Selected Works of Mrutyunjay Sarangi from LiteraryVibes (Vol. 1)

THE PIANO AND OTHER STORIES 

(A COLLECTION OF TEN SHORT STORIES OF MRUTYUNJAY SARANGI FROM LITERARYVIBES)  

Dr. Mrutyunjay Sarangi is a retired civil servant and a former Judge in a Tribunal. Currently his time is divided between writing short stories and editing the weekly eMagazine LiteraryVibes. He has published eight books of short stories in Odiya and has won a couple of awards, notably the Fakir Mohan Senapati Award for Short Stories from the Utkal Sahitya Samaj. He will welcome feedback from the readers in his email address mrutyunjays@gmail.com or through WhatsApp in 9930739537.

1. THE PIANO
Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

(From the Twentieth Edition of LiteraryVibes, 14 June, 2019)

There was no reason why I should have switched over to the music channel on TV at that particular moment. Except that there was a long commercial break in the World Cup cricket match and I hate those advertisements coming up again and again in the midst of an interesting game.  

The music on the TV was superb. Must be some maestro playing the Piano. I looked at the artist. And my heart skipped a bit! Saswati! In a light green saree she was looking lovely, almost out of this world. Her thin, long fingers were flying on the key board of the Piano with a charming grace. The song was a melancholic splendour, piercing the heart, soaking it with an ethereal sublimity.  

I looked closely at Saswati. Her face was glowing with an inner peace, although a tinge of sadness was unmistakable. The last time I had seen that face, it was different. But that was ten years back, when Saswati was just a twelve year old school girl. And the occasion was also  different, quite unlike the beautiful and elegant TV studio. All these years that face has come to haunt me as a sad canvas of pathos and deep hurt. And the eyes brimming with tears, commanded by Sawati not to betray her before her parents, younger brother and me, a visiting 'uncle'. 

That was the year 2009. I was in Rairangpur, a small town of Western Odisha, in connection with some office work. I usually stay in hotels when I visit different towns on my tours, but at Rairangpur my friend Nagen would not have allowed that. We were very close friends in College, room mates in the hostel and shared each other's samosas and rasgollas practically every afternoon, sometimes eating half of each when we were short of pocket money. After college I had joined the government as a junior officer. Nagen had chosen to join a private college at Rairangpur as a lecturer and had stayed there for years. 

By the time my bus reached Rairangpur it was evening. Nagen and his wife were waiting for me to have dinner. Saswati, their twelve year old daughter and Nayan, her seven year old brother came and touched my feet and after collecting the packets of Cadburys I had brought for them went back to their room to finish home work for the school. Nagen, his wife Sushmita and I chatted for some time and I went for sleep around eleven in the guest room.  

It was early winter morning in Rairangpur and pleasantly cold. Under a warm quilt I was comfortably asleep when I suddenly woke up to a wonderful and melodious music. Someone was playing a lovely song on Piano - O Sajanaa, Barakha Bahar Aayii....., a favourite song of mine. I am one of those rare species who go crazy over old songs and this morning the early winter, the soft quilt and the tranquil music made me feel as if I was in a dream. 

When the music stopped abruptly, breaking a spell, I got up, wondering who was playing so beautifully on the Piano. I knew Sushmita was a very accomplished singer. In the early days of their marriage when they had visited us at Berhampur, Nagen was proudly displaying her talent by goading her to sing more and more songs before us. She was superb. I remember her rendering the O Sajanaa song in Bengali, Na Jeyonaa, Rajani Akhono Baaki... and Jaarey, Jaarey Udjarey Paakhi.....and lovely Odiya songs, Sandhyaa Tara Nisitha Batayaney, Durey Kaahin Durey Durey, Ei Chuna Chuna Tara Phooley Aaji and many more. We were virtually in a trance, listening to her. And Nagen? He was smugly sitting there so proudly and lovingly looking at his wife that she was blushing all the time.   

I wondered if Sushmita had learnt playing a Piano also. The mystery was solved at the breakfast table. The children had left for the school and we were having a sumptuous breakfast. I looked at Sushmita and asked,
"When did you learn playing a Piano? You play it so well!"
Before she could reply, Nagen chipped in,
"When did you hear the Piano music?"
"This morning. Such a heavenly music, I woke up as if in a dream. And one of my favorite songs - O Sajanaa, Barakha Bahar Aayii! Ah, I wish the music had not ended."
Nagen's eyes twinkled with paternal pride,
"Not Sushmita, it is Saswati, our daughter who plays Piano. She is like a prodigy. Must have got the musical talent from her mother!" 
Sushmita smiled,
"She is so good that we spent most of our savings and bought a small Piano for her from Jamshedpur and put it in her room. She practices for one hour every morning before going to school. Today we had asked her not to disturb your sleep by playing the Piano, but she must have played one or two songs just out of habit. Sorry, your sleep was disturbed."
"No, no, please don't say sorry. I really enjoyed it. She is indeed very talented, born with a divine gift."
Nagen was in a hurry to leave. He had a class at ten. I also had to go for the office inspection starting at ten.

For me the day was spent in a trance. I just could not get the music out of my mind. My mood remained upbeat, soaked in a sweet mix of lilting music and soulful lyric. In my subconscious mind I was seeing a woman, drenched in love, looking at the rains and pining for her lover.

I was eager to return to Nagen's house and if possible, hear Saswati playing my favourite song again. I had to catch the bus at eleven in the night. We had an early dinner. I could not take my eyes off Saswati. Such a lovely girl, so meek and docile, her expressive eyes were captivating. A father of two sons, my love for Saswati was for a daughter I never had.

By the time we finished dinner, I still had more than two hours before I had to leave for the bus stand. I looked at Saswati and asked her if she could play the Piano for me. Suddenly the room fell silent, as if I had violated some sacred code. Saswati looked away, Sushmita gasped and Nayan broke into a laughter. Only Nagen appeared to be calm. He asked Saswati to play at least one song for me. Saswati shook her head, a very mild refusal from a soft, delicate child to her father.

Nagen was not prepared to take a no. Not for his closest friend,
"We all know you don't play the Piano at anybody's request, but do make an exception for this uncle, who is your Papa's best friend. Please!"
Saswati sat there unmoved, her head bowed.
Nagen was getting angry,
"Didn't you hear me? Go and play the Piano!", he shouted.
Saswati got up, threw a pleading look at her mother and ran away to her room.

Sushmita looked at me,
"In her early days of learning a lady who was visiting us, made a request to her to play the Piano and Saswati made some mistakes. The lady was very rude and made some awful, cruel comments. It broke Saswati's heart. She cried for two days and promised to herself that she will never play again at anyone's request. She has a fear of getting hurt by unknown people. She is very delicate."

I was embarrassed. But Nagen was not prepared to give up. He had got up and followed Saswati to her room. We heard him shouting at her. And Saswati saying something to him.

We rushed to Saswati's room, just in time to see Nagen giving her a resounding slap and Saswati collapsing on the bed in a heap. I will never forget the expression on Saswati's face at that unfortunate moment. She looked at her father, intense agony clouding her face, her eyes welling up, but the tears stopped in their track by her quiet determination. 

I took leave from Nagen and Sushmita, my voice choked with tears for causing this unexpected turn to a wonderful day which had started so well, but broke into a thousand fragments of sadness by the night. I went to Saswati's room to speak a few words to her, but it was dark, the doors were closed. With a heavy heart I boarded the bus and spent a sleepless night, Saswati's agonised face haunting me all the way.

I called Nagen the next day. He sounded a bit distraught. I asked him to say sorry to Saswati on my behalf and he said he had already done that. A week later when I called again I was told that Nagen's slap had so much hurt the poor girl that she had stopped playing the Piano and no amount of pleading by her parents had worked. I felt so guilty that I resolved I will never stay in any friend's house when I visit a town, and I have kept that promise to myself ever since. 

By an unfortunate twist of fate I had to go to Rairangpur again, five years after that fateful visit. Nagen suddenly passed away, after a stroke on a hot summer afternoon, when he was going to the college. Somehow I came to know of it five days after the incident and immediately rushed to Rairangpur. His family was devastated. My heart shattered to pieces to see the sindoor-less face of Sushmita, who had aged by ten years in the past few days. Saswati came and stood by her mother, looking down. I broke into uncontrollable sobs, looking at Saswati's wet eyes and swollen face.

I had taken a few thousand rupees with me to give to Sushmita. She declined, but I forced it upon her and made her promise that she will contact me if she needs any further help. I spoke to her a few times after that and came to know that with the help of the principal of Nagen's college she got a job at the local school as a music teacher. She also told me that with part of the money I had given her she had got the Piano cleaned up and Saswati had started playing the Piano again, as she wanted to give lessons to children and supplement her mother's income.

