely get punished for your bad karmas.” As if she emanated fire instead of tears from her eyes.
On Sunday, Siddhant started from home in the morning at about 11 o’clock saying that he has client meeting and will have lunch outside. Sandhya had exchanged her car with that of Aparajita’s and started following him. Oblivious of the fact, Siddhant drove in to the outskirts of a city to a large resort. He wore a crisp white cotton shirt with a khaki pant which suited him a lot and he climbed the stairs like a fawn leaving behind the smell of Calvin Klein perfume.
Sandhya had worn some unusual beach wears and had a hat and goggles on which made her look quite different. She occupied the table just behind Siddhant and casually surfed the mobile and ordered for a juice. Her eyes were stuck on Rashmi. She was strikingly beautiful and had entered the dining hall with the room pass key dangling alongside.
“Oh! So the rendezvous is here! How gullible Siddhant has taken her to be! Just because she is too engrossed in work and family, he’ll take advantage of the situation thus! Disgusting!” But instead of crying or quitting the place, she had to swallow the poison and wait for the right moment.
When Siddhant got up for washroom, quickly Sandhya took his seat as soon as he was out of sight. There was not much time for her.
She took off her sunglasses and asked Rashmi, “Are you Rashmi?” Rashmi jolted in surprise.
Rashmi asked, “Why, yes! How do you know me?”
“That’s not important. Tomorrow, I’ll meet you here at 5 o’clock in the evening. It is best not to discuss about it with anyone. You need to know a lot of things about Siddhant.”
Sandhya immediately left that resort and returned home. After lunch she stepped into a place where she had not visited long since. “Saloni beauty Salon”- she read the board and entered awkwardly. Next four hours she surrendered herself to the beauticians and got a complete makeover. All these years, probably she had been too harsh to herself and had not taken care of her own self. Looking at Rashmi she felt bit jealous within but well, she is just a kid! She purchased a lot of things for herself and kids and returned home. Kids were more than happy.
Siddhant had not returned till then. When he returned home, he looked tired and went to bed immediately. Though he found Sandhya in her new avatar, didn’t pay much heed. Sandhya felt a surge of anger from within, but controlled herself.
Next day Sandhya and Rashmi sat on the same table of the resort. Sandhya ordered for two coffees. She noticed a new smartphone in Rashmi’s hands and a diamond bracelet sparkling on her wrist.
She thought to herself, “Isn’t this the one I had lost quite some time ago and was blaming the maid in my mind?” Thankfully, she had not brought in the issue directly with the maid or else she would have lost face before the poor lady. Now she knew where it has made its way.
Leaving the issue aside she asked, “Are you in love with Siddhant?”
Rashmi smiled sheepishly and affirmed. But then she asked, “Who are you? And why are you asking all these to me?”
“Since how long you both know each other? Do you know that he is a married person with two grown up kids?”
“Well…..a little bit I knew. He said that his wife is a psychotic and is undergoing treatment.” Now Sandhya was looking straight into Rashmi’s eyes and she shivered with that cold stare. Sandhya thought inside, “Either this girl is a gold-digger or too gullible who has fallen into the trap of Siddhant’s charm. Or she might be misconstruing the fatherly love as the love between a man and woman. Whatever it is, that is none of her business to understand their relationship. She must make things straight now.”
“Has Siddhant promised to marry you too?”
“Well, not exactly. Actually, we are in a kind of live-in relationship and trying to know each other and it is okay if we do not get compatible and part ways. He is a nice chap and tries to keep me happy all the time.”
“Oh God! Where the society has come down to! This girl is not at all gullible, she is just over-smart and spoilt girl.
Rashmi suddenly asked, “ But who are you and why are you asking such questions?”
“Me? Well, I am Sandhya, his wife. The same psychotic one.” Sandhya laughed aloud.
“In fact, Dr. Sandhya.”
After that they both chit-chatted for an hour and Sandhya left the resort with a victorious smile and left behind a brooding and frightened Rashmi at the resort.
Sandhya had engaged Siddhant in picking up the kids from school taking plea of a conference and hence was sure that her meeting with Rashmi would go on smoothly.
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Next day evening when Siddhant returned home, he looked a bit perplexed and sad deep within. The agony increased subsequent days and gradually he became very irritated and retorted very badly to whatever he was asked. Sandhya was observing the change and was trying to guess the reason but stayed calm and composed.
Few days later, Siddhant caught a cold and later fever followed. She took good care of Siddhant and smiled within sarcastically. “Now you will understand the difference between a true and fake relationship, Mr. Siddhant.” She said to herself silently.
Ever a devout wife, she took good care of Siddhant and started antibiotics for him immediately. But after fourth day also when fever didn’t come down, she had to take a blood sample for analysis to her own lab. Evening when she returned, she looked pretty disturbed and took another blood sample from Siddhant.
Next day she came home bit early and sat near Siddhant. Today the fever had come down but Siddhant was having loose motions. He enquired sweetly, “What is it, Sandhya? Malaria or typhoid?” On seeing her fall silent, he asked, “Is there anything serious, dear?”
In past few days of proximity, Sandhya was finding her old Siddhant back. With much pain she found her voice. She mumbled, “Had you taken any injection or donated blood or any kind of contamination can you think of?”
Siddhant sat up and asked, “Why? Is it Hepatitis B?”
Sandhya’s eyes were filled with tears. “Siddhant, you have got AIDS. To confirm I have tested your blood twice and also tested mine. How is it possible?”
She added, “Siddhant….are you in any relationship….by any chance?”
To this Siddhant shouted in high pitch, “What are you saying Sandhya? This might be due to the blood donation that was conducted in our office long back. I never ever looked at any other girl other than you!”
“I am so sorry Siddhant. I never had a doubt on you but just asked like that. It must have been due to that blood donation programme. Somehow, some contamination has occurred.”
Sandhya felt like screaming aloud, “You cheat, you liar! How can be such a scoundrel! You have never donated a pint of blood till date. Whom are you fooling!”
But she stayed calm and sat near him and held his hands and assured that it’s a battle that has to be fought by both of them.
Thereafter, everyday something or the other happened to Siddhant. Either it was a cold, a fever or cough. Within 15 days he lost almost 7 kgs. His eyes were hollowed. Sandhya took all possible care and kept on working in her usual pace and didn’t let the kids know about Siddhant’s illness. She couldn’t share it with anyone either as AIDS is a taboo in the society and they may be estranged by the society. Siddhant kept on extending his leaves.
“Siddhant, how many times I should ask not to surf about the disease? You’ll be fine soon. I have asked for good medications after consulting a few friends of mine. You just keep calm and stay positive.” Sandhya chided mildly.
“That’s what! I don’t want to stay positive. Not as an AIDS positive! Siddhant screamed and cried like a child.
Next day Sandhya came and started chit-chatting with Siddhant. Siddhant seemed to be in a better mood today. Casually, she mentioned how a girl named Rashmi had come to her STD clinic today and has been diagnosed with AIDS. “Disgusting! She has admitted herself that she had multiple partners. What kind of “Rashmi” (light rays) she would have spread to all those partners and to their families, God only knows. God save them all.
