Selected Works of Prof. Geetha Nair from LiteraryVibes (Vol. 1)

Dear Readers, 

I am a retired professor of English from Trivandrum. I had always thought of myself as one devoted to poetry; I am a published poet as well. I had believed myself incapable of creating the other harmony of prose. Then, a year back, Literary Vibes happened. I wrote a short story or two which were published in this excellent weekly magazine. The appreciation and encouragement shown by the Editor and several readers of Literary Vibes inspired me so greatly that I continued writing story after story, week after week.

Thirty three of the forty-odd stories I wrote for Literary Vibes last year have been accepted for publication by HBB Publishers, Delhi. The book is likely to come out almost simultaneously with my latest collection of poems, Drawing Flame.

The story continues; I continue to write stories.

I am immensely grateful to Literary Vibes, my Muse, for making me a writer of short stories.

Ms. Geetha Nair G is a retired Professor of English,  settled in Trivandrum, Kerala. She has been a teacher and critic of English literature  for more than 30 years. Poetry is her first love and continues to be her passion. A collection of her poems,  "SHORED FRAGMENTS " was published in January' 2019. She welcomes readers' feedback at her email - geenagster@gmail.com 

1. SPIDERMAN
(From Edition X of Literary Vibes, published, 5 April, 2019)

It was one of those wonderful chance meetings. She had boarded the day train to her home after a conference in a northern city. Opposite her was seated a man who looked very familiar. He was tapping into his laptop, totally absorbed in his work.  He looked up once when the train started moving. In profile he was instantly recognizable. Dr Amar, the renowned entomologist ! She had read and taught books which sported that bright-eyed, appealing face on its back cover. His authoritative “Arachnids of the Western Ghats” adorned her bookshelf. 
This was a stroke of luck indeed. Her lucky day. 
How to introduce herself was the problem.
The God of Aqua Pura helped her out. 
Dr Amar broke into a fit of coughing. The bottle near him was empty. She jumped up to offer her full bottle of mineral water. He gulped down some of it , returned the bottle to her and murmured a thank you.  
“Dr Amar”, she started,” I am a Professor of Zoology;I know you, of course, through your books and articles.Really happy to meet you in person. My doctoral thesis was on Salticidae. So happy to meet you in person!” 
His bright eyes shone brighter. 
"Indeed!" he said,”Salticidae? that is gratifying . So few people are interested in this fascinating area." 
   For the rest of the journey, the topic was Spiders.... 
Oxyopes was what he was currently writing on.When she referred to it as the Lynx Spider, he frowned and corrected her-”Oxyopes.” Then he moved on to hold forth on Parasteatoda… .

He had his latest unpublished article on his lapto.p He offered it to her to go through. She was elated .From the horse's mouth! Rather, the spider's. He did not refer to them as spiders, though. She noticed that. 
She badly wanted a cup of tea and a bite. But he seemed impervious to such needs. She wondered, irreverently, whether his remaining legs were tucked inside his capacious shirt and loose trousers.
But she had made an impression on him; of that, she was sure.

Her mind went scampering up a web of possibilities - co- working on a project, co-authoring articles, being invited to international conferences… .
But he had not asked her her name or where it was she taught. 
Her station was just five minutes away. 
"A pleasant journey, Madam " he said by way of farewell, as she prepared to alight. 
"You did not ask me my name, Sir" she dared to say.
"Sorry, remiss of me. What is your name, please? '"
" Hema Senan" she replied.
" I shall never forget your name, Madam." he declared.
Her smile of delight froze on her lips as he added, earnestly:
“So similar to Homo Sapien.”

2.ALL GOD’S CHILDREN
(From Edition 20 of Literary Vibes, published, 14 June, 2019)

He had moved into the house next to mine just two few days back. I had viewed his arrival with interest and speculation. He was a fairly young man clad in saffron and much ash. His muscular body looked well-fed. A flier tucked into the next day's newspaper confirmed my suspicions.  Yes. The materialistic variety. Swami Athurananda offered his services in astrology, vaasthu, poojas for all occasions and reasons- all at not very modest rates. A con man, like me. Like most of us, I suspected.  Didn't I make a living in a thriving company that sold medicine guaranteed to cure asthma, make hair grow and nourish ageing skin? And my wife worked for a medical insurance company. Hadn't she encountered hundreds of people who had found out too late that their medical insurance hadn't insured them against being half-conned?  
  That morning a knock at my door turned out to be Swami ji himself. He introduced himself; he was a member of a pan-Indian mission devoted to service. In his hand was a vessel. It contained, he said, prasad from his first pooja at his new abode. My wife hung back when he offered the vessel to her. I warned him of her "untouchability"; she faced west when she prayed. But he dismissed it with one of those noble shrugs of his hefty shoulders that I was to encounter again and again and an observation: "All are God's children, Jagdeesh." He had read my name on the name plate at the gate.
I warmed to him a little. 
Though my wife was a militant non-vegetarian, she enjoyed cooking my docile Hindu fare .I think to her I was a son as well; we had no children. Swami ji loved the veg dishes she made for me and which I often gave him a share of, after he had declared he had no qualms about accepting food cooked by her.

 Summer was at its searing best. I would see him on the terrace in the mornings doing yoga with great agility. After the yoga,, he would clean and fill up with water a large stone bowl. This was kept in the open. It was for birds and squirrels - and snakes. Sure enough, the first two came, regularly, to slake their thirst. Swami ji claimed that slitherer friends too drank on the sly; anyway, there were plenty of them around.”All God’s children, Jagdeesh,” he shrugged, seeing my expression. Soon, his front yard became a little aviary. I spent much time watching the many-coloured birds drinking and splashing in the stone vessel.

People too dropped in… .Probably with insoluble problems that he dissolved in the holy water or burnt in his holy fire. He soon gained a reputation for performing special poojas to cure those who were ill or close to financial death.  He was certainly well-named.
Often, he was spirited away in cars to different places in order to work 
his magic.
  
When he was away on such business, I would fill the stone bowl every morning. He had requested me to do so and I had agreed readily. On the day of his return, I invariably took across a meal to him. He welcomed this because he did his own cooking and cleaning. But after a few months, he hired a middle-aged lungi-clad man as his domestic help. Probably, he had so many house-calls that he was tired out when he got back and had no time for housework. 

It was election time. Assembly seats seemed precariously balanced this time in our land that boasted a regular, five-yearly pendulum swing between left and right. 
  Swami ji had a steady stream of visitors. I recognised several of them from T V newscasts. Like the birds, they came in many colours- red, white, saffron; even green.

 A week before the elections, Swamiji bought a car; he showed it to me proudly. The brand-new, white Swift seemed to have come with a brand-new, brown driver as well. Now, he travelled by it in style to those unknown destination.
  The elections came and went. Two days after the results came out, a distant relative of mine came visiting. He was a chota neta of the party that had lost the elections by a narrow margin. I entertained him because he was useful to me. Otherwise, I would have shut the door in his face long back; he was obnoxious. He ranted about rigged voting machines, ghost voters and those who had promised but not kept their promise. 
“But the ***** who takes the cake is a swami. Swami Athurananda or Swami *****.” he uttered an unprintable obscenity.”You know what he did? He promised our party about 1100 votes from three ashrams and surrounding areas. He pocketed ten lakhs from us. And yesterday, we heard from an informer that he had sold the same votes to our rival party for the same amount! The scoundrel !” 
My wife, hearing this tirade, came out and exclaimed,”O but that is our neighbour!”
“Really? He will have visitors soon.” snarled my irate relative. He left almost at once.

   That night, my wife and I mused on the murky undercurrents, the audacious double crossing. Or was it triple crossing? Democracy, freedom to vote, strangled and wrapped twice in sheaths of deceit. What a superb conman my neighbour was! My wife had an “I told you ” look on her face. She had never taken to the Swami.. And then, suddenly, the funny side of it hit me. I started to laugh. What a clever rascal!l More unscrupulous than his buyers! Fleecing both unsuspecting parties! They deserved that or worse. “Not letting the left know what the right hand was doing!’ I guffawed, pleased with my own witticism. My wife gave me a blank look and turned on her side to sleep.

  In the morning I leaned over the wall as usual to view the birds. What I saw was the new Swift with its tyres slashed and windshield shattered. There was no sign of Swamiji. I rushed across. The front door was open. Swamiji was lying on his side on the cot. There were bruises and wounds all over his body. He was conscious but obviously in great pain. He whispered a phone number. I called and gave the man at the other side the update. Then I got him a glass of water to drink. He looked up at me. “Swamiji,” I told him, “go away before the other party sends you their share.” He looked surprised, then grateful. His hold on my hand tightened.”You are a kind man.” he murmured. I wanted to say “All God’s children” but he would have shrugged his shoulders and that would have hurt him terribly.
In two hours he was spirited away by some of his people who came by car. I never did see him again. I took away the stone bowl and placed it in the middle of my little garden. Every morning, I fill it with water and watch God’s children drink and dip in joy.