Sushmita and I kept in touch, but gradually the calls became infrequent and stopped after some time like a stream losing itself in the sand of time. 

Today seeing Saswati play such superbly on the TV brought back many memories. Her face had lost nothing of its charm, although it looked more mature. But she presented a picture of quiet dignity and calm serenity. I had forgotten about the cricket match. I sat mesmerised, listening to her soulful music. Suddenly her face broke into a soft smile. She looked up and in an eerie, unreal way, I felt as if she was looking directly at me from the TV screen, trying to tell me something. Then she looked down and started playing O Sajanaa, Barakha Bahaar Aayii...

I sat up, as if jolted by an electric current. What an incredible telepathy! Does she know that I am listening to her sitting in my drawing room, going over priceless memories? Is she trying to tell me, Uncle, this one is for you, for my dear Papa and for the memory of an unforgettable evening when I had refused a simple, heartfelt request from you! 

Tears started flowing from my eyes, tears of deep and timeless love for a daughter I never had.

2. THE STALKER

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

(From the Twenty fifth Edition of LiteraryVibes, 19 July, 2019)



Unlike other days Abdul Mian woke up as late as nine this morning. His eyelids were heavy, face a mask of deep worries when he came up and stood near the door waiting for his cup of tea. Ruksana saw her husband from the kitchen and came running.

"What happened today? Don't you have to go to work this morning? I have been waiting since six o' clock with your tea and breakfast. I have packed your lunch also. How come you kept on sleeping?"

Abdul just shook his head,

"Don't feel like going to work today. I have a splitting headache."

Ruksana's face darkened,

"Hai Allah! That's why you were tossing restlessly last night. I heard some whimpering and some incoherent words. Once you also cried out in pain. I tried to wake you up, but you just turned over and kept sleeping. What happened to you? Did you have a bad dream?"

Abdul winced at her words. Bad dream? Yes, he had a bad dream last night. Except that it was not a dream, it happened with him in the darkness of the road abutting the maidan. On the way to his basti. Last night a little after nine. In a matter of few minutes, a man turned into a monster.

Ruksana touched his forehead with her work-worn calloused hands. There was no fever. Yet Abdul was sweating like a sick, feverish man in this cold November morning. The poor chap must be ill, otherwise who sweats like this on a winter morning?

Ruksana had wormed up his tea by now and handed it to him. He looked at his wife,

"Where is Zeenat? Has she left for college?"

"No, she is taking a bath. Her friend Ameena is coming in ten minutes. Ameena has to take the bus to college today. It seems her scooty broke down last evening in the market."

Abdul had lifted the cup for a sip of the tea. For a moment it remained frozen in mid-air. His heart started pounding. He turned back to his room and wearily lowered himself to the bed. Ameena is coming in a few minutes! Does she know Abdul is at home? What if................

The pounding of his heart almost sounded like the thumping of the lathe machine in the factory where Abdul worked. Like it had done a hundred times after he returned home, his mind went back to last night. A dark night, turned muggy with intermittent drizzles. Abdul had got down from the bus and started walking for home in his basti half a kilometre away. The road was deserted. Almost all the street lights were out.

Abdul saw someone walking a few steps ahead of him. He peered into the darkness and could make out it was a lady with a burkha draped on her. A lady! At this time of the night? She was almost running. The dark night, the lonely road and the slight drizzle must have put some fear in her. Abdul quickened his pace. He looked at her from behind, a sudden hunger rising deep in his stomach - a primordial hunger which knows no conscience and is unfettered by any qualms. For a moment he tried to guess if the woman was young or old, but decided it doesn't matter any more. Her walk was swift and lively, probably a young girl hurrying home. The hunger in his body grew, a silent growl seizing him like a coiling rope out to choke him in an insane desire.

Abdul started creeping up quickly, but silently. The woman should not know she was being followed. She had looked back only once, but luckily Abdul was under a thick tree at the time and she could not see him.

A dark night, a deserted road, a slight, shivering cold, and a frightened, lonely woman - what else one needs to warm up the night with some hot pleasure? For a fleeting moment he thought of his frustration at home - Ruksana was no longer the desirable woman she used to be, and for the last couple of years she has spurned his advances all the time, reminding him of the grown up daughter of marriageable age at home.

"Tobah, Tobah, what will Zeenat think if she gets the slightest hint of your insatiable appetite? Her Abba is a lecherous old man? Chhi Chhi, control yourself Zeenat ke Abba! Do your Namaz and read Quran for two hours everyday."

Namaz? Of course he does his Namaz five times a day, but at night his frustration becomes unbearable. Abdul tried to remember when was the last he had touched a woman's body. May be three months back. He had gone to the red light area one evening on the way back from office. But the woman who had charged him five hundred rupees for half an hour was not even worth a fifty. She had just lain on the dirty bed like a corpse when Abdul was humping all his passions into her. It was all over in ten minutes and she had kicked him out.

Abdul remained frustrated, the invisible hunger gnawing at his body all the time. The few women at the packing section in the factory flirted with him once in a while, but whenever he made a pass at anyone of them, they would roll in laughter, leaving him more frustrated and in nagging humiliation.

Abdul shivered with anticipation. Tonight he will not be kicked out. The woman under the Burkha will be at his command once he drags her into a bench in the park. She will do whatever he wants her to do. Abdul was only a few steps behind her now. Looks like a slim body, probably a young woman, he thought. Ah, let this be a night of intense pleasure, a compensation for months of frustration and deprivation!

Abdul looked to all sides. Nobody was in sight. The area outside the maidan was very very dark, the lights at the entrance were not working, thanks to the incompetence of the municipal staff of the small town. A slight drizzle had started falling. The night was getting colder.

With stealthy footsteps he came behind the woman. She must have sensed his presence. She tried to turn but Abdul gave her no chance. He pounced on her, put a hand on her mouth ad gripped her firmly. She started exerting to escape, but Abdul was too strong for her.

He started dragging her towards the entrance of the maidan. The body was light, and slim. Abdul's excitement was growing.

Suddenly he stumbled on the broken pavement near the entrance and his foot slipped. But he kept a firm grip on the woman. For a moment his hand slipped from her mouth and she started screaming,

"Please leave me, let me go, in the name of Allah have mercy on me".

Suddenly Abdul stood still! The voice sounded familiar! Is it some one he knows? Seizing the brief interlude of dilemma the girl looked back at the precise moment when there was a big lightning, the first lightning of the evening. She saw his face and shrieked,

"Chachajaan, I am Ameena, please let me go, please!"

Abdul winced as if a snake from the maidan had bitten his leg. Ammena? Zeenat's friend, who lives in the same street five houses away! Ya Allah!

Abdul's grip loosened and before he could recover, Ameena freed herself and ran away into the dark night towards their basti.

Abdul sat down on the pavement leading to the gate of the maidan. His mind was in a turmoil. Ya Allah, what did he do? How could he fall so low? How will he show his face to Ruksana and Zeenat when Ameena tells them about this?

With his head bent with worry, Abdul came home at midnight. Ruksana was waiting for him with dinner. He just shook his head and went to the bathroom to change his soggy dress. When he came to bed, sleep eluded him. In the longest night of his life, he tossed and turned and had recurring nightmares. Once he saw Zeenat falling at his feet and begging him, Abba, let me go, please leave me. Another time he saw in his dreams a police man coming to his house and arresting him, telling everyone, this old man is a pervert, a criminal, and Ruksana falling at the policeman's feet, saying, do whatever you want with me but.please spare him. Every time Abdul closed his eyes, Ameena's shriek came back to haunt him. He would get up as if an electric current had passed through him. He desperately wanted to drink a glass of water but his limbs felt lifeless, refusing to carry him to the kitchen.

Remembering all these dreams brought tears to Abdul's eyes, Will Allah forgive him?

Abdul woke up from his reverie. Bits of conversation were wafting from the entrance room. Ameena must have come! Abdul broke into a sweat. He started shivering. His throat felt constricted as if a big ball had got stuck there. With leaden feet he dragged himself to the connecting door and stood there. Ruksana and Zeenat were sitting at the small dining table facing the main entrance door, with their back to Abdul's room. They could not see him standing at the door. But Ameena could, she was facing the connecting door.

Ruksana was asking Ameena,

"Hai Allah, how could you leave your scooty in the market? What if somebody steals it?"

"Chachijaan, how can someone steal the scooty? It refuses to start!"

Zeenat looked at her,

"So you came by bus from the market?"

"Yes, but you know what happened to me when I was walking down from the bus stop? I had the most horrible experience of my life. You won't believe if I tell you!"

Zeenat could not wait to hear what was the most horrible experience of her friend.

"What happened?"

Suddenly Ameena's eyes were drawn to a slight movement at the connecting door. Abdul Mian was standing there, like a forlorn, fallen ghost, with tears in his eyes and hands folded in a prayer for mercy.