Siddhant asked about features about the girl. Sandhya asked whether he knew the girl but soon Siddhant said, “Actually, one such girl worked in our office but now she has quit the job. I had seen her once or twice.”
Though Siddhant tried to stay calm, something was tormenting him inside but there was none to share his feelings. Seeing the dazzling vermillion bindi on Sandhya’s forehead he felt so weak within. “Do I really deserve all these service and love from Sandhya? How do I disclose the truth to her? Can I even tell her till my last breath? Last breath….yes, that is the only way out now. I have to finish off myself. I can’t seek forgiveness, neither I deserve any forgiveness from Sandhya.”
One afternoon, Siddhant had severe stomach ache and after almost half an hour he decided that today it should all end. He found the sleeping pills and started taking a handful of them. He stared at them for a long while, wrote a suicide note and started gulping one after another tablet. Just then Sandhya barged in and threw the bottle from his hands and said, “Can’t you even think what would have happened to the kids. Forget about myself. We are fighting this battle together, right? Then why did you do this to yourself?” all this while she was crying bitterly.
She made Siddhant vomit with supersaturated saline water and made him lie down.
Siddhant started crying inconsolably and said, “Sandhya, I do not deserve your forgiveness. I have cheated on you. You are a doctor. Give me death instantly. I can not die with this disease every day.” Then he divulged the entire story before her.
Sandhya stood up and wiped her tears keeping her back to Siddhant.
Siddhant kept on pleading, “Please give me instant death, you can.”
Sandhya turned to face him and with a stern face she said, “Why the hurry! You have entire life to live. For your information, let me tell you that you do not have AIDS. You never had actually.”
“What!!!” Siddhant stood up with a jolt. “Then what about the report, the fever, cough, weakness, loose motions?”
“Well, what began with a viral fever, I maintained it with a drug that you are allergic. And it was partly due to your guilty feeling too. I knew everything about Rashmi in detail. What you told me is just a stale story.”
Siddhant could not bat an eyelid even. He was ferocious, he was full of gratitude also, he felt guilty within and felt angry with Sandhya for breaching his trust.
“How could you do this? You are a doctor, right?” he demanded Sandhya an answer.
“And what about you? Everything was fair for you. You are a husband and father to two kids. We have some social status; didn’t you even think that you were going to be the talk of town. What was my fault Siddhant? Just because I prioritized well-being of the family, you felt bored in less than 20 years conjugal life! Is this all about our relationship Siddhant?” Sandhya burst into tears.
Siddhant asked, “Then Rashmi’s story about having AIDS? What did you do to her? Is she ok?”
“Oh! How concerned!” She flung a sarcastic smile. “Couldn’t you understand that she was a gold-digger. I just told her that I know innumerable ways to make an unnatural death look like a normal one. She has to vanish into thin air right away. And I confiscated my diamond bracelet and the new smartphone that you gifted her. I was enjoying all your concerned messages for her all this while. Take it.” She threw the smartphone on his bed.
Siddhant was also in tears. He knelt on the floor and asked for forgiveness. “Sandhya, please forgive me. Unless until you forgive me I will be dying even after knowing to be disease-free.”
“Oh, really! Do I really have the power to forgive even? I am a mere woman who has to slug like a slave day in and day out for the husband, for the kids, for the in-laws, trying to please everyone forgetting our own selves.”
“Please do not say like that. You are epitome of kindness.” begged Siddhant.
“You were my entire world Siddhant. You might be thinking how I reached just in time. I have planted CCTV cameras in your room and all this while I have never slept peacefully for a single night. Just in case you would have taken this drastic step.” Sandhya was wiping her tears violently. She was angry and as if splinters were coming out of her eyes and melting as tears.
Sandhya went on, “You have already suffered enough for your misdeed. Whether I forgive you or not, your karma has punished you enough. I didn’t want to create a scene by asking for a divorce or begging you to leave the girl. Probably, all this while we women have not gathered much of physical strength but with our intellect also, we can win a war.”
Siddhant still on his knees, thought to himself “The hands that rocks the cradle, rules the world.”
There was nothing more to be said or heard. Both were in tears. Siddhant was seeing the Mother divine in front of him, who gave birth to him, took care, gave him company, punished with fear of death and now granted his life back. He was overwhelmed with a play of emotions of gratitude, humility and surrender.
“You have killed the vices, the Asuras within me in the form of lust and greed.”
Unknowingly, he was chanting aloud “Ya devi sarbabhuteshu, shakti roopena sansthitaa, namastasyai namastasyai namastasyai Namonamah!
Dr. Viyatprajna Acharya is a Professor of Biochemistry at KIMS Medical College, who writes trilingually in Odia, English and Hindi. She is an art lover and her write-ups are basically bent towards social reforms.
The above saying is steeped in history.
It is sequined with simplicity and a bit of mystery too. Its deep and intense intonations have been ingrained in our minds since we were young. This is so because it is oft quoted and one of the most repeated sayings of the father of the nation.
It went on to become a potent statement for 'Ahimsa' during the freedom struggle.
During school days social studies was part of the curriculum. It consisted of history, geography and civics. My respectable score in the subject was achieved as I was good at geography. However, rote learning helped me to secure some marks in history although I never developed a liking .
Little did I know that someday history will come to my rescue like no other. That, I would imbue the essence of 'offering the other cheek' with terse eloquence to cast my reticent dad in a supple mold. Strange it may sound but it is true.
I was in standard three then. I was naughty and a prankster of repute. I missed teachings in classes often especially the classes after recess and remained absent minded when teachers taught. Late return after the refreshment break occurred as I took time to eat. There were two or three other students who did the same. But those days no one noticed nor kept much track of .
I took time to chew and gulp as I did not like my tiffin. To be precise I abhorred the routine food - sandwiches, upma and rotis. I liked fried yummy food like vada, pakora. Sweets were my all time favorites. My favorite food often remained out of reach due to papa's modest income.
My class teacher was very upset with me for my low scoring and inattentiveness. She tried her best to persuade me but in vain. She took to the last recourse i.e ‘to inform parents.'
A note from the school authorities was sent to my parents citing my lack of concentration in classes and late comeback from recess hours.
The school peon handed the letter of caution to my dad who had reached home after a day’s hard work. Had it been mom, I could have managed with some pretext.
But, dad was a man of principle and did not tolerate aberrations. He was furious after going through the letter.
He groaned in anger and his eyes were bloodshot in no time.
He caught hold of me as I was trying to sneak away to take refuse in mom's arms after encountering his seething anger .
Spewing expletives he came running like a gust . Within seconds I was shivering like a meek deer, was held captive. Gaping in utter disbelief I fumbled to utter even a word.
He beat me up fiercely, slapped on one cheek and pulled my ears.
Those days , beating up was considered as a corrective measure and neither party opposed to the practice. I was startled. But he had no mercy in his eyes.
After receiving the first installment, I turned and showed him the other cheek. It was not for the reason that I had imbued Gandhian philosophy, but the slap receiving cheek was hurting and one more dose would have been unbearable. His hand rose and shook like the mast in a storm but the imminent act fizzled out in seconds. Like a pack of cards the act fell flat before hitting my cheek.