3. CLOSING DAYS
(From Edition 22 of Literary Vibes, published, 28 June, 2019.)

There is a road that runs east from Munnar town into a little valley. Flanking this road are decorous, green tea bushes with here and there a royal jacaranda tree  decked in purple  or a silver oak shimmering in the breeze.

The road ends at a large building.

It is a high-end  home for the elderly. There are suites for each inmate. Men in the left block of suites; women in the right. The two blocks are separated by a long, low block comprising the expansive common recreation area and the dining hall. From the road above, the building looks like an enormous 'H' made with a child's red and cream building blocks.  "HOMES", it is called. Simple yet succinct.

     Prema had moved in a year back. Both her sons, settled in the US, had zoomed in on HOMES  as an ideal final home on earth for their mother. They had tried out having her with them- half the year to each -but it hadn't worked out. The climate, the loneliness, the crazy pace of their lives, their children-everything had upset her terribly.

So, at seventy two, Prema came back to her homeland after two long years of painful absence. Her new home was close to the  picturesque  town she had worked in for several years in her young  days. She had been happy working in various branches of  Kera Bank but  the Munnar branch had been her happiest tenure.

  Her elder son had dropped her at HOMES one evening. The journey and the challenges awaiting her had left her exhausted. The formalities had mostly been completed online. She was shown her suite and she made straight for the well-made bed. Though the place was well-staffed and their mother was healthy for her age, her sons had insisted that she should have a personal attendant. A suitable one had been identified  and was waiting to be interviewed.

When Prema woke after a refreshing  nap, she found a youngish lady sitting by her bed. "I am Susan," she said with a smile, "your personal attendant, Madam".

"My son?" enquired Susan. "He left, Madam. He said he had a night flight to catch from Kochi... ."

   Prema took to Susan. She was an educated girl from a family that had seen better days. She had been disillusioned by her stint in a primary school as teacher. This was her first job as a companion. Prema's days passed smoothly.

  Forenoons she spent in her suite,  reading, chatting online, getting her scanty hair dyed by Susan, sharing memories with her. "Once, my hair was like yours, long and black," she would say, stroking Susan's long, thick plait. "Do you know, my husband  first saw me at a function in our family temple. My hair was  damp and untied and he claims he fell in love with it first!" She didn't add that this practice of falling in love with various parts of the body of various women had continued till he left her for good when their sons were teenagers. She had not missed him. She had the children, her job, her friends and peace of mind. The divorce had come  through three years later.

After her siesta,  she would move to the Recreation Hall to socialise. There were about fifty men and women there in various stages of deterioration. Prema generally avoided paediabores as she privately termed the majority who spoke only of their children. Praise or blame, pride or anger; they were redundant, she felt, in this phase and place.

She had found a couple of women she felt comfortable with. They played rummy some days or watched a movie. Sometimes, she went for a little stroll with Susan in tow.

  In February, a new inmate arrived. Prema was in the Recreation Hall, watching an old 'sixties movie when, from the window, she saw a car at the portico. A balding old man was being helped into a wheelchair by a  young, black-haired one. As he seated himself in the wheelchair  and looked up at his helper, Prema saw his face clearly.  It was Sajan.

  The years crackled back as swiftly as currency notes in counting machines. Sajan and she had worked together in the Munnar branch for several years. He had been very popular,  a good organiser and a favourite with the lady staff.

He had been a popular bachelor then. He was good-looking; trim body, luxuriant hair, small regular features, an alluring smile. Moreover,  Sajan was a good  and ready singer ; he sang at the drop of a pay-in slip. At all informal meetings of the staff, he was both master of ceremonies and singer.  His favourites were those melodious songs of the sixties and the current ones of the seventies.

"Flower that blooms in the chill mist;

Tell me why you weep;

Does my love too sadden you? "

This hit song of the year had been always on his lips. He would look often at her when he sang this song of sad love. She suspected it was addressed to her; in those days, Prema wore her misery like a halo; it was almost visible. The song was as alluring as his smile.

Imperceptibly, she found herself moving closer and closer to him, emotionally and physically. Nothing was said, yet everything was.

Easter was in March that year. Schools had closed early for the summer vacations. Her husband had taken their little  sons down to the plains to his parental home. She would join them on a month's leave in two days' time.

That Bank Closing Day remained imprinted on her memory like a bright wild flower pressed onto a blank sheet. The day had been hectic like all Closing Days and work had gone on into the night. They were hunting for a missing rupee. One wretched rupee. Even Sajan wasn't humming. Everyone was exhausted.  Finally it was  found; the balance sheet could be sent the next day. There was a collective sigh of exhausted  relief. When the clock struck eleven, everyone streamed out into the chill March air. In half an hour it would be April. "Let me drop you home," Sajan offered. Prema and two other lady staff piled onto the back seat of Sajan's Fiat. The other two got off at their homes. Prema 's house was the farthest from the bank. There were just the two of them in the car. Suddenly the air was taut with expectation, fragrant with desire.  Prema stared straight ahead, her hands gripping her bag.

     Sajan stopped at the gate. He switched off the engine.  As she reached her dark front door and was fumbling for the key, he came up behind her. In a second she was in his arms, crushed to him like a leaf. Her bag fell to the ground. He was raining kisses on her hair, her cheeks, her eyes. Then, just as abruptly, he let go of her and walked swiftly back to the car.

Prema did not remember entering  her dark house or even going to bed. 

The next day, he greeted her with a merry "Happy Fools' Day" but his eyes spoke other words.

Prema left for home that afternoon in the  rattling bus that descended like her spirits.

  Sajan was due for a promotion transfer ; he left Munnar two weeks later. They did not meet again but he continued to linger somewhere  deep within her, emerging at unexpected moments to smile that alluring smile at her.

  And now, here he was, walking, no, being wheeled into her life again. She rose and made for the Reception... .

Prema's routine changed. Susan melted into the background. Prema spent the forenoons in Sajan's company. Often, the evenings too. She learned that he had remained a bachelor -"I am a free bird; I don't want to be caged" - had been his standard, flippant reply to the inevitable question. After retirement fifteen years ago, he had stayed alone for years in his cottage in Munnar, had found housekeeping cumbersome, had fallen in the bathroom one day and lain there for hours with a broken leg. He had finally decided to lock up his cottage and move to HOMES. Balu, a local boy whose education he had financed and who now worked as an accountant in the office of a tea company had taken leave to be of help to him.

  Sajan's leg was healing fast. Now he could hobble about, one arm firmly held by Balu. In the evenings, he would mingle with the other inmates. One day, Prema announced that Sajan was a fine singer. From then onwards, he sang for the others every evening. His voice had a little quaver but was still melodious  and  he  sang those old favourites of their generation.

One cold evening,  the song he sang was that old hit about the loved one who had bloomed in the mist. He looked at Prema all through the song. Prema had been waiting for this.

  A week later, tongues wagged nineteen to the dozen in HOMES. Lines got clogged as call after call was made to UAE, the USA, Germany and other parts of the globe where the children of the inmates lived. Such juicy news!  Prema and Sajan were getting married ! They would be moving into Sajan 's two-bedroom cottage in the town.

   It was on 31 March, bank Closing Day that they registered their marriage. Prema's sons sent their reluctant wishes. Sajan had no one to wish him.

That evening, they threw a party for their friends in HOMES. Sajan sang, needless to say. It was that all-time hit-

Sau saal pehle,

Mujhe  tumse pyaar tha... .

Balu drove them to their new home.

And what of Susan? Ah! When she melted into the background, she found Balu  there, similarly  backgrounded.

That second bedroom in Sajan 's cottage? That became Balu's and Susan's. It had been a double wedding that morning.

Life is good for the quartet. Susan keeps house,  Balu goes to work while Sajan and Prema savour their closing days.

Every day is closing day for Sajan and Prema. 

.

        
4. The Dhobi Did It
(From Edition 24 of Literary Vibes, published, 12 July, 2019.)

 It was her first job, in a city two hundred kilometres from her hometown. After the initial dislocation, she loved it. Her place of work was just a short walk away. Her room was small but pleasing. It was on the fifth floor of the hostel. There was a tree by her window. This massive window- tree bore bright pink flowers. Little birds flitted in and around it. She was happy in her new job, her new home.

  In those days, she was in love. With love itself. The idea of being adored, kissed, bedded by one man, of caring for him till the end of her life; such thoughts had been generated by the books she had read, the movies she had watched… . Her mind revolved around pure, noble, eternal love. 

Her parents were closing in on her with proposals. They threatened to advertise: WANTED: For an educated, middle-class girl, 24... She recoiled from such adverts; she did not want to be viewed, assessed, bargained for and bought. She wanted to be chosen by love, for love. She requested them for a little time.