It was just a fleeting glance, lasting fraction of a second and Ameena continued her tale.

"It was dark last night, almost all the street lights were out. The roads were deserted, thanks to the drizzle. I was scared, walking alone. Near the gate of the maidan someone pounced on me from behind. I almost died at the spot. I wanted to shout for help, but could not. The man held me in a tight grip and closed my mouth with his hand...

Ruksana jumped up,

"What? What are you saying?"

"Yes, Chachijaan, I felt as if my limbs were going limp. He started dragging me towards the park"

"Hai Allah, what kind of sick people are there, jumping on a young girl?"

"Chachijaan, I was in a burkha, he had no way of knowing whether it was a young girl or an old woman under the burkha"

Zeenat shouted,

"Even then the pervert had no business to pounce on you. How did you escape?"

"He stumbled on the pavement near the gate and I freed myself. i kept running till I reached home. I was so scared, I was shivering on the bed throughout the night. My Abbu had already gone to sleep, and you know Ammijaan has gone to Khala's place. I felt shy to tell Abbu, Anyway he would have scolded me for going to the market in the evening. So I am waiting for Ammijaan to return tomorrow. I will tell her".

Zeenat was seething with anger,

"What kind of horrible demon would do a despicable thing like that? Was he someone from our basti? Did you see his face?"

Ameena shook her head, with a deliberate, painful slowness. 

"No, I told you it was pitch dark. I could not see his face."

"So, what are you going to do? Will you file a complaint with the police? May be the wretch had also got down from a bus and was following you. The police will find out in no time. He should be caught and sent to jail."

Ameena sat with her head bent for a few seconds, then she looked up. There was no anger in her eyes, only the hint of an infinite sadness.

"You know last night when I was shivering on bed out of fear, I was thinking on that line. but now I have changed my mind."

"Changed your mind? Are you crazy?", Zeenat shrieked.

Ameena shook her head,

"No, I am not crazy. May be the man has a family to support and his going to jail will devastate them. May be at this moment he is standing somewhere, with tears in his eyes and with folded hands begging for mercy and forgiveness. I want to give him a chance to reform."

Before a stunned Zeenat could recover, Ameena got up,

"Come, let's leave. We are getting late. With some luck we will still be able to catch the college bus". 
 

3. THE MAN IN THE RED SHIRT

Mrutyunjay Sarangi

(From the Forty sixth Edition of LiteraryVibes, 13 December, 2019)



Evening was creeping up like a silent shadow on an azure sky when Gautam got down from the train. The station was crowded. The train had disgorged hundreds of weary passengers. This western town of the state was the final destination of the train. Gautam looked around. He needed no porter, he had only a small suitcase which he could carry by himself.



Suddenly, Gautam jerked himself to attention. A man in a red shirt, standing a few feet away, lost in the crowd, was looking intently at him. Gautam felt he had seen this man earlier, but could not remember where. He looked so familiar, like a part of his past. The smooth face, the sharp eyes, and that smile! The mocking smile, a challenge to Gautam, asking him to come near and get to know him better.



Unknown to him, Gautam felt drawn to the man and started walking towards him. He pushed the crowd around him to reach the man, but missed him. Somehow the man vanished in a flash. Gautam felt frustrated, he wished he could have met the man and asked him why he looked so familiar, why his face is hidden beneath a heap of memory, where had they met earlier, why the sharp eyes and the mocking smile were making him so unnerved, so drawn towards him.



Gautam started walking towards the exit. He again saw the glimpse of a red shirt, exactly similar to what the man was wearing. The man in the red shirt was getting out of the station. Gautam followed him, hoping to catch up with him. Outside the station there was chaos, a sort of mayhem. Taxiwallahs, auto rickshaw drivers and rickshaw pullers were competing with each other to entice passengers, shouting and trying to grab their luggages. Suddenly a fight broke out among them, a taxi driver was slapped by an auto wallah.



Gautam shuddered at the scene and steered clear of it. He came out of the auto stand and wondered whether to take a left or right turn in search of a hotel. He had come for a surprise visit, his first to this town, to investigate why the sale of Allout has suddenly dipped drastically. Someone had phoned him to inform that the retailers had been bribed by the Good Knight wholesaler. As the Regional Sales Manager of Johnson's he had been worried, he could not afford to lose customers for his product.



Gautam again had a flash of the red shirt on the road in the right. The man was so near! Walking fast, Gautam thought he could catch up with him. He was desperate, trying hard to remember where he had seen that face earlier. Was the man in the same school or college as him, though not in the same class? Was he in the neighbouring seat in a movie hall or a football stadium, absent mindedly picking up a few popcorns from Gautam's packet? Or was he a co-passenger in a train journey? Where had he seen these piercing eyes and the mysterious smile?



Gautam tried to take a swift look at his surroundings. This was his first trip to the small town, yet somehow he felt familiar here. It was like many other small towns he had visited, yet there was something special here. He felt something stirring inside him, a feeling of dejavu, a longing for some intimate memory. As if this town was a part of his destiny, he was bound to come here some day.



Gautam could see the red shirt off and on among the crowd walking ahead of him. He thought the man stopped at some point and looked back. A shiver ran down Gautam's spine. Somehow the sharp look and the cunning, challenging smile unnerved him further. He quickened his pace and came to the spot where the man had stopped. There was a sign on the left. Hotel Amar: AC Room 800 Non-AC 500. Gautam thought the rate was reasonable and he could stay there for the night. His return ticket was booked for the next evening. He looked ahead searching for the man in the red shirt, but he had vanished again. Gautam felt disappointed, would he see the man again? God knows! But somehow he wanted to meet him, even for once, just to ask him who he was and why he looked so familiar.



Gautam wanted to have an early dinner and go to sleep. Next day was going to be busy in meeting a few retailers and trying to get a feedback from the customers. He missed his wife, the children and was eager to return home. In his job he was used to frequent travelling and absence from home. But somehow this time he felt different. His twelve year old daughter Sangita had been upset with him this morning when he left. Dussehra was a few days away, she wanted to go to the market with him and buy a good 'modern' dress, not the type her Mom gets her on birthdays and other festivals.



Satyakam, his son,was indifferent to dresses, his obsession was video games. He also wanted Gautam to take him to the market and buy a few video games for Dussehra. And Madhavi, his wife! She wanted nothing, except that Gautam should stay with the family all the time, and avoid so many tours.



He missed Madhavi like never before and dialled her number. She picked up on the first ring, as if she was waiting for this call.

"Reached? Why didn't you call earlier? I have been waiting!"

Gautam felt happy, to be wanted, to be missed.

"I tried a couple of times, but the connectivity from the train was poor."

"Good room? Do you have a tea maker in the room or you have to order room service for your frequent cups of tea?"

Gautam smiled to himself, Madhavis's eyes for details!

"A fairly decent room. No tea maker! For eight hundred rupees a night you can't expect a tea maker in the room! What are the kids doing? Is Sangita still upset with me? Tell her I will take her out and buy the best available dress in the market this Sunday. Is she busy studying? Can you give the phone to her?"

Madhavi chuckled from the other side, "Studying? Are you

dreaming? Your darling daughter is busy talking to her friend Suman, God knows what these silly girls talk about all the time. Just imagine she is not even a teen yet and so much to gossip! And when I go near her she makes a face and warns her friend on the other side that her Mom is close by, as if they are exchanging state secrets and presence of an intruder will compromise the country's security!"

Gautam tried to remind her that she was also a twelve year old

once and must be talking to her friends for hours. Madhavi was horrified, "Me? Talking on the phone? Na Baba, Na, we didn't have mobile phones those days and the office phone sitting on a cradle like an old man draped in a black coat was too intimidating. And you know what your princess is busy doing these days?"

Gautam sat up, what is Sangita doing that Madhavi wants to

report over the phone, "What? Is she planning to blow up her

school as a mark of protest against home work?" Madhavi laughed, "No something more serious than that! She and her friends are exchanging jokes and pictures which are decidedly obscene."

"Oh my God! How do you know?"

"When she is in the bath room I regularly open up her message box to read the messages."

Gautam wanted to pull her leg,

"No, no, what I meant was how did you know the messages are obscene? You always claim you come from a very cultured family, which doesn't know anything obscene, doesn't use a bad word and if a carnal thought crosses someone's mind, he has to go and take a cold water bath!"

It was Madhavi's turn to feel playful, "Oh, that? Don't you

know? All obscene things I learnt from you after marriage! I had come to you as a pure, virginal soul, O Krishna, my playful master, you corrupted my mind and filled me with a passion which you only could satisfy!"



Gautam felt an intoxicating thrill run through his veins at the seductive innuendo from his wife. He could not wait for the night to pass and he would board the train next evening to go home. They talked for some more time, Satyakam had already gone to sleep, he had a football match in the school and had returned home tired. Gautam ordered room service for dinner and went off to sleep.