I was surprised as it was beyond my apprehension. To be frank, I was anxiously waiting for the installment with one eye closed after gauging the quantum of fury in his gestures.
I opened my eyes slowly to ascertain the delay in execution. But was relieved to note that the dark cloud of foreboding had dispersed forever.
Dad did not hit me further.
At a distance, mom was standing still mumbling and sobbing as she was never privy to such a dramatic situation. As soon as dad's fury lessened , she mustered up courage to intervene.
A mother is always protective of her child and she was no exception.
She covered me up with her aanchal like a farmer eagerly covers his produce in fields to avoid even a drop of water getting inside. I felt assured and my fear vanished into thin air.
In vain, mom came to save me that day. Her role was like the bolly -wood police making entry after a thief is caught.
Dad, by then, was a changed person.
Repentance for beating me was clearly visible in his eyes.
With much difficulty, he could utter -"Son, I have full faith that you will not go astray. The things you do to provoke your teachers' wrath are minor failings. Try to get the better of them. I am sure you will. Erase them from your mind like you erase bad dreams. No one can stop you from shining like a star."
Mom cooked my favorite dishes and dad sat with me till I finished off the last morsel of food that evening. He was keenly watching me as I devoured fish curry and kheer with utmost satisfaction.
Afterwards dad reprimanded mom to prepare my choicest tiffin everyday, so that I eat fast during tiffin break.
I was on cloud nine when I heard this.
Years later, I learnt that dad worked overtime to fulfill my indulgences.
My quaint and impromptu act of ‘offering the other cheek’ was the game changer as my dad took it as -'complete surrender to his beatings‘ . Had I objected or rebelled, things would have been different- I presume.
‘Following great thinkers and their preaching having timeless appeal is always beneficial’-I realized that day.
I was once bitten twice shy to repeat such acts. My punctuality and attentiveness, post that incident, took an upswing and rose to one hundred percent. My teachers were happy and so were my parents.
Sujata Dash is a poet from Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She is a retired banker. She has three published poetry anthologies(More than Mere-a bunch of poems, Riot of hues and Eternal Rhythm-all by Authorspress, New Delhi) to her credit. She is a singer, avid lover of nature. She regularly contributes to anthologies worldwide.
RED CHUDAA, PIZZA ITALIANO AND WHITE WINE
(Chudaa in Odia translates to flattened rice. It is known as Chidwa in some parts of northern India. In the Western parts of the country it is called Poha and in the southern parts Aval. A red chudaa denotes hand-made variety, as opposed to machine-made. In our student days in the 70s, 80s and 90s of last century, Chudaa was used as a derogatory term for those who came to city colleges and hostels from deeply rustic areas. They were supposed to be lacking in smartness, chutzpah and clever manners. A Red Chudaa was the ultimate Chudaa, akin to a bumbling idiot. In due course the Chudaas of course acquired a certain degree of acceptability, but the original stink always remained associated with them to some degree).
I kept looking at Sutanu, with unblinking eyes, as if it was not my friend from the college days, but some celebrity like Shah Rukh Khan who was sitting before me. I was meeting him after many years, that too at his invitation. I simply could not refuse the temptation of a lunch at Mayfair, Bhubaneswar's classy, pricey restaurant. I was also curious to see this friend from the past after many years. Looking at him, my eyes had popped out like they were a magician's eggs, but he sat there nonplussed, smiling benignly at me. It appeared as if were he on a stage acting out a mythical opera he would have looked at the world with disdain, twirling his moustache, and rolling with earth-shaking laughter. I could also detect a faint, mocking contempt in his stare, probably for the palpable discomfort he was causing in me.
A lot had obviously changed in the past twenty years. The last time we had seen each other was in Ravenshaw College, where we had vacated the hostel in the summer after the final exams. We never met after that. Sutanu had continued his M.Com. at Ravenshaw, but I had shifted to the University campus twenty miles away to pursue post-graduation in Political Science. He had gone away to teach in a far-off government college in the Western part of the state. I had joined as a lecturer in a local private college and stayed back in Bhubaneswar.
Four years before the final exams when Sutanu had appeared in our hostel, a sort of mild tremor had passed among the inmates. No one had ever seen some one like this specimen who had come from some interior village in Ganjam district. Everything about him was funny, a funny hairstyle, a funny gait and a funny rustic accent. Although at first sight we knew a Chudaa when we saw one, it took us just two days to crown him as the undisputed 'Chudaamani', a jewel among the lesser Chudaas. Of course when students came to the hostels in a city college most were Chudaas to some extent or the other - some were the legendary hand-made red variety, some were relatively white Chudaas. Some applied copious oil in their hair, making it shine like the glorious rump of a dark buffalo, some applied cream to make their hair smile like a coy bride. In due course the cards got shuffled, jacks and queens sat glued to each other in the pack, but somehow the die-hard red Chudaas retained whiffs of the stink and were treated as partially reformed jokers.
Chudaamani Sutanu was unique in many respects, something like sui generis. In the mornings when he walked along the corridors, clad in a blue lungi, a thin towel on the shoulder, brushing his teeth with a neem twig, others used to give way to him and stood like stunned nuns at the sight of a charged-up erotic bull. Sutanu used to stand below the shower in the bath room, clad in nothing but clean, unpolluted air and allowed the water to fall on him like a happy, gurgling jungle stream. Back to his ubiquitous, constant companion of a blue lungi, he would rush in to his room and rush out within the blink of an eye to the mess for brunch.
Eating, for Sutanu, was not a routine affair like most of us. It was akin to a religious ritual, a sort of spiritual journey for him. He used to eat his meals with a devotion usually reserved for one's favourite God. On the evenings that the mess had a bland vegetarian fare he would be content with around two dozen chapatis and the accompanying curries, but when there was non-veg stuff for dinner he would scale it up by a dozen more chapatis, polishing off the last drop of gravy from the bowl with the last fragment of roti. In the brunch in mornings he could easily devour about half kilogram of rice, sheepishly announcing that one had to eat light, lest one felt sleepy in the class. Sutanu never slept in the class. With the half kilo rice and equal quantity of assorted side dishes safely tucked in the bottomless pit, loosely called his stomach, he would sit in the front row, and listen attentively to whatever pearls of wisdom gushed forth from the professors. He always scored good marks in the exams and impressed the professors with his diligence.
Among the many funny traits of Sutanu the one that stood out like a lighthouse on a deserted shore was his habit of wearing unwashed clothes. He would wear his lungi, banyan and underwear continuously for six months without ever bothering to wash them. When the stink from these precious garments became unbearable, making many a hapless passerby in the corridors stumble, gasping for breath, we used to forcibly disrobe the czar of filth and make a bonfire of the dirty clothes in a quarantined corner of the hostel garden. Sutanu would then buy another set of lungi, banyan and underwear and embark on his six-months-journey of washlessness with the humble, unsuspecting garments in tow.