They did not know that she had three aces up her sleeve; what do parents know about their children ?

Three men wished to claim her. Tinker tailor sailor soldier poet rich man poor man. She would play that button game on her nighties. The ones with buttons all the way down to her feet that her dearest friend had gifted her on the occasion of her leaving home. But that was no way to choose a life-partner.

On Sundays, Tinker Man would come to the Parlour. She would go down to spend a little time with him. He was a very distant relative by marriage, a mechanical engineer who worked in a huge factory nearby. Tinker suited him; she imagined him tinkering with the machines in the factory. His hair was always oiled and gleaming like his machines. Again, like the machines, he had nothing to say. Only “Let us go for a ride. Friendly. Only friendly.” Meaning he wouldn't make indecent advances, she supposed. He seemed a kind and gentle person. Her parents would approve of him whole-heartedly.But how dull he was! Yet, she was thrilled by his adoration. She would let him drink her in with his eyes. But she never ever went out with him. The car always went back with its sole occupant.

Then there was the Poet. They had gone to the same school as kids. He filled letters with poem after poem. He claimed that they dropped from his fingers like dew to the prairie. Privately she thought they fell like stones. Bad verse . Once in a particularly bad poem, he had even called her a majestic peacock and asked for a plume . She had to gently point out the gender problem. It was rumoured that he was so rich that he didn’t need to work. It was also rumoured that he led a debauched life. She thought of him as the Great Gatsby, the main character in that book she loved whose love for that one woman had shone steadily till he was killed. She wondered how many silk shirts he had. He had come once from his home 200 kilometres away in a swanky car to visit her. He was wearing a golden yellow shirt that suited him. He looked adorable. She had been impressed by both the shirt and the car and had been tempted to ride awhile in the dream-machine but had refrained. What would Mrs Grundy say? Strong is the hold of middle-class morality!

 And finally there was the Soldier who was posted in some far -off mountain range. When he wasn't guarding the country he was listening to movie songs on his little radio and thinking of life with her. She pictured him against  snow-capped mountains, a rifle in his hand and a song on his brave lips. It was a romantic picture. He wrote of the tea he would make for her every morning, the songs he would sing to her every night. His letters arrived regularly; there would be great black patches here and there where words had been blotted for security reasons. Her parents would not be happy if she chose him. Sending their only child all over the Motherland was not what they would wish for their only child. But the question was-did she care enough for him to marry him?

How could she choose?

In high school they had learnt Lamb’s Tales from Shakespeare. She still remembered that absurd story of the idiotic father who had decreed that his dear daughter would be married off to the man who chose the right casket. How they had laughed over that !

She arranged her make-up kit, her container for safety pins and clips, her bindi box on the ledge that passed for her dressing table. Eenie,  meenie,  maina,  mo. No. As absurd as that old father's plan.

She went on Thursdays to the ancient Krishna temple a bus-ride away and prayed. Krishna, a sign. Tell me how, whom, I should choose. He was decked in his Thursday finery. A gold flute in his dark, stony hand. The flickering lamp threw its light onto one half of his face. He seemed to be winking at her. “ I had many, not one, as you know. I can't help you. You know I can't.”  His whisper, carried by the camphor fumes, caressed her ears.

Finally, it was not Krishna the God but Krishna the Dhobi who settled the matter.

She had gone to collect the weekly pile of starched cotton sarees from Krishna Laundry Shop at the turn of the road. This time it was a pile of new ones that she had bought with her first salary, worn steadily over a week and then given for laundering. Krishna had trouble locating them though she told him her initials; he marked every piece of laundry with the initials of the owner. Finally she pointed to a little pile made up mainly of sarees in shades of yellow. "Those are mine" she said, leaning dangerously close to the hot iron.

But he looked hesitant. "Ithu neengada abc alla - They aren't your letters, Akka" he said in his odd Tamil-laced Malayalam.

She saw that he had marked them JR instead of JA. She was Janaki Aravind.  He apologised; A and R were very similar to his unlettered eye. He sketched them as he did not know how to write.

JR ! JR indeed! Her moments of mild irritation gave way to something else.

Her mind latched on to her Soldier Man. He was Ramkumar. If she married him, she would be Janaki Ramkumar. J R.

This was the sign she had been waiting for!

 That evening, she wrote three letters, walked to the red box at the corner of the street and dropped them in, one by one. It was a decisive moment in her life.

The engineer and the poet whined and pined awhile then, grew strong again.

In two months, Ramkumar and she were married.

She resigned her new job, bid farewell to her new friends and her new home... .

  Mornings saw her waking up her husband with a cup of hot tea. Nights generally found her lullabied with his drunken snores.

Sometimes she lay awake dreaming of the tree by her window, the pink flowers, those early days filled with a sweet promise.. 

Did she regret her choice? No. Not really.

What would her life have been like had she opted for Tinker man or Poet?

It was impossible to speculate.Three roads had diverge in a narrow wood and she had chosen one of them. There could be no going back. She was one person and had one life to live. It wasn’t such a bad life too. Her husband had his faults but then, nobody is perfect.

One thing she was very careful about.

Rama’s wife should be above suspicion.

Janaki is very popular with the dhobis at each Cantonment her husband is posted at. They rave about her kindness and her generosity. At every new place of posting, she identifies the nearest Rama Temple. She is known for her dedicated temple-going. They don’t know that it is another that she prays to.

She touches the feet of Hanumanji who guards the entrance. She offers flowers and vada garlands and beseeches him -Let no dhobi come anywhere near my husband. Protect me, O Maruthi."

A dhobi it was who guided her to this life. Let not another one drag her down to her namesake's plight.

5. TWO VOICES
(From Edition 31 of Literary Vibes, published, 30 August, 2019.)

Niranjan:

I was leaning against the cold shutter, willing sleep to blanket me against the gusts of memories. But they blew into my mind with painful insistence. The streets were emptying. The great market had closed its ancient eyes for the night. There were just a few strollers and an occasional vehicle. Godoliya was ready to rest. Soon it would be asleep, unlike me.
Memories… . Like a movie, the past moved and spoke before my closed eyes. I forced myself to think of my triumphant childhood, back in my village. I could see myself -Niranjan, thin, alert, the brightest boy in the school who captivated the teachers and awed the students with his vigorous rendering of "The Daffodils." An English poem ! An astounding feat ! A boy who was destined to go far, smiled the teachers.
  They were right. I topped the Board exams and moved to Varanasi for higher studies.
Zoology had always been my favourite subject. As a child , I had caught tadpoles and dragonflies, cockroaches and moths in an attempt to examine them. "He will be a doctor," my proud mother had prophesied.  I didn't care for medicine, though. I wanted to study fauna.

Benares Hindu University, in the temple city of Varanasi, was a broad new world after my minuscule village life. Slowly, I became one of a gang of five. They were all natives of the holy city. I was the only hosteler.  Of these four, Abhinav became my closest friend. It was in his house that we often congregated for "combined study. " There were all sorts of combining but study was minimal.
The heady joys of love and alcohol ! Love came and went but alcohol remained my constant, spirited friend.

After my PG, I left Varanasi for Delhi. As the Rajdhani Express took me away from the known, I was filled with elation at what I was moving to. A doctorate in chromosomology. That had become my dream. Abhinav was with me. Only I had made it to the prestigious JNU. He was coming to keep me company awhile and to see Delhi.
Abhinav. His tall lanky frame, long hippie style hair, kind heart, generous ways... .

My eyes fell on a group of four men who were sauntering along the road. One of them looked so much like Abhinav that I thought I had conjured him out of the past. Abhi, my dearest friend… .

A slow-moving car's headlights lit up my face and theirs.
In a second he was in front of me. "Niranju!" he exclaimed. "After all these years! What are you doing here, all alone at night? "
By then the other three were around me as well. I hadn’t seen them in decades They had grown paunches and lost hair but they were recognizable. The Gang of Five were together again, incredibly .
I wanted to sink into the earth, to disappear in a puff of smoke, to turn invisible.
"Why here ?" the natural question hit me again and again.
I evaded it with a flippant reply.
"Just experiencing the street life of the holy city."
They were scrutinizing me. I could read their minds. Drugs? Drink? Insanity?
None of the above, I wanted to assure them. “These three came to Varanasi yesterday for our class reunion. And now we get you as well. How amazing!“ said Abhinav.
They requested me to accompany them.
I closed my eyes, shook my head and remained mute.
They stood by helplessly awhile. Then they drifted away. Silently. Uneasily. Only then did I open my eyes.

Abhinav:

It nearly took my breath away. I had found him. My Niranju, huddled like a tramp by the roadside, not responding to our queries or entreaties. Refusing even to look at his old friends. What a coincidence that we had seen him on the day of our reunion !
I got back home but could not sleep. Naturally.