The next morning Gautam started early. The town was small. Like many other towns the landscape was pleasantly familiar. A main street with shops lining on both sides, lanes and bylanes clogged with crowd and small stalls, street side vendors selling clothes, footwear and utensils, noise all around, bulls, dogs and buffaloes roaming around freely and small urchins begging - almost all Indian towns get their typical smell and flavour from the cauldron of human activity and penchant for gregariousness.



A small market building with elevated shops drew his attention and for a moment he stood still. He had a feeling that he was being watched and he had no doubt the man in the red  shirt was somewhere nearby, with his piercing gaze and cunning smile. He looked around and  spotted him. There, behind the footwear shop, partly hidden by plastic curtains providing shed to the shop! The man looked at Gautam, his smile became more pronounced as if he was trying to say something to him. Gautam felt uneasy, extremely nervous. Keeping the man steady in his sight he started walking towards him. The man was standing there unmoved, as if silently beckoning Gautam to come near.



Suddenly there was a rush, a group of families emerging out of the adjacent restaurant and for a few seconds Gautam lost sight of the man. Next moment the man was gone, disappeared, as if he was never there. Gautam was very close to the shop now and wondered what happened to the man. He asked the footwear seller, but got nothing from him. Since the man in the red shirt was not a customer the shop keeper had not noticed him.



Gautam left the shop. His uneasy feeling had increased. He felt a mild drumming of the heart, the constant hide and seek game was eating into his consciousness like a nagging pain. He approached his first retailer and started discussing the strategy to increase the sale of Allout. All the while half his mind was busy wondering why the man in the red shirt was appearing and disappearing from Gautam's sight. He went to two more shops, his nervous feeling gradually giving way to his professional spirit. He assured an increased incentive to the retailers and they were happy.



It was getting close to lunch hour. Gautam decided to visit one more shop before getting back to the hotel for lunch. The fourth retailer was a serious sort of person and the discussion went on for some time. Gautam was getting hungry, his attention span was reducing and he was feeling a slight dizziness. Suddenly, the retailer before him started to dissolve from his sight and the man in the red shirt materialised from nowhere. The man was talking but his words became jumbled up and instead of hearing him, Gautam only saw a man with a smooth, oily face, a pair of glinting eyes and a very strange smile. For a few moments Gautam's mind went blank, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. He returned to his sense when the retailer started shouting at him.

The retailer was worried, he gave a glass of Limca to Gautam and dropped him back at the hotel in his motor cycle. Gautam straight went to the dining hall to order lunch. A short, burly man in suit and tie was waiting for his lunch. Gautam badly craved for some company, to talk to someone and unburden himself. He asked the man if he could sit on the chair opposite. The man seemed happy to have someone to talk to.

"New to this town? Is this your first visit?"

"Yes, just for a day. Returning home by the night train."

"Ah, how can you leave so early? It's such a beautiful place, surrounded by small, green hills. There is a huge waterfall about five kilometres away. And the forests, the deep forests full of birds and animals about ten kilometres from here! You must visit them, if not this time, during your next visit. Where do you come from? What's your name?"

"I am Gautam Tripathy, from Bhubaneswar. And you?"

"I am Godabarish Mishra, Professor of Philosophy at the Sambalpur University. I come to this town often to deliver lectures. I have a sizeable fan following here. If you were staying tonight I would have invited you to attend my lecture in the Town Hall in the evening"

"So sorry. My train leaves at seven in the evening. What is the lecture about?"

The professor chuckled,

"'India's Hour of Birth and Her Destiny'. I am a deep believer in Astrology"

Gautam was amused,

"Does the country have a destiny? That too governed by an hour of birth?"

The professor became serious. Their food had arrived. A huge,

cooked, head of a fish was staring at Gautam from the Professor's plate. Gautam had ordered a vegetarian lunch. The professor attacked the head of the fish with great gusto, he was happy to get a captive audience, "Every living being has a destiny, pre-ordained from the moment of his birth".

Gautam tried to pull the professor's leg, "Even this fish? Was

it born to die for you?"

"Yes, just imagine, this fish must have been caught from the river which passes through this town, if the fish had managed to swim a kilometre further, it might have escaped getting caught and might have lived for one more year. Or it would have been caught by someone else and would not have come to this hotel. And if some other person had taken lunch before me and ordered head of fish it would have landed up in his plate. But this fish was destined to be consumed by me."

"But it sounds so frivolous! A fish and its destiny!"

"Nothing is frivolous my friend in this world, particularly for every being which breathes to live. Every breath is a footfall of its destiny. And the country is a leaving being, breathing through her one billion people.You must have read about Delhi's Khan Market incident last week. The poor fellow had come to buy chicken tikka for his wife and got into a brawl with a brat over a parking spot. They had a big argument and the brat stabbed the poor chap to death. Can you see the connection with destiny? The dead man used to live in Vasant Kunj, a good ten kilometres away, he could have gone to at least half a dozen other places, to Rajinder Dhaba near Kamal Cinema, to Kakeda's in Connaught Place, Karim's in Nizamuddin, or Colonel's Kebab in Defence Colony. He could have got chicken tikka for his wife in the evening or even one hour earlier or later. but destiny brought him to Khan Market at that hour, to a particular spot, precisely when the killer brat was parking his car. My present research is about the stellar constellation at the midnight hour of 15th August 1947 and to decipher our country's destiny. I have found some interesting facts and will share them with the audience tonight. I firmly believe everyone's destiny is contained in a package of data. This data is maintained by God and very few highly enlightened astrologers have the ability to access a fraction of that data."

Gautam was astounded,

"You mean God maintains data for more than six billion people

spread over the world?" Professor Mishra flashed a benign smile, "Are you doubting the infinite power of God? Is there a limit to what He can do? Even your coming to this town is a part of your destiny, our meeting here today at this moment in this dining hall is preordained, everything is predestined my friend, I can give you a few more instances....."

Suddenly a waiter appeared at the side of Prof.Mishra and handed

him a piece of paper. The Professor had finished his meal, he got up and smiled at Gautam, "Sorry young man, I have to leave, some people are waiting in the lobby, I had promised them I would visit the Philosophy Department of the local college at two thirty. Hope we will meet again, if you happen to come to Sambalpur, please look me up. I will be happy to share many interesting stories with you".

Gautam left the hotel at three, he wanted to visit three more retailers before returning to the hotel and leaving for the railway station to catch the train. The thought of the man in the red shirt returned to his mind. Would he appear again, at some unexpected turn, in some narrow lane or behind some lonely shop? Luckily, Gautam didn't see him during his visit to the three retailers.

Around six he started walking back to the hotel. Lights were yet to come up in the town. It was still bright, the air was stuffy, hot and humid, probably it would get cooler later in the evening. Lots of people had come out to the market with their families for shopping. Dussehra was round the corner and the festive season had already arrived with promises of fun and celebrations. Gautam's attention was drawn to a young couple walking ahead of him, the father holding the hand of their small child. The boy must be around four years old. He was pointing at some toys hanging from a string in a shop.

The parents had moved near the shop to look at the toys more closely. The father's grip must have loosened a bit. The small boy drifted away and started walking towards the middle of the road. Gautam was hardly a foot away, his heart almost stopped at the sight of the speeding Innova coming from the opposite direction. In a couple of moments it would run over the boy! With a cry Gautam lunged forward and brought the child back to the side of the road, but lost control of himself. Next moment the Innova hit him hard and threw him high up in the air. Before Gautam's head hit the road he looked at the car helplessly. There, sitting on the bonnet of the Innova was the man in the red shirt, his face solemn, as if he was carrying out a preordained, pre-assigned job against his wish. His cunning smile was gone, but the eyes had not lost any of their penetrative intensity. There was a strange melancholy on his face.

In his dying moments, Gautam felt an incredible sadness, for

leaving his dear Madhavi, his darling Sangita and the precious Satyakam. His eyes met the eyes of the man in the red shirt and he whispered, "So you are Death and you have been stalking me, perhaps ever since I was born! That's why you looked so much a part of my past! I wish I had known you yesterday. Had I recognised you for what you are, I wouldn't have followed you to the hotel and returned to my dear family last evening itself! Now you are taking me away, who will look after them? They will miss me, who will buy dress for my Sangita and video games for my Satyakam? Who will talk to my Madhavi, promising her all the love in the world? Who will...........As life ended for him, Gautam's words remained suspended in a cruel, oppressive evening air in a small, crowded town, the last town he would ever visit.