It was one of our favourite pastimes to find new ways of making a fool of Sutanu. I was the leader of a Gang of Four which specialised in harassing the poor Chudaamani. We had a friend in our group, Raju, who had some limited talent in acting and was given minor roles in assorted dramas. Our hostel was on the way to the main gate and inmates of ladies hostel were regularly seen trudging with their dainty feet to go out of the campus in search of fresh air. Many a lovelorn souls in our hostel used to go into a spin, peeping through the window and stealing a glance at the beauties. Raju used to go a step further. He would imitate Sutanu's voice and holler through the window, "Ae Shaila Nani, (or Basanti Apa or Sindhu Didi), this is your brother Sutanu. Keep your door open in the evening. I will come to you with Vada, Aloo chap. We will have fun." The girls pretended not to hear, but the words had a tectonic effect on Sutanu. He used to think that the girls would get mad at him and rush to the hostel to beat him with chappals. He would hurry and hide himself under someone's bed. And we would be rolling in laughter, speculating if one day he would wet his dirty lungi hiding under the bed in mortal fear.
Raju had once played the famous photograph prank on Sutanu. One fine morning he had cleaned up his room, put a photograph on the table, decorated it with flowers and burnt some incense sticks before it. Some of us herded Sutanu to Raju's room. Raju, the two-penny actor, mustered a fake seriousness on his face and tears rolling down his eyes told Sutanu, the Chudamani, it was his parents' death anniversary. Sutanu immediately prostrated himself on the ground and paid his respects. We laughed our head off, because the photograph was actually a black and white picture of Raj Kapoor and Nargis. When we disclosed the truth to Sutanu, he turned red in embarrassment and ran away, throwing us into another round of boisterous laughter. The story was added to the legend of Chudaamani and provided much-needed relief to the drudgery of hostel life.
But the chap who was sitting before me at Mayfair hotel today was a completely transformed Sutanu. In a dazzling white shirt adorned with golden cuff links, aroma of expensive perfume competing with the curls of smoke emanating from costly cigarettes, Sutanu looked anything but a grown up version of Chudaamani. Frankly, I felt a bit dizzy, just looking at him. There was no mistaking his identity. His hair was looking slick, combed back like it was in our college days, but his sunken cheeks had filled up, the unmistakable look of prosperity was oozing out of him like golden honey from a silver tube. He gave me a huge complex, because before his remarkably impressive personality, I appeared like a supplicant attending on an opulent Sheikh.
I peeped into his golden cigarettes case. I could read 'Dunhill' on the packet proudly ensconced in the safety of the case. I was stunned. Dunhill! Sutanu was blowing away a hundred rupees on every piece of cigarette he was smoking! Every time he lifted his hand to pull a drag on the cigarette, diamond rings on his two fingers blinded the eyes of poor beholders like me. His Rayban sunglasses were lying on the table in a caclculated carelessness, the golden buttons on his shirt were twinkling in the subdued light of the restaurant. He gave the impression of being a Mafia don who had accidentally strayed into the sleepy little town of Bhubaneswar. The customers from the neighbouring tables were eyeing him with open admiration. I thought it was just a matter of time before some of the younger ones would approach our table for a selfie with him.
Sutanu looked at me and asked,
"What will you have for lunch?"
I had come to Mayfair restaurant after many years. I wanted to extract the maximum juice out of this visit. Without waiting for a moment I blurted out,
"Buffet!"
Sutanu raised his eyes and threw a mocking laugh at me,
"What-fe? Buffet? Tchhaih! Buffets are for the cheapos. Why do you want to eat buffet? The very thought makes me sick - for a couple of thousand rupees keep stuffing yourself till biriyani and chicken gravy start leakiing out of your eyes, nose and ears! Chhi chhi, which decent human being would gorge himself like that?"
I almost laughed. These noble sentiments, coming from Sutanu, the famous glutton of our hostel days who could polish off three dozen chapatis on a non-veg dinner night, sounded awfully grotesque. But after he had called the buffet eaters cheapos, I could not protest I just looked at the heaps of food on the neighbouring tables and kept quiet, frustration tearing my innards like famished dogs tearing into a dead jackal.
Sutanu fixed me with a mocking stare,
"Listen, let's eat something civilised - may be Pizza Italiano with Parmesan cheese, pineapple and smoked chicken toppings. I will also order a club sandwich and some starters with it. Will that be ok?"
Still reeling from the lost buffet I nodded my head. I wanted to ask what was Parmesan cheese, but to my horror I found my voice was choked and the only sound I could manage was something like the gurgle of a leaking water pipe. The fact that I would be nibbling at a niggardly Pizza when at the neighbouring table the diners would be gorging themselves on sixty five varieties of heavenly dishes broke my heart into thousand pieces.
Sutanu made no secret at enjoying my discomfiture, he just added to it by asking,
"And what wine you want to have with it? Red or white?"
I held on to the solid dining table for my dear life, to save myself from falling off. I felt a minor tremor rising out of the deep recesses of my stomach, something like a precursor to fainting. Wine? A poor lecturer at a nondescript private college with the pittance of a salary - what would I know of wine? The only time some colleagues and I sit down to guzzle alcohol on a particularly frustrating evening we would order the low-cost Royal Chellenge whiskey and keep drinking like there was no tomorrow. What kept us apparently sober was the prospect of a tongue-lashing by our equally frustrated wives who had long given up on us as useless wastrels.
However, looking at his mocking smile I took up the challenge and with a chutzpah that surprised me, I said,
"White. Red wines give me a headache."
Sutanu smiled again, looking at me like a hungry python sizing up a baby deer,
"Good. White wine is the right choice. That goes well with Pizza Italiano. Let me see what selection they have.........Here.....this Ferrelli Sauvignon, it's an excellent wine. For 5500 rupees a bottle, it's quite a deal......What happened, why did you flinch? I am not asking you to pay, the tab is wholly on me. So just sit back and enjoy the lunch. Let me call the waiter and place the order."
Sutanu was right, I had not only flinched, I had actually gone white with terror, as if I had seen a ghost in one of the framed paintings on the wall, making funny faces at me. A mild trickle of sweat had started at the bottom of my spine and had started to travel obscenely down the unmentionable part of my anatomy. That a wine bottle could cost 5500 rupees and someone was offering to share it with me had sent tremors through all parts of my body, rattling the bones like one of those long-haired drummers does in a band.
Soon the starters arrived with a gusto, I could see the waiter being overtly obsequious, he had sized up the customer as a big bimbo and wanted to please him in the hope getting some good tips. The chicken tikka, fish finger and sheekh kebab sat on the platter, unattended. Sutanu was busy smoking his Dunhills and I was getting impatient. Sutanu showed no interest in the mouth-watering items, so I started attacking them with a vengeance.
Suddenly Sutanu startled me with a bomb, throwing me off balance,
"So, Anupam, won't you address me as Chudaamani, a name so lovingly coined by you in our hostel days? Or your mind has stopped working, looking at me?"
Having said that he broke into a hideous laugh, its loudness bumping off the walls, shaking a few paintings like leaves in a mild storm. The diners from the nearby tables stopped eating for a moment and looked at us, wondering what was so funny to move the benign-looking Mafia don to maniacal laughter. Sutanu didn't care. Imitating a deranged monster he just glared at them, reducing them to an embarrassed pulp. They went back to their eating. My fork and knife which had stopped in midair in suspended animation, descended onto the plate.