At 1 am, I drove to where we had seen him. He was lying, embryo-fashion, on the pavement. A blanket barely covered him. When I went up to him, I saw that he wasn't asleep; his eyes were open. I pulled him up, pushed him to the car and got him inside. He was pitifully thin. I threw away his tattered blanket. We drove back home in silence.
My family was fast asleep, of course.
I showed him the spare room and made two cups of strong coffee. Niranju had always been a coffee lover. He took the cup eagerly. I sat down facing him remembering the last time I had seen him. He had severed all contact after a couple of years in Delhi. I had learnt that he had drowned his research in drink and drugs; bhang and charas had drained him of all ambition and determination. Finally, he left the university with no forwarding address.

  Then, about ten years back, out of a clear blue sky, he landed on my doorstep. With him was a young woman, heavily pregnant. He introduced her as Madhu, his wife. My wife of fifteen years and my two children welcomed them. I alone of the gang of five had continued to stay and work in Varanasi. Niranju said he had come to the holy city at his wife's insistence; she had wanted to offer prayers to Kashi Viswanath before their child was born. She seemed a gentle, quiet girl. He became progressively louder and rougher as the night wore on and the bottles emptied. I noticed his trembling hands. I regretted having agreed to  give him drinks. At midnight, he wept, saying he had ruined his career. He was currently teaching in a third rate college in a small town. It was there he had met Madhu, fifteen years his junior. He sobbed that he had ruined her life as well. I had much trouble getting him to bed. Madhu stood by, weeping silently.
  They left the next morning.
 
And now, so many years later,  I was waiting for him to fill in the ominous gaps.
"Abhi, " he began, "you shouldn't have brought me here, to your happy home. I am a miserable wretch. I wish I were dead, dead like my wife and child.!"
" Tell me about that,” I said.
Words poured out of him like gravel being unloaded from a truck. 
"I had found a better-paid job in Solan. My baby girl was three. We stayed in a little house away from the town.  We couldn't afford anything else. "
He paused, his face pressed to his palms. I waited.
"One night, I had been drinking , as usual. My little one was asleep but I wanted to give her a joyride. Nothing would stop me. I ordered Madhu to wake her up. I started my scooter. Madhu climbed up behind me with our daughter on her lap. I remember all this, faintly.  I speeded down the road. They cried out and Madhu begged me to slow down. I only went faster. Then, Abhinav, a car came round the bend. I can still see those headlights, burning like monstrous eyes. In a second, we were thrown on the ground. The car's tyres crushed Madhu 's head and my child's body. I ran from the sight, from the blood that flowed black in the moonlight. "
  His face was terrible to see. I looked away to hide my feelings as he ended his narration.
"I never returned. Yes, I am a coward, a wretch... . I wandered all these years. A beggar, a mendicant, a penitent... call me what you will. Last week, something drew me to this city of our shared youth. I did not think I would meet you again... ."
  I think he must have slept for a couple of hours. Early in the morning, I saw him off. I had forced him to accept some clean clothes and some money.
"You won't see me again, Abhi, " he said by way of farewell.

I was glad to hear that. Roshni was still asleep. I wouldn't have wanted them to meet. 
He would never know the secret that my wife and I guarded so carefully. He would never know that a news item on TV the day after the accident had sent me hurrying to Solan, that I had learned that Madhu had died on the spot but that the little one had survived. He would never know how hard I had tried to find him. He would never know that I had adopted his daughter and that she was now the light of our eyes. Our two children had grown up and grown away. Our lives now centred on Roshni. 
He would never know. He must never know. He didn't deserve to know.

Or did he ?

6..FLOODS
(from Edition 38 of Literary Vibes, published, 18 October, 2019.)

  Once in two years or so, when vacation time came around, they would travel down from the faraway hill station where Preetha’s father had his business, to spend two happy months in her grandmother’s house. The house itself was enchanting. A huge, two-storied European-style bungalow, rearing high on a mound, with a sweeping view of the benign Periyar, the most famous river in Kerala. Her grandfather had had it built when he was quite a young man, serving in the Travancore police. He had made the house a blend of traditional and European- though there were bay windows and a portico in front, the interiors had wooden rooms and a “nadu muttam”; a central courtyard with a little lotus pond. A wooden verandah ran the length of the sides of the first floor. Perhaps he had built it that way to symbolise the blend of the two disparate cultures that later colonial years had gifted his country Her grandfather had spent barely two years of retired life before a heart attack claimed him. His wife had continued staying in the vast house with a small army of domestic staff. Her grandmother was a dignified, beautiful old lady; she and Preetha would spend hours together in perfect harmony. The old lady had been educated at home by an Anglo-Indian lady; one of their mutual joys  Preetha’s was using her English which tended to get rusty during the long vacation.
Her grandmother would sit after her bath every morning on the swing-cot, moving gently to and fro. Her three-stranded gold chain would gleam against her ivory neck and breast as the swing-cot moved.The air in the wooden room with the red floor would be redolent with the scent of turmeric and sandalwood. Soon the maid would bring in the smoking frankincense to dry the matriarch’s hair. The fumes from the little vessel would then overpower the other scents. The child loved to sit in her grandmother’s room. She would perch gingerly on the moving cot and the old lady would put an arm around her. She would look up in awe at her grandmother’s earlobes which touched her shoulders like huge” U”s,in which heavy gold pendants and studs were fixed. “Doesn’t it hurt?” she would ask. By way of reply the old lady would smilingly tell her granddaughter to pull the dangling earlobes. But the child could never bring herself to do that. Instead, she would plead for another story. Not so much stories as anecdotes about her ancestors and about by-gone days.
   Today the old lady was in a good mood. “ I have not told you about the great floods of 1099. Your mother knows it well; I told her when she was old enough to understand it. Now it is your turn. I was a young woman then…”
“But that was centuries ago, Grandmother!” exclaimed the child who had been counting mentally. The old lady chuckled. “Do you think I am a witch that I am still alive after centuries?” She explained to her that the older generation still kept to the Malayalam calendar, the Kollam Era, which was a good ten centuries behind the one the child and the whole of modern India followed. “So, which year is it now?” asked the English-medium child in wonder. “To me, it is 1145; to you 1969. So, nearly half a century ago, when I was 20 or 21 and the mother of 4 children, there came a terrible flood in the monsoon month. It was the worst that people in living history had seen… .
As the floodgates of the old lady’s memory opened, the terrible disaster of 1099 unrolled vividly like a violent movie before the child’s mind’s eye.
Their ancestral home was almost on the banks of the Periyar; it was a solid and spacious mansion of wood and stone. Beyond it in those days wound the road to the  tiny town of Aluva . On either side of it for nearly a mile stretched their green fields of paddy. Their labourers lived in the little houses that clustered here and there along the road. The monsoon of 1099 was a very heavy one. All the 44 rivers of Kerala were in spate. By mid-July, it felt as if the heavens had burst.The Periyar had flooded following the opening of the sluice gates of the Mullaperiyar Dam. Their road was transformed into a river mingling with the overflowing water bodies... paddy fields were innundated… carcasses of dogs, goats and cows floated everywhere…people ran seeking refuge from death, clutching their children, weeping… .The land was drowned in tears. Their labourers and retainers whose houses were ruined or submerged were all accommodated in the servants’ quarters of the big house.
“Your mother was not yet born, of course; that took about fifteen more years. My little ones had a wonderful time playing with the children  who were our refugees. They were low-caste; but all such barriers had come down temporarily. There were all sorts…”
“Grandmother,” interrupted the child, “Is that why their houses collapsed ?”
The old lady was thrown off-track by the question.
“What do you mean?” she asked in puzzlement. 
“Because their houses were low cost ones”, explained the child.
The old lady threw back her head and laughed till the swing went berserk and the gold beads on her bosom twinkled erratically.
Preetha’s father was a flourishing builder and low-cost houses were part of everyday talk. Caste she had barely heard of, living as they did in a remote town, isolated from their community.
That was Preetha’s introduction to the caste system. 
Her grandmother explained to her that caste was the reason she had forbidden Preetha  to play with Velu’s son. The little girl had wondered whether he had some contagious disease… .Now that she knew why, Preetha’s mind was made up.”I shall not play with Ravi ; don’t worry, Grandmother,” she said.
 All those children in the Enid Blytons she devoured were truthful. But they often played with truth to suit their needs. If Julian declared that he had not been to the beach that morning, it was the truth. He would conceal the fact that he had gone right up to the little cliff that marked the beginning of the beach. If Daisy was asked if she had eaten the forbidden ice-cream from the local shop, she would truthfully say she hadn’t. She had, however, eaten several scoopsof similar stuff in the shop in the next village .So, Preetha decided to take a leaf out of the books she loved so much and to emulate her white role models.
Definitely, Preetha never did play with Ravi. But she went out at his distant whistle and he taught her to climb trees and to catch the little fish that gleamed in the stream. In return, she spoke in English to him. He wanted to improve his English. Ravi was an ambitious boy who wanted to study well and have a super career.  Not for him the blacksmith’s forge which had been the life and livelihood of his father and grandfather.  
This wasn’t play, Preetha convinced herself. This was the exchange of  useful skills.
But the most gripping part of Grandmother’s story was still to come.
“I was pregnant. My pains started towards nightfall. Someone brought the midwife in a canoe to this verandah-yes, this very verandah; the water had reached the first floor!  There was no other way except swimming. I heard about it much later, of course. I was in the inner room, wild with pain.”
 Preetha could see it all- the little boat battling the current created by the overflowing river, the bobbing lights, the cries…  