 

4. RICE

Mrutyunjay Sarangi  

(From the Fifty second Edition of LiteraryVibes, 24 January, 2020)



The next stop was Haridaspur station, may be fifteen minutes away. Sitanshu stood near the door of the compartment and looked out. Afternoon was waning, the silent shadow of the evening was creeping slowly over the small hills. Rains had been copious this year, it was green everywhere. Late October flowers dotted the hillside, a riot of colours lent a celestial beauty to it. 
A familiar, intoxicating smell overpowered his senses. Ah, Ketaki flowers! Yes, there was a row of Ketaki bushes here, he remembered from forty three years back! Looked like Ketaki bushes still made the passers by forget themselves for a few moments even now.
The last time Sitanshu had got down at Haridaspur station was forty three years back, to attend the wedding of Kamalini, his friend Narottam's sister. He had walked down the half a mile distance to their house. There were relatives everywhere. Narottam, his room mate in the hostel was very happy to see him. Kamalini came half an hour later, her hand decorated with Mehndi, head covered with a veil, eyes, her beautiful eyes, glowing with an unspoken joy. She touched his feet and smiled coyly. He wanted to tell her, "See, I came, because I had promised to you,  remember?" But he just stood there, transfixed at her beautiful, blushing face and she quietly slipped away.
This was the second time he was seeing Kamalini. He had come there a year back with Narottam when they had a two days' vacation in college. Narottam's parents were happy to see their son's room mate and his mother made all kinds of delicacies to feed them, particularly daalma and fried potatoes, Sitanshu's favorite dishes. 
On the evening Sitanshu arrived, he sensed Kamalini's presence but did not see her. He knew the daughter of the house was helping the mother in the kitchen, but when she was asked to come and serve the two friends, she refused. Narottam's mother smiled and said, "Look at her, she is too shy, God knows how this girl would manage in her in-laws' home!"  Narottam whispered to Sitanshu, "My sister, Kamalini, her wedding is already fixed." 
Sitanshu was shocked. Wedding! How old was Kamalini, when Narottam was just about eighteen! Narottam explained to him, Kamalini was one and half years younger to him. She had finished high school last year and had started going to college at Haridaspur, but a few months back some ruffians harassed her on the way back from college. She was scared and started running, the rascals were chasing her, when a young lecturer drove by in a motorbike and confronted them. They were not locals, must have got down from the train at Haridaspur looking for mischief. They thrashed the young lecturer, but that gave enough time to Kamalini to escape. 
Her parents refused to send her to college again. The young lecturer visited a few times to persuade them to send her to college, but they did not relent. But a few visits were enough  to convince the young man that he could not live without the young, demure girl who used to come and pay her respects to 'Sir' and hurry inside. It's a different matter that she used to peep from behind the curtains to enjoy the nervousness and restlessness of the young, handsome and heroic man who had taken quite a few blows from the ruffians for her sake! 
No one was surprised when the young lecturer's parents came one day with a 'proposal' for marriage of their son with Kamalini and it was accepted with glee by her parents. They were also looking for a groom for their daughter and both the weddings were to take place together.
On the second morning the two friends had gone for a walk and on return were sitting in the outer room sipping tea, when Sitanshu sensed a presence just beyond the curtains. Some one was standing there, a young girl, whose fair, dainty feet adorned by two anklets stared at him. He knew it was Kamalini, listening to them. He got up and quickly moved the curtain aside. Before him was the cutest, loveliest sixteen year old girl he had ever seen, in real life or in dreams. Suddenly she ran away, shy and demure, never to appear again till their stay was over the next morning. 
In the evening Sitanshu had a glimpse of her, clad in a yellow saree, pallu on her head, kneeling before the Tulsi plant in the courtyard and singing "Aahey dayamaya biswa bihari.." a bhajan which Is usually rendered in the evenings while lighting the evening lamp at the Tulsi plant. In the dim light coming from the rooms, the kneeling figure of the delicate girl mesmerised him, taking him to a land of lilting songs, soft lights and glowing maidens surrendering themselves at the feet of smiling Gods. For many evenings after that he would just close his eyes and the prayer would come wafting through the air filling him with a fragrance of sandal wood dhoop sticks and flickering shadows of a singing Kamalini against a gently swaying Tulsi plant.
The next morning when they took leave from Narottam's parents, touching their feet, Sitanshu's eyes were searching for Kamalini, he knew she was somewhere close by, but was too shy to come out. He only heard a voice asking from behind a curtain, "When will you come again?" Sitanshu was waiting for Narottam to answer, his friend nudged him and whispered, "She is asking you." Sitanshu replied in a trembling voice, "I will come to your wedding, to bless you." There was a soft giggle in reply. 
And Sitanshu did come, to bless this pure, simple girl with oceans of love and tenderness from his young heart. That was the last time he had come to Haridaspur. Every time he went by train this way he would remember her. After finishing his two years of College, he had gone away to Regional Engineering College, Durgapur to get a degree in Mechanical Engineering and had got a job at the Ordnance Factory near Ambajhari, Nagpur. 
Sitanshu had lost touch with Narottam couple of years after joining the Engineering college. For his wedding, he had simply sent a card to "Narottam Biswal, Haridaspur, Cuttack" and his friend had come. That's when he was shocked to know about the sad fate of Kamalini who had lost her husband to an attack of Meningitis, two years after marriage. She found it difficult to live at her in-laws' place due to constant torture and harassment. Childless, she returned to her parents. No amount of persuasion made her agree to marry again and with Narottam's consent his father had given half their landed property to her. She was trying to get a job as a teacher in the local primary school. That was the last Sitanshu had heard anything about Kamalini. But on many occasions whenever he heard an evening prayer anywhere, the kneeling figure of a shy Kamalini came to him, a glimpse from the past, like a lovely flower swaying gently to a cool breeze. 
He and his wife Abantika spent thirty five years at Ambajhari, a life of apparent bliss, but torn apart by a torturous loneliness. Despite all medical assistance, they could never have a child and a sense of acute melancholy tormented them throughout their life. After retirement he came to settle at Bhubaneswar. And within a year he lost Abantinka to a massive stroke, her heart torn to shreds through constant grief over childlessness. 
Sitanshu knew, the world is divided into two types of people - those who can look after themselves and those who 'can't even make a cup of tea'. He belonged to the second category and his life broke into inconsolable fragments. For about a year he roamed around all over the country, going from place to place, eating sundry kinds of food, sleeping in lodges, hotels, ashrams and finally tired, he returned to his three bed room flat. Every nook and corner of the flat reminded him of Abantika and today he had left home heading to his sister's place a few stations away. 
Ah, in a few minutes the train would reach Haridaspur. Would she be still there? Kamalini of the past, a shadow that had never left his consciousness, peeping through veils of shyness and giggling coyness? On a strange impulse he collected his small bag and got down from the train at Haridaspur.
Evening had already set in. There were so many shops now, all lit up with bright lights. Forty three years back there was none, except a tiny hut, lit by a lantern, selling paan and cigarettes. Sitanshu vaguely remembered the path to his friend's house and walked on. The village had completely changed, thatched houses had given way to pucca roofs, through the windows he could see television sets throwing off kaleidoscopic colours and blaring music from inside.
Sitanshu stood still after walking for half a mile, he had no idea which of the houses held Kamalini. Sweat broke out on his forehead. Did he commit a mistake, getting down from the train so impulsively? And then from one of the houses he heard bells ringing and the lilting prayer of "Ahey dayamaya biswa bihari"....coming out, floating in the evening air and filling it with a sweet fragrance of sandal wood sticks. 
Kamalini! Her voice was unmistakable after all these years, and she was still using sandal wood sticks for her evening prayers! He went near the house and waited for the prayer to be over. And then he knocked at the door, a slow tentative knock. After an interminable minute or so lights came on inside the house and Kamalini emerged, beautiful, dignified and soulful like the prayer which was still hanging in the air. Unknown to him, Sitanshu's heart started beating violently. Would she recognise him, would she call him in? 
Kamalini looked at him for a second, pulled the veil over her head, bent and touched his feet. And, as if she was waiting for this moment all these years, she went inside, brought a pitcher of water and placed before him, "Go and wash your feet and come inside. Rice is ready, I will make daalma and fry some potatoes for you. I know how much you love them." 