I composed myself. The wine bottle was demurely sitting in an ice bucket looking coyly at me and smiling like a bashful bride. I took it out, ran my hand over it with great love and affection and gave it a tender kiss, before pouring a liberal quantity into my glass and Sutanu's. A couple of sips of the divine ambrosia fortified me, running through my veins like an express train through a snow covered tunnel. I looked at him in the eyes,
"Where did you tumble from? Where were you all these years? Are you settled in America?"
Sutanu gently shook his head,
"No no, no America Famerica for me. I live in Mumbai, the city that never sleeps. The city which shelters princes and paupers with equal abandon, the city on whose banks the ocean rises majestically, sometimes throwing bundles of money into the air and often drowning dreams with a dreadful despondency. I live in an apartment at Bandra-Kurla in that great city. Can you guess what would be the cost of that apartment?"
I almost laughed aloud. The wine was gradually spreading a warmth over the body like hands of nubile girls did in a massage parlour. A poor lecturer trying to pour unwelcome lectures down the unwilling throats of uninterested students in an unglamorous private college - what would I know of the price of apartments in far off Mumbai? I shook my head.
Sutanu made a long drag on the cigarette, scattered twenty rupees worth of ashes unto the ashtray, and said with a remarkable nonchalance,
"Eighteen crores."
I was beyond words, my throats got dry, I moistened it with a liberal gulp of wine. I had refilled the glass. Sutanu had taken just one sip of wine from his glass. It was obvious he enjoyed his cigarettes more than the wine. The Pizza had arrived, along with the club sandwich. They were delicious, but no match to the sixty five items buffet, which I yearned for, like a frustrated husband missing his newlywed wife visiting her parents in a distant city.
I shrieked, like an unsuspecting man who had been kicked on the butt by a mischievous mule,
"Eighteen crores??? What are you saying Sutanu? Eighteen freaking crores? Where did you get so much money? What job are you doing? Or, have you become a Mafia don in Mumbai?"
My shriek had awakened the curiosity of the diners nearby. They craned their neck to see if anything untoward had happened, if finally the Mafia don had come to his true form and tried to strangle the poor slob shamelessly drowning the wine and chomping on the pizza. Most of them would have gauged the dissimilarity between the two of us. I won't even blame those who would have thought Sutanu to be an affluent billionaire businessman and me as a lowly paid government official who had come to load himself with a free lunch while collecting the briefcase with the proverbial mullah.
Sutanu was unfazed - neither my shriek, nor the curious stares bothered him. He again looked at the spectators with a fiery stare, with the severity of an acytelene torch out to bore a hole where a hole had no business to be. He muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "Bloody intrusive bastards!" That worked like magic on them. They withdrew their stare with the dexterity of a snake charmer putting his pet cobras into the deceptively harmless baskets and started concentrating on their sixty five items buffet. They seemed so absorbed in their copious eating, it appeared to me as if it was the last meal they were planning to have and after the lunch they will all leave the restaurant, get into their car and drive away to a peaceful, blissful death.
Sutanu returned his stare to me, a slow, cunning smile spread over his face like oil spilling out from a stolen tank. I felt very very uncomfortable at the smile, because it defied a definition - I was not sure if it was meant to be reassuring or condescending. But it certainly pinched me, with the feeling of a decidedly fat, matronly nurse administering an injection on my butt with a dozen sharp needles. Sutanu took a bite of the sandwich in a delicate style, as if it was not a club sandwich but a live baby anaconda he was putting into his mouth, wiped his mouth with the napkin and muttered,
"I have never done anything illegal or criminal in my life. Every penny I have is my hard-earned money, the product of the joint efforts of me and Monica Sharma."
I was surprised, at the introduction of a new character in the wonderful narrative Sutanu had launched since we met an hour back.
I took another sip of wine, mouthed a deeply cheese-soaked piece of pizza and asked,
"Monica Sharma? Is she your wife? The name doesn't suggest she is an Odia lady? Who is she?"
Sutanu laughed, a proud, self-congratulatory laugh, as if he had just returned home after winning an international sword-fighting tournament,
"Not my wife, she is my live-in partner. We have been living together in my Bandra-Kurla apartment for the past eleven years."
I was floored. I shouted, the wine in my soaked system adding zing to my words,
"Living together? What do you mean living together? If you are not married, what are you two doing in the same apartment - reading Bhagbad Gita?"
That made him laugh out loud, real loud. But this time none of the bloody intrusive bastards turned to look at us. Rather they buried their heads in their heaps of food, like scared students do in a class room at the sight of a lunatic, sadistic teacher carrying an
evil-looking cane.
"Interesting idea! When I return to Mumbai I will give this idea to her. I am sure she will like it. Anything out-of-the-way appeals to her, she is one of the most brilliant ladies in Mumbai - a rare piece of diamond!"
"Where did you get this diamond? From the Arabian Sea?"
Sutanu, took a sip of wine, he had not finished even a quarter of the glass whereas I was on to my third.
"Who? Monica? Once she had told me her real name was not Monica Sharma. I asked her what it was. She had laughed and challenged that I won't believe her if she told me. I assured her that having known her closely, there was nothing about her that would surprise me. Yes, I forgot to tell you, she is exceptionally beautiful, fair like a fairy, eyes shining like a maiden doe, and cheeks the colour of ripe tomatoes. I told you, she is no ordinary diamond, she is a rare diamond."
With uninterrupted sips of wine I was getting a little tipsy. The picture of our good old Chudamaani holding the hands of a dazzling beauty like Monica made me giggle. Sutanu ignored me, mistaking my giggle to be a sign of appreciation,
"With a twinkle in her eyes, she told me that her real name was Madhuri Dikshit, she was from the Kumaon region of Uttarakhand. That explained her unusual beauty. Like many young girls she had come to Mumbai with the dream of making it big in movies. She had managed to get some very minor roles, of hardly a minute or couple of minutes' duration. She took training as a beautician and soon started working as a makeup artist in the movie sets. One day she was applying makeup to the heroine Madhuri Dikshit when an Assistant Director barged in, calling Madhuri, Madhuri. She came to Monica and spoke to her for half a minute about her next makeup assignment and left. That really pissed off the heroine. She told the director to get rid of Monica, because there could not be two Madhuri Dikshits in the same set. Monica got so scared of losing her job that she promptly decided to change her name. Those days she was in love with a minor actor, Hemant Sharma, a tall, handsome young man from Bihar. At the first sight he had got bowled over by her and followed her like a pet dog. Everywhere he saw her he used to break into the song 'Monicaaaaaa...O My Darling...' He had told everyone that he was going to marry her and started calling her Monica Sharma. Being hopelessly in love she fell for it and the name has stuck to her ever since. And one day the bubble burst. It came out that Hemant Sharma was a married man, his wife and two kids were in Patna, waiting for him to come and take them to Mumbai. When Monica came to know the reality, she gave a solid kick on the butt of Hemant Sharma and asked him never to come to her again. She was devastated and underwent a period of depression. That time I was also leading a lonely life. We met by chance. Being smart and brilliant, she could know that I would be a loyal partner. In about a year she moved in with me and we have been together for the past eleven years as live-in partners."