“You didn’t go to the hospital?” Preetha asked in wonder. Her mother was a dedicated doctor who worked in a hospital in Ooty; Preetha knew all about deliveries and babies.
“No upper caste ladies did, in those days. Nowadays, hmm. Look at your mother, working daily in some filthy hospital…  All my babies were delivered at home; my parent’s home for the first three and this, my home, for the rest. Right here, in that room.” The old lady pointed a proud finger at the inner room.
“It was a girl. Your grandfather named her Jalaja- lotus; she who was born from water; he had an odd sense of humor.” The old lady smiled wryly.
The child visualised stylish Jalaja Auntie from Bombay, always made up and perfumed, as a wailing baby in an island-house… .
Preetha’s father passed away soon after she enrolled for the MBBS course at Madras Medical College. Early exposure to the medical profession had influenced her choice of profession. A few years later, her mother  gave up her work in Ooty and settled in the Aluva house with her still-strong mother. Preetha was in her final year MBBS at the time. Her grandmother wanted to see her married but her efforts failed against the combined onslaughts of her daughter and grandchild. Preetha went on to complete her post graduation and  found suitable employment in a hospital in Mumbai.
 In 1984, in1179, the Matriarch passed away peacefully one calm night. She  had just completed a hundred years. Preetha rushed down from Mumbai where she worked, to pay her last respects to the indomitable, beloved lady. The scent of agarbathis filled the quiet room.“Grandmother,” she whispered to the lifeless body, “I love you; I always did. I couldn’t bear to hurt you and I didn’t, I am glad I didn’t.” She kissed the cold, beautiful face for the last time.
  Preetha’s mother, who had inherited the house, continued to stay there. The retinue of servants had dwindled to two faithful retainers. She had  a roaring practice; she charged nothing.
 The Periyar flowed on, bringing memories of the dreaming Sahyadri to the waiting sea while Left and Right continued their regular five-year see-saw game.The handsome pilot piloted the telecom revolution. STD booths sprung up next to the calm temples, churches and mosques that dotted the banks of the Periyar and then collapsed as the mobile revolution stormed in. The calm places of worship began to lose their calm. There were ominous shadows slowly darkening  God’s own country; there were murmurs and clashes  in His own name.
The once-green paddy fields burned bare and brown under the sun.There were no labourers to labour. They had gone Gulfwards or migrated to the big cities.Those that remained looked down on manual labour. The old retainers retained their bits of land. Preetha’s mother sold most of the dry fields and enlarged and modernised the small hospital.
Preetha got married in 1984, just two months after her grandmother passed away. Her only child, a daughter, was born a year later. She was named Gouri, after the vanished Matriarch. And a Gouri she was, glowing golden as the old lady would have wished. Preetha had come to her mother for the delivery. Her husband, the busy doctor who was also her colleague in Mumbai, came to peep at his daughter, then rushed back. He was not at ease in his wife’s home. He was constantly aware of his mother-in-law’s dislike and disapproval.
   The years flowed by, as did the Periyar
July 2018.
 Another monsoon. Heavier than usual. And then, suddenly, it was terror. Rain water and dammed water filled the hapless land. Preetha had come on a holiday to Aluva; her husband and daughter were in Mumbai. She remembered her grandmother’s account of the Great Flood of 1099. After more than ninety years, at the close of 1193, it was happening again.Floods overpowered Kerala. The Periyar had risen to several feet. Before the waters climbed to the verandah, Preetha and her mother moved to a room in the hospital.
Landslides. Innundation of roads and houses.Snapping of power lines. Floating bodies of man and beast.The wails of the terrified, the hungry, the ill. Overflowing, stinking refugee camps. Contagion.
The hospital was full. Preetha and her mother were working almost round the clock. Preetha ‘s husband arrived, braving flooded roads and railway lines; Nedumbassery Airport was closed, of course. The trio of doctors stepped up their efforts. Working cheek by jowl, going often by country boat to distant refugee camps, they barely slept or ate. Days turned into weeks.
Finally the rains trickled to a stop. The floods receded. The effort had taken its toll on Preetha”s ageing mother. She was close to collapse.They had moved back to the house. The first floor was still inhabitable.She lay in bed. Her daughter and son-in-law stood on either side of her. She grasped their hands in hers and said to her son-in-law, “I am grateful to God for the gift he gave me. Forgive me, Ravi, for all the years of narrow mindedness and hostility. This flood has cleaned my vision.” He reached down and she embraced him with affectionate graitude.
Preetha wondered how her grandmother would have viewed this scene. That dark brat, the son of Velu, the blacksmith,now a member of her family, being thanked and embraced by her daughter! 
   Sun-starts burst and sparkled on the Periyar as it flowed on

7. SMALL  MERCIES
(From Edition 35 of Literary Vibes, published, 27 September 2019.)

This was our evening ritual. I would throw my files and bag on the table, take off the absurd white bands around my neck and, still dressed in black blouse and white sari, sink into my favourite armchair. Karumi who would have come by 3 o’clock, cleaned the house and made my dinner, would bring me my tea in another five minutes
  Then, she would sit on the floor, leaning against the divan and sip her tumbler of tea. It had taken a month for her to sit in my presence, let alone drink tea with me. Karumi had started working for me as a domestic help three years back. Quiet,energetic and efficient, she was a very good help indeed. Slowly I had drawn her out; I am a successful lawyer, after all.
 
 Her story was a fairly common one. I would like to call it A Very Indian Story.. She could not remember her father who had deserted his family early. Her mother worked as a sweeper in an office. She had an elder brother and a younger sister. She remembered evenings, playing hopscotch outside their one-room tenement. There had been a champak tree growing by the roadside that spread its heady fragrance into the night. She had stopped going to school when she was ten; she was judged old enough to start working. So she entered domestic service.

   At twenty three, she had been married off. Her mother had paid her groom a hefty sum all borrowed from desi Shylocks who thrived on the flesh and blood of such unfortunate humans. Pappu was a cleaner in a local bus. Ten months later, she bore him a son. It was a traumatic delivery. The doctor declared that she could bear no more children. Her husband ranted awhile at this but soon found comfort in fertile places. Life went on. Pappu earned enough to feed and clothe his wife and son but his earnings hardly ever reached home. They swelled the coffers of the local liquor shops. His wife slaved in three houses to bring up their son. Manish was just ten years old, a bright, chirpy little fellow who was always at play. Needless to say, she lived for him.

That evening, there were fresh bruises on her face and neck ; Pappu had beaten and abused her the previous night. That was nothing new, of course. As usual, Manish had slipped out into the goat pen behind the house to escape his father’s wrath… . She went silent. Then her face brightened. “Again he won’t hit me or abuse me.” My expression betrayed nothing as she continued, describing how she had attacked him, smashing his head against the wall and attempting to pull out his tongue. I listened earnestly to her narration. Flights of fantasy, of course. But I did not bat an eyelid.

 I too had them- such fantasies! They centered on my child who was forever in limbo. I was separated from my husband. He had left me because I was infertile. Another very Indian story. I had disliked the bondage of marriage but longed for a child. How often I played with him, this dream child, bathed him, fed him, sang him to sleep! This sad woman was entitled to her fantasies. Perhaps it helped her to go forward. Perhaps it kept her sane. I knew of course that she wouldn't dare to raise a finger against him. He was much bigger than her, for one thing. And, more pertinently, she was a good Indian wife. Several times, I had urged her to leave him; to come away with Manish. I had offered her a safe place where they could live in peace. Karumi’s reply was often just a gesture; she would lift the mangalasutra that lay like a glittering snake around her thin neck. It translated as - how can I leave him? I am tied to him for life... .