 

5. DEBTS

Mruryunjay Sarangi

(From the Forty eighth Edition of LiterarayVibes, 27 December, 2019)

Anirudh stormed into his father's room, breathless and perplexed:
"Baba, did you issue this advertisement? It has your number and the address of this place!"
Baba took his eyes off the Indian Express and smiled indulgently at his seemingly agitated son,
"Oh, what newspaper is that? Dharitri? They published it today, did they? So my trip to their office yesterday was not a waste; I have given a similar advertisement to Sambada also. Get me a copy of it on your way back from office."
"But Baba, what does this advertisement mean?"
"Read it, read loudly, let me hear if they have published it correctly."
Anirudh started reading it aloud, his voice choking with emotion:
"Yesterday, I completed eighty years. By Kaliyug standards, it is twenty years more than I deserved. Before I leave this world I want to settle all my debts. All those to whom I owe anything or those who owe me anything, may contact me at 9975300537. Biswambar Acahrya,168, Maitri Vihar, Bhubaneswar."
Biswambar heaved a sigh of relief,
"Correct, they have printed it without a mistake. These days one can never say, people have lost the ability to read anything handwritten.”
Anirudh was even more perplexed, after knowing that his Baba had actually issued such an advertisement,
"But Baba, what are these debts you are talking of? You never told us you owe any debts that you want to pay off? How much do you owe to others? To whom?"
Baba chuckled; his son was getting worried over how much it would cost to pay off the debts! Whether he would have to go for a loan to arrange the payment! The poor chap didn't understand that life was a constant game of lending and borrowing! Every moment we live is borrowed from the past, from the great event of our birth and every breath we exhale is lent to the inevitable march of time, ultimately leading to our final farewell.
He tried to reassure his son:
"Don't worry. It's not much. You don't have to arrange huge funds to repay my debts."
"Baba, you should tell me who your lenders are; it may take time to locate them after all these years. And who are your borrowers? When will they pay back their debt to you?"
"Don't worry, they will know when they read the ad. My mobile phone account is almost exhausted. Just add a few hundred rupees more to it today."
"What are you saying Baba, your creditors will pay you back by phone?"
"Ani, my son, I was a teacher of English for forty years, in P.M.Academy, one of the best schools in Cuttack. So many of my students became judges, bureaucrats, diplomats, professors and lawyers. Some of them will read my ad and recollect what they owe to me. Someone will call and say, Sir, I learnt English from you, today my judgments are quoted everywhere for the beauty of their language, I owe it to you. Someone might say, Sir, today I corrected my grandson's grammar, I had learnt it from you."
Anirudh smiled to himself! Baba, his dear Baba! Always the dreamer, the idealist! And he must be feeling lonely, must be wanting to talk to people! That explains this ad in the paper. Ever since Mama died about a year back Baba has been feeling lonelier.
Anirudh was still curious to know what debt Baba owed to others.
"Baba, I know you want people to call you and tell you what a wonderful teacher you have been to them. But Baba, your teachers must be dead by now. How can you pay your debt to them?"
Baba closed his eyes for a minute. Memories came flooding to his mind, mixed with a longing for the days gone by, never to return.
"Things rankle in the mind, one often thinks, if only he had done things a bit differently. When your Mama was alive, I used to relive the past with her so many times, recounting tales of dreams and despair, of things done and left undone. She was a patient listener, I miss her so much!" 
Anirudh felt bad for his dear father.
"Baba, please tell me what you owe to others, I will pay it back for you, I promise."
Baba smiled wistfully, a little sadness clothing the smile like a small sheet of fog,
"When we were students in Ravenshaw college, some of us in the hostel wanted to watch the movie Mughal-e-Azam, the magnum opus of the great K. Asif. You must have heard the song “Pyar Kiya to Darnaa Kya”? It was from that movie. And Prithviraj Kapoor, Dilip Kumar, Madhubala - all gave the performance of a life time in that epic tale of unrequited love. One had to get tickets in advance at the Capital Talkies where it was running. None of us had a bicycle and there was no question of going by rickshaw just to buy tickets in advance. We had a class mate, Vikas, who used to live in Sutahat, very close to Capital Talkies. His father was a government official; Vikas used to come to college on a costly bike and spent all his leisure time in our room in the hostel. He was a very decent chap. I used the hostel phone to call him and asked him to get tickets for ten of us. He did. In the evening we walked all the two miles to the cinema and enjoyed the movie. Vikas got us pakodas during the interval; that must have cost him another five rupees. Once the movie was over, everyone started leaving, without paying him for the ticket. I could see Vikas's face losing colour, he must have got the twenty rupees from his father with an assurance that he would collect it from us, and none of us had any money with us. He was too decent and embarrassed to ask us. Except me and three others, he  didn't even know who the others were; they were not his friends! I could never forget that drained, scared face when we left him abruptly without even thanking him. He must have got a big shouting from his parents for not ascertaining whether we would pay for the tickets and for being a sucker. Gradually, he stopped coming to our hostel and in due course we drifted apart. Later I came to know that he got into the IAS and worked in Andhra Pradesh. I met him only once many years later at some marriage function. I saw him from a distance and felt too guilty to go anywhere near him. Where others saw a pleasant smiling face, I saw only an emabrassed, scared face from the past about to break into a sweat. I wish I could pay him back now!"
Anirudh was shocked, why was Baba worried about such a small thing?
"Baba, what is so difficult about that? If that uncle lives here let's go to him one day and pay back the money. How much will it be in today's cost? Five thousand rupees? Ten thousand?"
A shadow of pain passed over Baba's face, 
"No, no, five or ten thousand rupees may not mean much to him now. I just want to tell him how sorry I am for what we did, and if possible, can he transfer the pain of all that he endured that day, the fear, the admonishment of his parents to me? Can he say that he has forgiven us for that old wound?"
Baba sat silently for a few moments, remorse filling his heart.
Anirudh held his Baba's hand and shared the pain in silence.
Baba looked up,
"You remember Gokul Sir?"
Anirudh's face brightened,
"Yes, of course! How can I forget him?  He is the one who taught me maths, step by step."
"Yes, he was a wonderful teacher. When you were in seventh grade, I found your maths were very weak. Gokul Babu was the Maths teacher in Collegiate School. He had an excellent reputation particularly for coaching those whose basics in maths were weak. So I approached him. He was very happy to see me, he had heard about me from others. He readily agreed to take you as a student in his tuition class. When I asked him how much I should pay he almost burst into tears, 'What are you saying, Biswambar Babu, if I send my son to you for tuition in English will you take money from me? Don't worry, I will treat Anirudh like my son. Please leave him in my charge and I promise I will make him good in Maths.' He kept his promise, you started scoring centum in Maths from the third year of tuition. Unfortunately in your final year he got transferred to Dhenkanal, and felt very bad that he could not see you through the High School exam. But he had laid a solid foundation for you. In your final exam also you scored a centum."
Anirudh smiled,
"Yes Baba, I got admission in the Engineering college and got this excellent job because of that. I owe all my success to him."
Baba looked at him,
"Have you paid off your debt to Gokul Sir?"
Anirudh sat up, jolted,
"Paid off? No Baba, I thought you would have done that? Where is he now?"
"He retired from service one year after me. After your high school results, many times I thought I would go to Dhenkanal, taking with me a kilo of Mithai, a good pant and shirt piece for him and a saree for his wife. But due to my lazy nature I kept on postponing. It never happened. I heard from a friend that after retirement Gokul babu stayed with his son for some time, but his daughter in law kept quarrelling with him. His son played some tricks and got the house transferred in his name and poor Gokul Babu and his wife are now staying in a small one room house on rent. His son had earlier got some papers signed by him allowing him to draw his father's pension and he hardly gives anything to his father. I feel really bad for him. I wish I can pay back my old debt to him now." 
Anirudh sat up.
"We will do that Baba, this Sunday we will go to Dhenkanal and pay him fifty thousand rupees. We will take some good dress for him and sarees for Madam. And Baba, we will not rest with that. My school mate Subodh is Deputy Superintendent of Police at Dhenkaknal these days. I promise I will make sure the pension amount will be drawn by Gokul Sir and not his son from next month. His son needs a summons to the police station and a good roughing up. He will get the thrashing, I promise Baba, he will get it, I will make him pay, the scoundrel!".
Baba felt relieved, a weight seemed to have been lifted from his mind!. He looked at his son with love and affection. When did he learn these tricks of life, his innocent, doting son? All this talk about a summons to the police station and roughing up! Baba softly caressed the hair of Anirudh, who looked up and asked,
"What else Baba, don't tell me you have so many debts coming back to haunt you." Baba's eyes got moist,
"There are so many Ani, my life has been enriched by so many kind souls who have given their love selflessly, I wish I could speak to them at this late stage of my life and tell them how indebted I am to them for a life of fulfilment and abundance. When you were only one year old, your Mama fell seriously ill, she lost weight and had continuous fever. I took her to the doctor at the government hospital, who detected bone TB. We were shattered, we thought that was the end of the world for us. The doctors at the hospital reassured us, sent us to the TB specialist who put her on a strict treatment regime for one year. You as a one year old was a champion howler. You kept on screaming all the time when you were taken away from Mama and made to sleep with me in another room. We badly needed someone to take care of you. The TB specialist was extra kind to me because his son was in our school and was a student of mine. He arranged a nurse who had just finished her nursing course and was about to return to Jamshedpur to look for a job. On the doctor's request she stayed back for a year and took care of you. She was unmarried but her love for you was more than that of a mother. Do you remember her?"
Anirudh tried to turn the pages of his memory, but could not locate her. He shook his head. Baba continued,
"In due course your Mama became alright; Padma, the nurse left. She joined a hospital in Bihar. We were in touch with her for sometime, she sent us an invitation after four years to attend her wedding; we could not go, but sent fifty one rupees as a token of our blessing. In about five years we drifted apart and lost touch with her. I wish I can meet her now, just to show you to her and tell her, see this is the toddler you had so lovingly cared for. Sorry we lost touch with you, we don't even know how many sons or daughters you have and what they look like. Are they as handsome as the one you took under your wing for a year and nurtured? At my age Ani, the regrets pile up, making one feel inadequate to have repaid the many debts of life. Your Mama would have understood, she had a few of her own."
Baba looked down, weighed by memory. And when he looked up again Ani saw a rare sadness in his eyes, the like of which he had never seen before. He got worried, what is it now? What else Baba owes, to whom? He held Baba's hands and asked,
"Baba, why are you looking so crestfallen? What happened?"
"There is one debt I have been carrying for the past forty years, I don't know whether I can pay it back, or whether it can really be paid back."  
Baba came closer to Anirudh and with trembling hands he took hold of his son's hand. Anirudh was in panic, what was Baba doing, what other debt weighed him down?
"Baba, which debt worries you so much? Won't you tell me?"
"Yes, for more than forty years, I thought of telling you, but held myself back. My paternal arrogance stopped me. But today when I am talking of paying off all my debts, I must unburden myself of what I have been carrying in my heart as a deep seated guilt." Anirudh was shocked,
"Baba, please don't prolong the suspense. You must tell me now, what is worrying you for so many years."
Baba again caressed his son's soft hair and looked into his eyes,
"When you were twelve years old, we had been invited by one of my colleagues for lunch. For some reason you kept on eating without a stop, asking for more and more. Everyone started laughing at you and I felt insulted. I kept seething in anger. The moment we reached home, I bolted the door and gave you a big slap. You looked at me, hurt, deeply saddened, and ran to your room, bolted the door from inside and kept crying. Your Mama was very upset, she explained to me how my colleague's two daughters had instigated you and made you promise that you would eat non-stop and finish off ten rasgollas. You had a bet with them, and if you had given up midway, you would have had to pay them twenty rupees. Your Mama pleaded with me to go to your room and console you, but my pride and arrogance stopped me from doing that. I never beat you again after that, but I can never forget the sad face and the hurtful eyes, brimming with tears when you looked at me after the slap. Every time I see some father punishing his son, tears come to my eyes. I remember your crying face and my heart is always filled with a deep sadness and an unspoken guilt. Today I want to free myself from the debt of the guilt and the insensitivity of that cruel afternoon. Ani, my son, I want to say sorry to you..."
Baba started sobbing. 
Anirudh clamped his hand over his Baba's mouth and stopped him from saying anything further. What was Baba saying? Why? Can Anirudh ever think of paying off the debt of immense love and unbounded affection his parents had showered on him? All the sacrifices, the sleepless nights they endured to bring him up? The son closed his frail father in a tight hug and broke into tears. In that blessed moment of soulful intimacy between a doting father and a loyal son, there was no space for words, only silent tears tied them in a bond of timeless love, beyond all debts and redemption.