I was mesmerised by the film-like story,
"That's a wonderful, colourful biography of Monica Sharma. But what about you? How did you transform from a red Chudaa to a club sandwich?"
Sutanu cut a piece of sandwich nicely with the knife and delicately placed it in his mouth with the finesse of a real connoisseur. He then took a sip of wine, intending to marry the sandwich with the wine within the holy cavity of his mouth and smiled at me,
"It's a long story. Anyway I have called you here to tell you my story. So let's start from where we parted in the college after our exams. As you know I finished my M.Com and applied for a job at some Government college. Unlike you I had a good academic career. So I was selected and posted to Bhabanipatna, a god-forsaken place in the western corner of Odisha. Once someone is posted there he is forgotten by men and Gods alike. But I was a disaster as a lecturer. Thanks to your pranks on me, the Chudamani had been reduced to a mental wreck, utterly devoid of self-confidence. The moment I stood before the students I would start sweating, no words would come to my mouth, I would be looking miserably at the jeering crowd before me. They would laugh at me, talk to each other and often ignore me completely. I knew the subject well, but lacked the courage to utter a word. The other lecturers in the college shunned me like I was a leper carrying a deadly virus. Whenever I stood before a lady colleague or girl student, my legs would turn rubbery, throat would go dry and I felt as if I was about to collapse."
Sutanu winced at the memory and looked vacantly for a few moments at the painting of a lovely young girl carrying a pot of water. Then he continued,
"I had no friends, absolutely none. The salary was a pittance, neither enough for my food nor for any decent clothing. To add to my misery my parents went on insisting that I should get married, now that I had started doing a job. The very idea of marriage used to melt my guts, I was certain that the unlucky woman tied to me in holy matrimony would soon discover that I was a good for nothing Chudaamani and run back to her parents. I was so scared of my parent's badgering that I had stopped going to my village in far off Ganjam."
I found the story interesting, but a bit dragging,
"How did you land up in Mumbai?"
"Destiny! The call of destiny. In the third year of my miserable stay at Bhabanipatna, I had gone to my village to spend the Pooja holidays. There I met a distant relative - a Mamu from the village who had come to see my parents. He was a smart cookie, smarter than anyone I had ever met in my life. He once used to work in Indian Navy and we called him Navy Mamu. After twenty years in Navy he took retirement and started a construction business in Mumbai. He was a good talker, he could talk you into buying Taj Mahal and selling it next day to Shah Jahan in his grave. He would claim to have had dinner with the Chief Minister a week back and next day accompanying Juhi Chawla on a picnic. Navy Mamu asked me, "How much are you earning in your job?" I hesitated a bit, plainly embarrassed to disclose the princely sum, then blurted out nervously, 'Four thousand'. He fixed me with a pointed gaze and raised his eyes, 'That's your daily wage?' I shook my head, 'No, monthly.' Navy Mamu let out a loud groan, 'What? Even my construction labourers carrying brick on their heads earn at least ten thousand a month. What sort of a miserable job are you doing? And look at my innocent Nani (sister)! She wants you to get married! What will you and your wife do after marriage? Sing bhajan at the temples to supplement your income?' I looked down, wishing I was somewhere else, not standing before my Navy Mamu like a failed pickpocket who had stolen an empty wallet. Mamu had already known from me that I was a post-graduate in Commerce. So he tried to recruit me on the spot, 'Come with me to Mumbai. I will hand over the accounting department of my construction business to you. You will get a salary of one lakh a month.' Hearing these words, I almost wetted my pants. The thought was mind-boggling, because the sum of one lakh is what I had earned in two years standing before my unruly students and pretending to teach them. Mamu could visualise the storm in my mind. He smiled, 'You will live with me in my apartment, giving me company, so the entire income will be saved. In a couple of years we will find a beautiful, smart Marathi girl for you. We will bring your parents by flight to Mumbai and have a grand wedding in some five star hotel. I promise I will make sure Juhi Chawla, Rakhi, Ravina Tandon, Taboo, Anil Kapoor, and many other heroes and heroines will come to attend your wedding. All of them are my clients, they have booked apartments in my projects. Think about this and let me know in a couple of days.'
Sutanu paused and took a sip of wine. He had obviously reached a great turning point in his story,
"After Navy Mamu left it took me just ten seconds to make a decision. The prospect of going away a thousand miles from the misery of Bhabanipatna was too tempting. When I broke the news to my parents, my mother wailed loudly, as if her dear darling son had just been stabbed in the tummy by a notorious member of the underworld. She forbade me to give up my secure government job and go to Mumbai to join 'that Loafer Bachelor - the useless son of a dung'. But I had made up my mind. Two days after I returned to Bhabanipatna I put in my resignation and boarded a bus to Jharsuguda from where there was a train to Mumbai. Navy Mamu had sent his driver to Victoria Terminus to pick me up. I was stunned to see the imposing station building, the beautiful Marine Drive, the blue sea, the broad roads and the tall buildings. I fell in love with the city from the moment I landed there. I have remained a die-hard fan ever since. I stayed with Mamu and was accepted as a member of the family by every one. Mamu designated me as Vice-President (Finance) of his company. He had four ongoing projects, all in the suburbs of Mumbai. The smallest project was a sixteen storied apartment complex, the largest one was a huge behemoth cocnsisting of three towers of forty floors each. Total investment was close to a thousand crores. Surprisingly, neither the enormity of the projects nor the scale of finance scared me. In about a month I knew the inside-out of the projects, as if I was born to handle such matters. Everywhere the employees saluted me, the clients showed me the respect due to a Vice-President of the company. There were a few young ladies working in the administrative and accounts office, none of them scared me or made me go rubbery in the legs, like it used to happen in Bhabanipatna."
I was impressed with the narrative and realised how our Chudamani had evolved over the years. Sutanu had stopped eating, he was in a different world, one of nostalgic memory,
"Navy Mamu took me to a big show room and bought half a dozen pairs of elegant pants, shirts and beautiful ties for me. He took me everywhere with him. I started enjoying the business lunches in fancy restaurants. Initially he was amused to see me eating like a shameless pig, but after a week or so he gently chided me and drilled into me that luncheon meetings were not an eating contest. They were more for business than for lunch, an occasion to size up the parties. If someone eats like a famished beggar he will present a very poor impression about himself. He taught me the finer aspects of the art of drinking, 'Look Chhotu (he had conferred that name on me), only pigs drink to get drunk. Never exceed two pegs, sip your drink slowly. If the other party wants, let him get drunk, but you should always be sober. There is a finesse in drinking style - always sip your wine, never gulp it. Drink your beer chilled, but don't add ice to it. Remember, scotch whiskey should be taken neat, never mix soda to it, that will be like molesting a firangi beauty on a lonely beach. Gin mixes well with tonic, not soda and vodka is used for delicious cocktails, the best one is probably Bloody Mary or Screw Driver. There is a dignity in social drinking, it adds charm to a gathering.' From Navy Mamu I learned to offer expensive cigarettes like Dunhill or Marlboro to clients and started smoking them. He changed my eating habit completely, asking me to give up thirty chapatis for two butter naans, to eat only quality food, no oily mutton gravy but shami kebab, ragan josh or chicken tikka, no gulping down rasgollas, but just nibbling on baclava. Soon I started hosting lunches for clients when Mamu was busy. I felt and behaved like a corporate boss. Mamu gave me full freedom to grow, I was amazed at my own transformation within six months of my joining him."