Mother and son had become a part of my life. I did not want to give them up to anyone.
But I lost them to my brother and I was happy about it.
It happened this way.
   One evening, when I reached home, the place was silent. She was not to be seen.
The key to the front door was still secure under the pot of golden gerbera. A few minutes later, she whirled up the path and burst into the room. She was terribly agitated. Manish had been taken away by his father. She was getting Manish’s lunch ready but the moment he reached home from school, Pappu had bundled him into an auto. He had brushed aside her desperate questions harshly saying they would be back in a few days. A few days!  Pappu was up to something; this was no pleasure trip. She was positive about that. She broke down.
I calmed her down. I promised her I would find Manish.
   But the next day, Pappu called her to say they were at a place of pilgrimage and everything was fine. Of course, the woman’s mind was still not at rest. Two days later, Karumi rang me while I was in the court. She said Pappu had asked her to go with him to a hospital in the neighbouring town as Manish was admitted there. Their vehicle had overturned; he had hurt his back. Nothing to cry about, he added. Manish would be discharged in a few days.

Karumi sees the hospital. It is huge and gleaming. But Pappu takes her into another building behind it. That too is a hospital. With thudding heart, Karumi goes into the little room. Her son lies on his side, still and pale on the bed. There are tubes strapped to his body. She cries out his name and he opens his eyes. "Ma, where were you ?" he asks, softly, weakly. They weep together, the mother and child. 
  Pappu gives her some money, tells her he will be back soon and leaves.
  It is the next day. The nurses are changing the dressing on Manish's back. It is then that Karumi  sees the long, diagonal line running down her son's little back.  It takes her three more days to comprehend what has happened to her child... .
   She tells the nurses that she needs to go home for a few hours. Pappu is at home. He is drunk as usual ; the empty bottle by his side bears the label of an expensive whiskey. He is half asleep. He doesn’t see her. 
Karumi picks up the bottle, breaks it against the wall and pierces his face with it. When he rises in agony, she jabs him again and again in the small of the back. He collapses; she washes her hands and leaves.
  
I had just made my tea when Karumi entered my house. I gave her my cup.of tea. She spoke; she was very calm.This was no comforting fantasy. I had to act fast.

I drove to the hospital, a stone-like Karumi by my side. I got Manish discharged; I had to flaunt my Bar Associate card and use some coercion.

Then, the three of us in a CRV took the hill road to my brother's place. It was the manager 's bungalow in the heart of a tea-estate. My brother, his wife and an army of helpers were waiting for us.
I left them there, in very safe hands and got back the next day. There was so much to see to… .
 Pappu survived. He had to spend all the money he had got out of the sale of his son’s kidney to pay his own medical expenses.

That case was one of the triumphs of my career. Pappu’s wife was let off; there were no eyewitnesses. The broken bottle had been, mercifully, handled by several shocked neighbours; so fingerprints posed no problem

Mother and son are doing well in their new little home in the hills. She works in my brother’s house.The nightmare is fading like the bruises on her face and bare neck.
 Manish is doing well at school. He is a healthy and happy boy. Sometimes I pretend he is my son. It is a pleasing fantasy.
One must be grateful for small mercies.. 

8.    DEEP GALILEEE
(From Edition 44 of Literary Vibes, published 29 November, 2019)

The Lake of Galilee shimmered before our eyes. Awe filed my heart as my eyes drank in the deep, lovely blue. Here it was that He walked on the water. Here it was that he met his disciples… .
 “Look!” I said to my husband, in Malayalam, “You can see Him, almost.”
He smiled at my words. But it was a deeply-satisfied smile.
Two girls, who were next to us in the crowd turned around to look at us. One was exotic brown, the other stereotype white, was my first thought. They were beautiful with the firmness and abundance of youth.
“Are you from Kerala?’ asked one of them. She spoke in halting Malayalam.
My husband and I were surprised and pleased to find one speaking the language of our little sliver of a state, so far away from home.
“Are you from Kerala?” my husband asked her. I could hear the doubt in his voice; she looked very exotic, very un-Mallu. 
“I spent my first eight years in Kerala,” she replied. Now she had switched to heavily-accented English.”Then I went to the States and remained there. But I still remember a bit of the language I spoke as a little child. Happy to meet you.” We spoke together awhile. Then, we went looking for a restaurant ; it was lunchtime. The two girls, Emma and Anne, moved along with us.
St Peter's Fish announced a big menu board in front of a restaurant. That settled the matter. What could be a better choice than this when one was at Galilee?
Over the meal, Emma told us more about her self. Anna was her sister, the biological child of Emma’s adopted parents. The two young ladies had visited Kerala the previous year and gone to the orphangae from where Emma had been adopted. Emma had wanted to know if she could track down her biological parents. But she had drawn a blank; the nuns knew nothing at all. She had been found as an infant in the cot kept near the gate of the convent for such convenient disposals. 
“I was found there on the night of 21 July. That is why Dad and Mom celebrate that as my birthday. Yesterday was my twenty first birthday.”
Emma smiled; dimples appeared in her cheeks.
“Where in Kerala is this orphanage?” asked my husband.
. “Kottayam, it is called Holy Family Convent” she replied.

  I had been attacking my portion of the bland, sainted fish with a fork. The fork slipped, the fish skidded off my plate did a somersault and  landed on the floor. My mind too had done a somersault.  
 The ensuing commotion and good-humoured comments helped me to hide my feelings.Everything had fallen into place, like the pieces of a simple jigsaw puzzle. The girl had inherited Naomi’s dimples. She looked much as my dear friend had looked when she had been young. Everything tallied. There was no doubt in my mind that this young lady was Naomi’s daughter
 
 Naomi and I had been boarders together when we were children. My father was the manager of a tea-plantation. This foredoomed me to boarding school. Naomi's father had wanted her to be "convent -educated" but there were no swanky convent schools in their village. So he had put her in this school just 30 kms from her place. She went home almost every weekend and came back with aromas wafting from her stuffed bag. Beef fry. Fish pickle. Achappam. Cheepappam. Kuzhalappam. How I had gorged on the stuff my generous friend laid out for me ! We were the best of friends. Naomi and I agreed on everything. No; there was one subject we differed sharply on -Akshay Kumar or Amir Khan - who was the better actor? Otherwise, we were, to misquote a well-known line,,"Two bodies with one heart, spirit, soul ." We ate, slept, dreamed together.
  One September, when school reopened after the ten -day Onam break, Naomi came back, looking devastated. There was no other word for it. Her long black hair was uncombed. Her lustrous eyes were hollowed and dimmed. She said she had been ill. It was her sixteenth birthday in two days' time. I had got her a make-up set. When I handed it to her, she burst into tears.
" I must, I have to tell you... ." In the shade of the mango tree at the edge of the chapel, she told me all.

Her cousin, Roy, about 8 years older to her, was a frequent visitor to her house. She adored this feisty big brother. For us Christians, cousins are brothers, unlike for some other religious groups. He worked in a firm in Cochin. That Onam vacation, he had come into her room as he often did. But something was different this time. He had made love to her. “But, didn’t you resist? push him away?” I asked in shock. “He was too strong for me; Royachayan, Royachayan...” She broke down..
In a month, she was positive she was pregnant. She was frantic; so was I. Tell your mother, I said. She looked at me as if I had uttered some blasphemy. “I called him yesterday,” she said, listlessly. “He will come this Friday to pick me up.”
After that weekend visit, she returned, minus the usual goodies. She was pale and silent. I did not ask her anything; sometimes no questions and answers are needed.
  She recovered to some extent. We passed out of school and moved up to college. We were still together, room mates though not classmates.
Inexplicably, she now moved around with Roy quite freely. She got pregnant again; got an abortion done again. Her people by then had got wind of what was going on. Marrying a cousin was unthinkable. There was only one solution. She was taken out of college and sent to a convent. It was a way to escape calumny. Their family name had to remain untarnished. Moreover, a member in holy orders would add to the shine.
  I visited her once in the convent. She was an Aspirant ; she still wore lay clothes. But her long hair had been cut short, her lustrous eyes were a little dimmed.
" How do you spend your time?" I asked
"Eat. Pray. Sleep " she replied, with a flash of her old liveliness.
And what of Roy? He was married and standing for the next panchayath elections.
Soon after the visit, I got married. Naomi did not attend but sent me a lovely gift-her lapis lazuli chain that I had always coveted.

Two years later, she sent me a letter. She had left the convent- her conscience would not allow her to take the Final Vows. Interestingly, she was now under the “protection”of a rich and regular visitor to the convent whom she had met and felled during his visits there. I mused on that conscience of hers for a while. But I could never sit in judgement on Naomi. I was a good Christian who followed His dictum- He who is without sin among ye, let him cast the first stone. Besides, I loved her very much indeed.

Then, inevitably,she was passed from man to man like a box of chocolates., turning less tempting, less fresh with the passing days. She became pregnant at thirty eight.There could be no abortion this time, the regular doctor told her. He had warned her the previous time.