 

6. THE PROCESSION
Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

(From the Thirty seventh Edition of LiteraryVibes, 11 October, 2019)

Sushant paused and looked back at the house. One last look, he told himself. One last look at the house which was not only a home, but the whole universe to him. A month's absence had made him miss it as much as he missed his dead wife. Both were parts of his life so integral that their separation would open up the raw soul - smouldering, throbbing, festering.

Yet he had lost her one and half months back and he was going to lose the house today. He had wondered for one full hour whether he acted in haste, if life deserved another chance.

And then he had told himself there was no point in regretting. He had reached a point where time went beyond temporality, it was not to be measured by the long and short of it, but by the intensity of his feeling - just asking one simple question and answering it in his mind - should he or should he not? Should he quit or trudge along on a path which had become so rough that a mere step scalded his feet, the skin peeling off like an unwanted appendage of the body. Just like he himself had become an unwanted appendage to his sons and their families.


He looked away, tears filling his eyes. Hopefully no changes would be made in the house. No one would chip away parts of the house, no hammer would hit the parapet, no one would drill holes in the walls. Would the trustees of the orphanage, to which he had donated the house in a Will Deed a few hours back, ever know how much he had sweated standing under the hot sun on the day the foundation was laid? And the drizzle which drenched him, and gave him a fever on the day concrete was poured to make the roof?


Would they touch and feel the corner of the room where Nishant, the elder son lay in a cradle as a baby, crying in the nights? How Tapaswini would run to him and bring him to the small bed being shared by them, how he would get up and leave for the living room and sleep on the floor?


And that small space between the terrace and the skylight? Sushant could hear the cooing noise of the pigeons as if they were still living there, shamelessly making love and breeding baby pigeons. Despite all the mess they made, the poop and the feathers, they were never driven away till about a year back. Some relatives kept on insisting that their poop and feathers were causing the illnesses for Sushant and Tapaswini, and one day he  dismantled the nest. The pigeons must have found some other place nearby to build their nest, because Sushant saw them once in a while sitting on the window sills and cooing to each other.



Ah, there, the small stainless steel plate, how is it still lying there under the branches of the hibiscus tree? How has it withstood the heat and the rains? Sushant clearly remembered the white cat which used to eat rice and the occasional fish curry from the plate. When the finances dwindled and there was just enough to feed Jim, the dog,  the cat returned without her share of food for a whole week. After that she had disappeared. Sushant had never seen her again.



Mercifully it was a very small plot, so no big house could be constructed there. It would certainly not be sold to a builder because there was just not enough land to build multi storeyed apartments. Just one bed room with a small living room. A room was added later on the first floor, to enable Nishant and Vikrant, the younger one, to study and sleep, prepare for the exams. This was all that Sushant could afford from his meagre income as a stamp vendor at the local magistrate's court.



Jim, the dog barked a painful, whining cry. He didn't want to be tied up in his small shed. The last one month he had lived away from his own little house, protesting, howling his heart out. And today he didn't want to be left alone.



Sushant didn't want to leave him alone. After Tapaswini died a painful, lingering death, partly out of malnutrition and partly out of cancer, the dog was his faithful companion. Vikrant had brought Jeena, his mother, when he was in college. His class mate had gifted her to him. She lived for fourteen years. Jim, her son, was already twelve, his emaciated body concealed his age.



The two boys had moved on. They were good students. Nishant had become an engineer working in the State Electricity Board in the state capital. Vikrant went into the legal profession and worked as a lawyer in a nearby town, just thirty kilometres away. Maybe, seeing his father selling stamp papers in the premises of the Magistrate's Court had inspired him. Both had married into rich families, their wives smart spendthrifts who wanted money all the time, never satisfied with what they had.



Three years back Sushant had to quit his job. Two spells of long fever had pulled him down. And then tuberculosis sapped his energy. He was not able to even ride the bicycle to work. Nishant and Vikrant spent a few thousand rupees on him, but it was getting clear that their wives were reluctant to spare the money. Sushant's savings were getting depleted, food became scarce, Jim, the dog had to give up his non vegetarian meal, but after the first two days of surprised reluctance, he understood and adjusted with a plate of simple rice with salt.



By the time Sushant recovered from tuberculosis, Tapaswini had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Her thin, emaciated body degenerated with frequent bouts of dysentery, she died a silent death, in her husband's arms, smiling as always, at a loving, dutiful companion.



Sushant was devastated. Tapaswini had never left him alone, not even to go to her parents' place for the customary festival holidays. His each and every need was taken care by her. The day after her death, he spent an hour in the bathroom crying. For as long as he remembered, it was a daily routine for him to call her, "Tapu, please get the towel". She would come running, shouting in mock anger, "Can't you get your towel before going to the bath room? Who will give it to you when I am no more?" He would shout back, "Don't worry, you will live for fifteen years after me!"



Ah, how life plays these cruel jokes! She left him within three months of the detection of  cancer. The sons came for the funeral and left immediately after the rituals were over. No one talked with him, the grand children had come only for a day, and left with their mothers because the exams were on. The sons were busy with their mobile phones, no one had time for him. Their wives came back for the tenth day ceremony and stayed back till the fourteenth day. That's when he overheard the conversation among the sons and their wives one late evening in the living room when they thought he was asleep in the bedroom.



"Vicky, you should take Baba with you. He looks so thin now and without Mama he will not be able to manage".

Shalini, Vikrant's wife pounced on her brother in law,

"Why Bhaiya, you are the elder one, the responsibility comes to you first. And your income is much higher, look at Didi buying all those ornaments, they are certainly not coming from your salary!"