I could not contain my curiosity,
"Is your Mamu still in Mumbai? Can I meet him?"
Sutanu shook his head, for the first time since we met his face got clouded with a tinge of sadness,
"He is no more. A year after I joined him in Mumbai he had a tragic death. He was extraordinarily daring, he always used to say whatever his workers could do he should be able to do it better. One day there was some problem in wiring in an apartment under construction, he was present at the site. He got down to repair it, there was probably a short circuit, he got electrocuted. Everyone was devastated. Everyone used to love him, he had a heart of gold. I carried his body to his village near ours and we cremated him. I returned to Mumbai, heart-broken. His lawyer told me that a couple of months after my joining him, Mamu was so impressed with me that he had executed a will and made me his successor."
I was shocked! My God, can someone be so lucky? Successor to a thousand crore business? I wanted to stand up and clap, but liberal sipping of wine had made my head light and legs even lighter, almost akin to what Sutanu had described as rubbery. I stared at him and exclaimed,
"O My God! Lucky you!"
He shook his head,
"Not so lucky! As Vice-President, Finance, of his company I knew Mamu had taken huge loans from the bank. In fact all construction business runs on loans and advances from the clients. When I went to the bank I found Mamu had an outstanding loan of more than 800 crores, and all the apartments were mortgaged to the bank. I thought I would complete the construction, collect the amount from buyers and pay off the loan. I was sadly mistaken. Within a fortnight I realised Mamu had taught me all the social niceties, but had given me no lessons on how to handle rogue contractors, corrupt corporators and greedy policemen. Soon workers started playing games with me, corporators sent goons to disrupt work and policemen visited the sites on some excuse or the other. A month later I was summoned by a big builder, much bigger than my Mamu. He was known to be a shark, feeeding on the smaller fish. When I reached his office at eleven in the morning I found two local corporators sitting on the sofa, a glass of whiskey in their hands. They didn't say anything to me, but their steely look spoke volumes. Their roving gaze was like that of a python sizing up its prey. The builder offered to take over the loans if I handed over the projects to him. I looked at the corporators, their evil smile reminded me of a crazy gorilla at the zoo trying to snatch a bag of bananas from an innocent visitor. I nodded meekly, the builder stood up and shook my hand and offered me a glass of whiskey. We all sat and drank as if it was the beginning of a colourful night with lots of promises round the corner. In one hour the documents were ready, I signed them and returned home, virtually a beggar, except some loose change of a couple of crores in the bank account and the four bed room apartment at Bandra-Kurla."
I was stunned. Loose change? Two crores? Has this guy gone off his mind? I blurted out,
"Hey, Sutanu, you think I am an idiot? Since when two crore rupees have become loose change? It is more than my entire life's income."
"I know how much a lecturer earns, you don't have to tell me. Remember, I was a piddly lecturer once upon a time? But Mumbai is Mumbai. Everything is priced in lakhs there. You know how much we spend every month to maintain that freaking apartment my Mamu had left for me? Two servants charge us 25000 each, the cook costs us 30000, two drivers pocket 30000 each, the apartment society charges 50000 for maintenance. Even the chap who comes to clean the car every morning takes 5000 per car. That's a cool two lakhs every month. Monica throws a party at home once every week, the drinks and food burn a big hole in the pocket - at least a lakh rupees on each occasion. So you can imagine, a crore is about a year's expense for us."
I cut him short,
"Exactly. The question I have in my mind is, where do you get all this money?"
A mysterious smile appeared on Sutanu's face like a drop of dew and spread slowly like the blossoming of a fresh flower,
"It's all due to the brain of Monica darling, I just had to follow her ideas like a faithful dog walking along with his master. She is a genius extraordinaire. She took me into her efficient hands and moulded me like a potter making pots. About twelve years back she had come to me for the first time with a client of hers from her modelling school to book an apartment. I was floored, just looking at her. She must have seen some spark of intelligence in this humble Vice-President. When she kicked Hemant Sharma out of her life, she was in a state of depression. I had lost my Mamu at the time and was floating like an aimless frog in the muddy waters of Mumbai. She came to console me and in three days flat she decided to hitch her wagon to mine. She moved in to my apartment and we have lived happily ever since as live-in partners in what is known as non-marital cohabitation."
I raised my eyebrows like a journalist interviewing a film star,
"But why? You could have got married to live like a legal couple?"
"Monica still has her Bollywood dreams. At 34 she can still pass off as a stunning beauty of 25 years and she thinks she can land a role as a heroine. I don't want to kill her dreams by tying her in a marriage."
"But how about people? What do they think of this unholy arrangement?"
"People? What people? In Mumbai no one is people. Everyone minds his own business, which is basically running after money. No one bothers whether you are married, unmarried or living with a man, a woman, a transgender frog or a gay giraffe."
"But all this money? Where did you get it? Is it all legal?"
"Yes, every pie we have is legal, I have not done anything illegal in my life. I have already told you Monica is a genius. About eleven years back, when her bit role in films dwindled and came down to a trickle, she had opened a beauty school and then a Modelling Institute. She had maintained her contact with the film producers and directors. She was young, possessed captivating beauty and was quite coquettish in manners. She would pretend to laugh at their jokes, however stale, flirt a bit with them and send some expensive liquor occasionally to their homes. Her beauty school became popular because she used to occasionally take the trainees to the movie sets and practise their art with minor artists. The sight of big heroes and heroines gave the trainees a heady feeling. Monica used to charge five lakh rupees for a three months' course. Each batch had thirty students. That's a cool one and half crores per batch and six crores per year. Her modelling courses were a huge success because she used to take the trainees to movie sets for practical training. Most of them used to get a chance to appear in movies at least for a couple of seconds, as onlookers in a crowd, passengers in buses or trains. Some of them who were dancers got a chance to join in song sequences as extras. Words went round that her modelling institute launched careers in films. From modelling institute also she earns another six crores every year. After expenses she nets about ten crores a year from her beauty school and modelling institute."
My eyes popped out. Ten crores!
"My God, a hen that lays golden eggs! You are lucky!"
Sutanu smiled, a smile of pride and self-satisfaction. It sat well on his handsome face.
"If the hen lays golden eggs, the rooster is no less. If you hear how much I make, you will faint."
"You mean, you have a separate income! I thought perhaps you work as a manager in her beauty school!"