So Naomi was housed in a secluded place, fairly close to where I stayed at the time. There was a trusted maid to look after her. Her richest protector paid for all this. There was no way of ensuring whose child she was carrying but he was magnanimous; he was very fond of her. " Very little ego"; she told me, smiling her sad, sweet smile. "Such men are good lovers. The others ... ." She shuddered. I thrust away the images that crowded into my mind. I had the feeling I was listening to an alien. I remembered how years ago, we had commented on dishes served in our boarding. How she had detested the brinjal fry -a staple on the miserly menu- and approved of potato fry ! She spoke of men in the same way now. I was unspeakably saddened. How unpredictable lives are ! We had started out together, like Juno’s swans. Yet, here I was, more or less happily married to a stolid business man, respected in our social and home circles, a model church-goer. Also, I was looked up to by several of the new gen group, no doubt because of my non-judgemental attitude and my openness to change. I had no children; that could have been another reason for it. My husband did not favour adoption; so his neices and nephews stood in for our non-existent children.

And Naomi, who should have been married to an eligible member of an illustrious family belonging to her religious denomination, who should have spent the rest of her life tending to her husband, rearing their children and being a model to the parish...reduced to this. 

My husband was away on one of his frequent business tours when Naomi delivered. She wanted to hand over the baby to me. I declined; my husband would have never agreed; he did not even know that I maintained contact with Naomi. Three days after the little girl was born, I accompanied her as far as the road to the convent orphanage. It was a dark night. “ Leave her in the covered cot near the gate. Ring the bell and come away fast. They will take her in. Rest assured. The child will be looked after, educated.”
I looked the other way while she bid farewell to her baby. Naomi spent the night at my house. We spoke late into the night. “I did it for her sake. If I bring her up, what future would she have?  Far better to be an orphan than the daughter of a whore,” she wept. I held her close to me. There was nothing else I could do.

 My husband and I relocated to Dubai soon after this. The years went by; I maintained an infrequent email contact with Naomi. She had faded, shrunk, finally becoming a teacher in some convent school far away. Her brothers had deposited some money in her name. Financially, she was fine. 
 Just a year back, my husband had been diagnosed with cancer. After a long struggle he had emerged free from the pincers of the Crab. For the time being. He told me soon after, “The Holy Land - I want to visit it, my dear, before metastasis sets in…” I covered his mouth with my hand.

So we had set off on the long journey. He would have none of those conducted tours; we would do it on our own, in our own sweet time.

And here I was, in the Place of Miracles, face-to -face with a miracle of sorts. My beloved Naomi’s child, now grown, beautiful, poised, prosperous, ready to take on the world. Only, she wanted to find her biological parents… it was her quest for identity.
I looked out of the window at the Lake that shimmered in the distance.“Why did you arrange this meeting?” I asked Him in silent anguish. Deep Galilee continued to shimmer. 

The three of them were talking about Kerala.

“Dear, didn’t we stay awhile very close to this convent?” My husband’s repeated question broke into my thoughts.

“Did we? I don’t remember.” I replied and continued with my meal.

9.    LOVE-ACTION-DRAMA
(From Edition 46 of Literary Vibes, published13 December, 2019) 

  We had known Sukhwant Singh when he was a lieutenant. He was a very young and likeable man, tall and muscular, the very picture of fitness. He loved the fiery chicken curry and string hoppers I made now and then. "Gunpowder, Ma'am!" he would exclaim, eating with great relish, sweat trickling down from his forehead to the part of his cheeks left free and onto his neatly-packed beard.
After my husband opted out of the Army and we went back to our native Kerala, SS, as we called him, kept in touch with my husband who was two courses senior to him but whom he regarded as a friend.
  
     Three years later, SS sent us his wedding invitation and phoned to say the two of us had to attend. The bride was Balwinder Kaur, a nineteen year old from the outskirts of his hometown. She looked shy and pretty in the two photos he had sent along with the invitation.The wedding was to be at Patiala, a place that held pleasant memories for us. We were all set to go when my husband's precious Bullet skidded. It ditched him-literally. He landed in a ditch. His left tibia had a fracture. His leg was in a cast. There was no question of travelling to Patiala or to any other place for a couple of months.

SS sent us some photos of the wedding. The bride looked lovely. They made a good pair, tall, slim and trim, elegant. He wrote that they were going honeymooning in Thailand. A few days later, he posted photos of their Thai trip. There were euphoric scribbles too. We were happy for him; he had obviously found a soul mate.
   My husband requested him to make a trip to God's own country: he assured SS that our state, a mere chilly on the map, had beaches, backwaters and undulating hills clad in tea bushes. And spices galore, of course. Finally, a year later, the young couple flew down from the north to Trivandrum. The intervening three years had made very little difference to SS. Balwinder was all we had hoped she would be; sweet, friendly. I took to her at once.
Over lunch, we discussed the itinerary. It was our standard one for dear guests who came to Kerala and stayed with us. First, the sights of the city with an evening in Kovalam, much lauded for its beaches. A day in Kanya Kumari, Land’s End. A long drive to Munnar, a hill station famed for scenic beauty and for tea. After a night there, a drive back to the sea coast, to Alapuzha, a Venice-like town. We would spend an evening in a house-boat, cruising the fabled backwaters andspend the night in it   as well. Balwinder's eyes shone at the prospect. SS was looking at her with adoring eyes.

I had given them the best room in our house, of course; it had wooden walls and a wooden floor, Kerala-style. The verandah opened onto the back yard. There was a view of our blessed land's greenery- chakka trees, a nutmeg tree, banana plants and the ubiquitous coconut palm. "So green, so cool" said Balwinder, drinking in the scene.
"Bet there will be dozens of birds in those trees in the morning; wish I had brought my air gun," responded her husband.
There was a gasp from his wife. I looked at SS and was reassured to find he was grinning.

They loved Kovalam; everyone does. We reached home around eight pm.
When my husband got ready to pour the customary, pre-dinner drinks, SS raised a polite hand : "Not for me, Sir. I am off drinks"
The bottle froze in mid-air as its holder stared incredulously.
"You? Off drinks.Why?”
No reasons were given; SS blushed and murmured something, looking all the while at his smiling wife.
"No Kaala Doreya tonight, then ? Alright; I shall sing instead,”declared my husband after he had recovered a little from the unexpected blow..
"No!" I protested, “Don't send them back; they have just arrived."
I remembered boisterous nights when SS had entertained us with his raucous rendering of Punjabi folk songs accompanied by the inevitable bhangra. It was difficult to get him to stop.
After a dinner of  freshly-made string hoppers (Balwinder was at my shoulder, learning how to make them) and fiery chicken curry, we called it a day.

“Uxorious b******,” snorted my husband as we were getting ready for bed. He was still indignant at having lost a drinking partner. Uxorious was one of the words I had introduced him to, hoping he would accept it as his creed. He complained about me to our friends, calling me a tharoorist, one who terrorised people with long, difficullt words. But I didn’t mind; I knew he was actually proud of my verbal skills.

The days passed smoothly; we were enjoying them as much as the young couple did. My husband and SS kept up their fouji talk peppered with sound and fury while Balwinder and I discussed domestic and personal matters. I learned that she had led a rather sheltered life. Her mother had passed away when she was a child and her grandmother had brought her up. She had four elder brothers of whom she seemed to be in awe. Her loves were painting and embroidery and recently, SS, of course. She was settling slowly into army life. I assured her it would take time. “It’s the parties I can’t bear. He drinks and then he sings and dances. O! I can’t bear to watch him making a fool of himself…” she lamented softly. I had difficulty believing this was a Punjabi ‘kudi’ in front of me. Had some perverse fairy exchanged babies in the cradle soon after she was born? Maybe she was actually a Malayali manga(womanl) of the north Kerala rural kind… .
   
At Kanya Kumari and Munnar too, SS didn’t touch a drop. My husband was exhausted after the previous day’s drive. Fatigue always made him pugnacious.  During the drive from Munnar to Alleppey, he taunted SS.
“Scared of your wife, eh?” he asked.. “Not scared,Sir. Just don’t want her upset,” the young man replied. 
“You’re uxorious, man; that’s what you bloody are. Uxorious!” said my husband. There was silence in the car after this outburst. The term sounded dangerously like a bad word. I hastened to explain that uxoriousness only meant being excessively fond of one’s wife. “There’s another word that Balwinder knows already,” I added. “It’s maritorious.” Balwinder turned her startled doe-eyes towards me. I patted her arm. “It means being excessively fond of one’s husband,” I smiled. My husband digested that, then retorted with,”That’s a word not found in my wife’s vocabulary, anyhow!”
SS then told us he had promised his wife that he wouldn’t drink during their stay in Kerala. Thailand had been spoiled by his drinking. She had told him that she didn’t want an encore.