"Oh, no, no, Monica is too smart to let me bask in her glory. In the early days when we had started living together she knew managing construction was beyond me and I had to sell off the rights to the construction business to a big shark. So she told me, 'Ok, if we could not sell houses let us sell the dreams for a house.' While working for Mamu I had made friends with a couple of smart architects. Together we identified a few pieces of land in Mumbai and the suburbs - land which were in special category, where the local authorities would not give permisssion to construct high rise buildings. For example, lands close to airports, big temples or large water bodies. We purchased those pieces of land and made blueprints for huge projects. Initially it was for two projects only. Those projects were indeed a big dream for prospective buyers - spacious apartments, gym, jogging track, community centre, underground parking, rooftop gardens - you name it, we had it. We issued full page advertisements in papers with beautiful pictures. We priced the apartment at a modest two crores and asked for a refundable advance of two lakhs. The processing fee was only 10000. In a couple of months we got 5000 applications from all over India. That was a cool five crores from processing fee. The advance deposits came to a hundred crores. In Mumbai there are finance firms which pay 18 percent interest on investment. We parked the hundred crores with them for a year and earned eighteen crores. Our application for construction at the two project sites got rejected by the municipal corporation, as we had anticipated. So we returned the two lakh rupees to the applicants. All that they lost was a pittance of 10000 rupees paid as processing fees - a small price to pay for the big dream of owning an apartment in Mumbai. So no one complained. And we gained a profit of around twenty crores after deducting the expenses. We repeated the exercise after a year in Pune, Nagpur and Kolhapur. Then again, in suburbs of Mumbai after a cycle of five years. By that time people had forgotten about the earlier 'failed' projects. We have earned around 80 crores from these projects in the last ten years......"
Sutanu paused after this long speech and took the last sip from his first glass of wine. I had polished off four glasses of white wine , the precious Ferrelli Sauvignon in the last couple of hours. We had finished our lunch, I had eaten most of the Pizza Italiano. Sutanu was happy with his club sandwich. He asked me,
"I am going to order some liqueur. Let me see if they have Bailey's Irish Cream here. Will you have that or you want some ice cream for dessert?"
I almost laughed at the question. I had no idea what Bailey's Irish Cream was, nor I had ever heard of something called liqueur. Having lost a buffet I didn't want lose some good desserts. I asked for ice cream and felt vindicated when my Triple Sundae came as a heap like a Taj Mahal on an attractive plate. Sutanu's liqueur was just a quarter of a small glass, a thick, brownish liquid which looked like some offensive medicine. Sutanu was ecstatic just looking at it, took a couple of drops, closed his eyes and rolled it on his tongue as if it was nectar from heaven. He let out a huge sigh of satisfaction and continued his story of success.
"I told you my Monica darling is a genius! You know, in the initial years we had to recruit about a dozen people for her Beauty school, Modelling Institute and my dream projects. When I wanted to issue an advertisement Monica smiled and said you want to sell all the dreams in one instalment? I didn't understand. She laughed - give advertisement for one post. Let candiadates apply. Ask for an Application fee of just 1000 rupees and see what happens. Each time we made a recruitment we had more than 5000 applications - just for one post. So we earned 50 lakhs. For the dozen recruitments we made a cool six crores. Mumbai is a city of dreams, some applicants used to apply again and again just to fulfil the dream of a getting a job. You have heard about the organisation Sapnon Ka Saudagar. Do you know who owns it?"
I shook my head. With a smug smile Sutanu patted his chest,
"This humble Chudaamani of your college days is the sole proprietor of that dream organisation. As the name suggests, we sell dreams throughout the year. We have floated a scheme where we ask people to contribute 10000 rupees for a month for two lottery prizes of one lakh rupees each at the end of the second month. We claim that we need a month to process the applications. At the end of the second month we draw a lottery in the presence of some applicants and pay a lakh each to the two winners. And we return the 10000 to others. Since they get back the money they have no complaint. The winners are happy, the losers are sad, but not angry. They reinvest again next month. After all, we are selling the dreams. The wife wants a saree, you tell her, wait for the lottery, I will buy a saree for you and add a pair of ear rings, the son wants a bike, tell him the one lakh rupees will be his to buy a slick bike, daughter wants to replace her mobile, tell her to wait just for a month. It is a monthly scheme but the lottery is drawn at the end of the second month for the money deposited in the previous month. So we get to keep the 10000 rupees of around seven to eight thousand people for an average of 45 days. That is around seven and half crores. 18 percent interest on that is around 1.35 crores. That is for a month, the annual return is around 16 crores. There is hardly any expense on the scheme. Just two young computer guys making data entry and keeping a tab on the phone numbers and addresses. And some tea, snacks every month on the lottery day for the audience. So I make around fifteen crores every year from the scheme. Neat, isn't it?"
Frankly, my head had started reeling at all these crores being thrown at me. A lecturer with a measly income of about 70000 a month, I was getting sick of the piles of money being bandied about by Sutanu. I just nodded dumbly, concentrating on the Triple Sundae piled on my plate. I was eating it slowly, lest the dream of a good ice cream passed off too quickly. Sutanu was still licking at his liqueur, rolling the drops on his tongue and emitting ecstatic sighs. He threw another mocking smile at me,
"Of course you know about that scheme! Couple of months back you had invested 10000 rupees with the hope of becoming a lakhpati at the end of next month. That is how I got your phone number and invited you for this lunch. And your good friend Raju, who used to mimic my voice and call out to the ladies in our hostel days, 'Shaila Nani, this is your brother Sutanu....', he had also invested 10000 rupees along with you. I found out he is a clerk in the Secretariat these days, right?"
I nodded as if I was confessing to some heinous crime under police interrogation. Sutanu continued,
"I had invited him also for this lunch but last evening he contacted Covid and dropped out. I have come to return your money to you. Here - these are the two cheques for 10000 for you and Raju."
Sutanu handed over the cheques to me and took two more drops of Bailey's Ice Cream. He also called the waiter, settled the bill and paid him the tips of 500 rupees. Suddenly his face turned hard and he fixed me with a steely stare,
"There is also something else I have come to return to you. Anupam, you and your Gang of Four had made my life miserable in our hostel days, making me feel like a crawling insect. Sometimes in the night in the darkness of my room I used to bury my face in the pillow and cry my heart out. In the first year in hostel on a few occasions I thought of going to the terrace of the tallest building in college and end my life by jumping down. Even at Bhabanipatna also I wasted my life, a young man who was steeped in misery, hiding from people and from himself. If my Navy Mamu had not rescued me I would have continued as a Chudamani, wallowing in boundless misery throughout my life. Today I have come to return to you your arrogance of a city-bred youth, your beastly ego and your misconceived idea that you had the freedom to torture anyone and inflict inhuman misery on him. When you meet Raju, tell him about this meeting. I don't want to see you again in my life.......Never......"
I was shocked to the core when Sutanu got up and walked out without saying bye to me. As I looked at his receding figure going out of the door, my heart sank in a way I had never felt before. There was still some ice cream left on my plate. Remnants of the pizza were scattered on the plate, the empty wine bottle was sitting in the bucket like a withered weed. I felt as if they had all turned to dust, leaving me with an ashen taste. From somewhere deep within my stomach, where Pizza Italiano, Club Sandwich and white wine competed for space, a stench arose - the stench of stale red Chudaa - and it drowned me.
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 . Four collections of his short stories in English have been published under the title The Jasmine Girl at Haji Ali, A Train to Kolkata, Anjie, Pat and India's Poor, The Fourth Monkey. He has also to his credit nine books of short stories in Odiya. He 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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