The houseboat was waiting for us, rocking gently on the grey water in the narrow canal. “Wait till we reach the backwaters,” I reassured the couple who were gazing at the dark water in doubt. I had noted that all visitors to Kerala liked the houseboat ride along the backwaters best. We boarded.There was a cook-cum-boatswain at our disposal. He showed us the just-caught fish lying on the slab in the little galley.”My name is Kannan. And Pearl Spot,”  he said to Balwinder; “that is the name of this fish.
 “It’s absolutely delicious,” added my husband, a chronic fish-lover.
The two tiny bedroms and the even tinier toilets were met with squeals of delight from Balwinder.
“It’s like a doll’s house!” she exclaimed. 
The boat sped along a narrow canal bordered with little houses.We were seated on the open deck. Children at play on the banks waved to us. One group chorused, “One pen! One pen!” Kannan who had come out of the galley with tender coconut water for us explained that many children said this because foreign tourists sometimes gifted them pens.
Soon the houseboat was sailing along the vast expanse of the backwaters. We sat silent, taking in the  calm beauty of the scene. 
 When the sun started slanting in the west , my husband went in and came out holding something behind his back..”What is life without the teacher?” he said holding up a full bottle of “Teacher’s”. 
“It used to be your favourite, SS”, he said. The cool breeze, the blue expanse of water slowly turning dark, the sun an orange laddoo in the west, birds returning to their homes… . 
“I’ll have a drink, Sir” said SS, jumping up.

At ten o’clock, the two were still at it. Then the singing began. Punjabi songs. And then the bhangda .How can one listen to a Punjabi song without dancing? Balwinder had become totally silent. SS tried to coax her out of her chair. “Come, do a giddha. Why are you upset? There is no one here except us.  Madam will dance with you.” He pulled her out of the chair and swung her round and round. He was singing at the top of his voice all the time. Exactly what happened I do not know but she skidded and in a second had fallen over the railing into the black water.
The boatman and Kannan alerted by my shrieks came running. But SS had already dived in like an enormous cormorant. A rope was thrown by the men.SS clambered up with his wife over his shoulder.
She was trembling with fear and shivering with cold.

 They went into their cabin to dry themselves and to change. I knocked to see if Balwinder was okay. She was. 
Their dinner was served to them in the cabin. Kannan came out looking stunned.”What is it?” I asked in apprehension. “He has looong hair! Upto his knees! Krishna Krishna. A man with such long hair!” came the reply. I had to laugh at that though merriment was nowhere in the picture. My husband and I had a silent meal and a silent night.
Thus ended the holiday.
We dropped them at Kochi airport the next morning.

There was no communication for several weeks except for a brief formal note of thanks.. My husband was very upset. So was I. Were they ok? Were they still together, we wondered?
Dispelling our doubts and fears there came a photo from Meerut. It showed SS and Balwinder seated in a cafe. On the table in front of them were two half-drunk bottles of Fanta. The faces of both husband and wife were wreathed in smiles.

“U or M ??” I murmured to my husband. 
”Both,” he replied, with a playful whack on my head.

10.WINE, WOMAN and SONG
(from Edition 48 of Literary Vibes, published 27 December, 2019)

Sara entered our home when I was twelve, and my heart shortly afterwards. She had been hired as a full-time maid. My mother had recently met with an accident and was bedridden.  The doctors had called it a miracle that she was alive at all and had warned my father to expect no further miracles. With time and luck , she had a very slender chance of being mobile again. As things were, she was confined to bed except for painful, slow excursions to the adjoining bathroom.

Sara swept in one March evening, like a gusty, cool breeze. I had just got back from school and was making tea for my father and for myself. Our part-time maid came at 6 am and left by 3 pm. My cats were mewing loudly in hunger and deprivation. Into this din came a voice from somewhere,"The Lord be praised! Is this a zoo or a human dwelling that I have come to look after?" The voice was high-pitched and the words had the tang of my fatherland - rubbercountry, Pala.

My mind registered this in addition to indignation when into the kitchen strode a woman. I had a confused impression of white teeth in a dark face, corkscrew curls and a solid body. Then she scooped up two of my cats and tucked them in the crooks of her arms.

Sara endeared herself to me with that single gesture. She liked cats and -she told me - fish and children.

In no time, she had the household running on well-oiled wheels. The part-time maid was dismissed. Sara was busy all day. She cooked, swept, tended to my mother and sang. Her songs were Christian devotionals which soon became a part of me.

I would go up to her just before leaving for school and do an "about turn". She would wipe her hands on her aromatic lungi and plait my unrulycurls into two meek plaist. (All morning I could smell the chilli-coriander-garlic-garam masala -tomato aroma of her hands on my hair.) Then she would hand me my lunch-box packed with my staple - tomato rice. She had cooked some a couple of days after she landed when she gave up trying to convert me to non-vegetarianism;by now I had become an addict.

I was an addict of her stories as well.

In the evenings, Sara and I would gather in the room my mother lay in. My three cats would be on my lap or milling around me. She would regale us with tales of saints, neighbours and herself.  I liked the latter best of all. "Tell me about the evening that you first saw Achayan, " I would prompt her. She did not need much prompting.

The annual church festival -perunnal- was in full swing. 31 December was the day it peaked. St Augustine's Church and its grounds were packed. Sara and her married sisters were near the front of a stall that sold ornaments. She was in her annual new saree - this time, it was a bright blue one with white flowers.  A blue scarf was around her neck. She was selecting blue glass bangles to go with the sari when there was a commotion behind  her. A pickpocket! The man was running out of the grounds followed by another, a young man in a blue shirt. He caught up with the former and with one blow felled him. Then he picked up the purse that had been stolen and shouted "Whose is this?"

  "Just like Prem Nazir in "Rowdy Rajan," Sara would digress at this point, her eyes dreamy. The former was a romantic hero who was still running around trees doggedly in our movies; the latter was one of his early popular on-screen avatars.

The pickpocket was marched off by the constable; the young man was offered a drink of sherbet by the man at the stall next to the trinkets. As he drank, his eyes met the adoring ones of young Sara. "He followed me after that and in no time we were husband and wife."

There were never any details of the courtship though I asked her often enough. My mother told me I was not to pry.

After these sessions, I would follow Sara into the kitchen. She taught me the basics of cooking. I would sit on the old rice-box while she sliced and cooked. She also taught me how  to roll out chapathis that Michael Angelo would have envied for their circular perfection.

When my father frowned that I wasn't studying enough hours, my mother smiled that I was being educated instead. 

And what an education it was ! It took me two decades to fully comprehend and appreciate Sara's s role in my making. I think I was to her the daughter she never had. Her adored husband had passed away in an accident just a couple of years after their marriage, leaving her a childless young widow.

From an admonition to wash the coconut scraper thoroughly after each use -only harlots leave them unwashed!- through the mysteries and mores of menstruation to the pervasive presence and mercy of the divine (when my cats attained the clawed feet of the Cat God), my education was all-encompassing and awesome.

Wine-making was something Sara took great pride in. Months before December, the ritual would begin. I would be at her elbow, her bacchanalian acolyte, handing her the clean, glossy grapes. Just before Christmas, the wine would be decanted and poured into empty beer bottles. Sara made me drink little glassfulls during the festive season. "Sweet, wholesome, with just a little kick," she would say complacently.  That hendiatris described Sara as well.

Sara  illuminated our lives for six years. My mother had improved;  she could now walk a little with crutches. My father got a promotion and a transfer to Karnataka. Sara declined to accompany us to Gadag. Reluctantly, we parted. 

We kept in touch with Sara and sent her money her money at Christmas and Onam. My parents passed away when I was thirty seven, within a few weeks of each other. Sara came to attend the last rites of both. She must have been in her sixties then, I think, but was still strong and active. It was a happy reunion even though it was in the midst of sorrow.

I continued the Christmas-Onam tradition. Last year, more than 20 years later, I got a call from someone in Ramapuram. She said she was Sara's relative who was looking after her. Sara was very ill and in need of money. Would I help?

I travelled to Ramapuram. Sara's home was close to the ancient St. Augustine's Church. The church looked magnificent. I visualised the young Sara and her young man, both in blue against the gleaming white of the church.

I found Sara sadly changed. She was emaciated; just  skin-and-bone. Worse, her mind was wandering; she no longer recognised people. I sat on the bed and held her claw-like hands in my old ones. "Don't you remember me?" I implored. I mentioned name, place, animal , thing. No light gleamed in her sunken eyes. Then I sang, softly, her favourite song-"Daivasneham vannicheedan... -no words can  adequately praise God's love... ."

She sang along with me in her high-pitched voice... .

I spoke awhile with her niece who was tending to Sara. "What about her husband's relatives? Don't they help?" I asked.

 The niece looked at me blankly. "Husband?" she repeated wonderingly. "Auntie is unmarried… ." 

As I turned to go, having taken leave of Sara, I felt her tug at my sari. She said, with a smile, "I hope they are well - Nachiketa and Sundari and Vicco… ."

I nodded dumbly- they were the cats of my childhood. So, she had recognised me, finally. 

As I left, she was singing again: "No words can adequately praise His love."