Nishant got shocked by the unexpected direction the discussion took,

"Oh, come on Shalu, you have a such a large house in a big town, and only one son. We have two of them, our expenses are certainly higher than yours!"

Shalini nudged Vikrant to say something, who said haltingly,

"Bhaiya, it's not a question of our household expenses being less. Baba was not doing a government job, he has no pension. The entire burden will come upon me!"

Nishant, the practical Engineer tried to put some reason into the mind of his younger brother, "But think of this plot of land and the house, it will fetch at least eighty lakhs or so when we sell it".

Shalini was off from her chair in a jiffy,

"Will you let us keep the sale proceeds if we let the old man stay with us? Then we will consider keeping him".

It was the turn of Sunita, the elder daughter in law to interject,

"How can that be? Both the sons should have equal claim to the father's property".

Vikrant found a compromise,

"Then the responsibility should be equally shared. Tell you what Bhaiya and Bhabhi, let us keep him for fifteen days each. First fifteen days of the month he will stay with you, I will keep him for the next fifteen days. We will put this house on rent and share it half-half. That way the burden will be divided by half and Baba will have a change of place every fifteen days".

Nishant was not averse to the idea. The rent will be at least twenty thousand rupees, this place being so close to the central market.

Listening to this from his bedroom Sushant was aghast, by the idea of this division of burden. A burden? With a paltry income he and Tapaswini never considered the children a burden! They led a frugal life so that the children would have good food and education. And today the sons were talking of the father as a burden to be shared fifty-fifty!



But Sushant had no choice. His back was broken, with all the medical expenses for himself and Tapaswini, who had to be treated in a private hospital. These days who goes to a government hospital with all its crowd, filth and the stench? Next morning he agreed to move with Nishant on the first of August, after spending the remaining eleven days of July in his house, reliving a few precious moments in the memory of his beloved Tapaswini. A 'To Let' notice was put up giving the contact numbers of the two sons. Sushant folded his hands and made his sons agree that he should be allowed to take Jim, the dog with him.



The first two days of Sushant's stay with the sons were spent in peace, but then the restrictions set in. No playing with the kids, lest it affect their studies, no more than two cups of tea per day, go slow on sugar and oily food, no hot water for bath, no meal for the dog, he had to roam around the street searching for food. After all, the old man contributed nothing to household expenses. What kind of job had he chosen to do which had no pension? Even a peon gets a pension! The renting of the house could not be finalised, a couple of prospects, rejected it for the small size of the rooms, and the electricity connections were considered treacherous. Some one offered only ten thousand rupees. And the 'old man' got lectures from his sons for his lack of foresight in not making the rooms big, not renovating the electricity and plumbing systems with whatever little savings he had. Sushant's life became a long catalogue of regrets and frustrations. He felt suffocated in the homes of his two sons.



And on the morning of thirtieth August Shalini called Sunita to inform her that the same evening the 'old man' will reach his elder son's place. The quota of fifteen days was over for Vikrant and Shalini. Sunita shouted from the other end, No, she can take the old man on first of the next month only. From first of the month to fifteenth, not a day more, not a day less. Shalini raised her voice. What joke is this? Sixteenth to thirtieth is fifteen days, Sunita can calculate if she wants to. Vicky and Shalu were not prepared to keep the old man even for one extra day. And the dog! One look at his emaciated body, she feels like puking!


They were shouting at each other over phone when Sushant left. He had somehow managed to keep enough money with him to pay for the taxi fare for thirty kilometres to his old home. That night he and Jim had a good sleep in their own home, Jim's excitement, joyous barks made up for all the pains of the last one month. The next day, Sushant left home at nine thirty to his old work place, bought a stamp paper, made a Will Deed for his house to go to the local orphanage after his death. He got the signature of two friends on the Will Deed and came home, spent a few hours going from room to room, touching every corner, the bed, the table, the old TV set, reliving bits and pieces of memory. He took out the sarees of Tapaswini, lovingly touched them one last time, copious tears flowing from his eyes in unending streams.

And then he came out, tethered Jim to his usual post, hoping against hope by tomorrow he would be rescued by a neighbour. He had one last look at the house and resolved, he would not look back at it again.


Sushant started walking on and on, he didn't know where to go, he just took the road that goes out of the town towards some little-known villages. Once he reached the open road, away from the crowd, he looked back at his old, beloved town where he had spent sixty six years of his life with all his hopes and dreams, sorrows and despair. Did he ever know the journey would end like this? Was this the dream he had dreamt with Tapaswini, when the sons were small, holding the fingers of their parents, struggling to walk the path of life?



And then he saw Jim, blood oozing out of a fresh cut in his neck, he must have snapped the chain and followed his master's scent, catching him finally and jumping with joy, pawing him, scratching him and crying his heart out. The cat which had disappeared two years back followed the dog. And the two pigeons, the shameless love birds who bred like there was no tomorrow, were hovering over his head, their cooing music echoing in the stillness of the fading day. They all stopped. The old man looked up. The clouds appeared to have stopped moving. The sky was silent, frozen in the  bowl of the earth. The wind was still. He  knew with his next step forward the spell would break, the sky would open up, clouds would burst , winds would blow and his solemn procession with the dog, the cat and the pigeons would march towards the horizon where the sky hugs the earth in a tight embrace. He knew with the next step forward it would be a final journey from where there would be no return.



He felt a tug at his pant and looked down. Jim was sitting, hunched, wagging his tail, it was the cat which had pulled at his pant. The town he had left behind was taking a pinkish hue welcoming the setting sun. Sushant knew, in this small town somewhere there lived a buyer who would buy his house for eighty lakh rupees. And from the interest earned out of that money he could find a small place to live in, with his Jim, his cat and the two shameless pigeons. He threw away the two strips of sleeping pills he had bought from the chemist's shop with his last twenty rupees note. He and his companions turned back and started walking towards home in a solemn procession, awaiting a starry night which was looming over the horizon. 
 

7. SUBHASINI DIDI

Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

(From the Thirty third Edition of LiteraryVibes, 13 September, 2019)



Caught in a long traffic jam at the Moti Bagh intersection in Delhi on a busy afternoon, I almost missed my flight. Two airhostesses were standing at the aircraft door, nervous and panicky.

“Mrs. Ranjita Joshi?”

Out of breath, I nodded my head. 

“Please get in madam, we are already late. The flight is about to take off.”

One of them led me to my seat at 9-C. I looked around. The flight was not very crowded. The middle seat in my row was vacant. A lady had occupied the window seat.

Air journeys are, in a way, quite strange. People come from all corners, converge in an aircraft, share each other’s company for an hour or two and disperse at the end of the journey, perhaps never to meet again. Unlike train journeys, flights are of short duration, often not enough to pick up a friendship. One is not sure whether to start a conversation with a co-passenger. It also depends on how much warmth one sees in the other person – sometimes the fear of rejection plays a dampener.

That afternoon, somehow my co-passenger near the window repelled me. A tall, middle-aged lady with a non-descript face, the only distinguishing feature in her was the pair of expensive dark glasses she was wearing. There was an air of indifference about her, a total lack of concern for anything around. She exuded the kind of arrogance which will keep decent people away from her. I waited for a chance to nod at her and be pleasant to her if she looked at me. But she completely ignored me and just sat there, staring straight ahead.

A handbag with an American Airlines tag was lying on her lap. I presumed that must be the reason for her arrogance – her trip to US, the fabled land of opulence and extravagance! But what’s so great about trips to America these days? People go there at the drop of a hat! I myself have visited US three times in the past one year, to deliver lectures at Illinois, Denver and to conduct viva voce of students at Penn State University. Why does the lady think she is special, just because she is returning from US? 

The airhostess came and offered her a glass of juice, but she just shook her head. When she tilted her head to look at the airhostess, I smiled at her, trying to draw her attention. She ignored me. Lunch was dismissed with a wave of hand. Oh, perhaps the flavor of McDonald burgers is still fresh in her mouth, so the Indian food looks unpalatable to her! My God, how can people be so snobbish! Incensed, I attacked my food tray with a vengeance and polished off everything.

Her indifference got on my nerves and infuriated me no end. In my own way, I am a celebrity of sorts. An eminent professor of Psychology at the young age of forty-one, I am well-known in the intellectual world. My articles and stories get published in journals and popular magazines all over the country with my photograph. Hasn’t this lady ever seen my picture? Is she not able to recognize me? It has always happened in the past few years that whenever I travel in a flight, one or two passengers come and shake hands with me and start talking. 

How can this lady be so indifferent to me? Does she think she is an intellectual giant and I am not even good enough for a mere glance? Two months back my picture was all over the television when the Education Minister of India gave away the award of “The Most Popular Professor of Delhi University” to me. May be she missed it, being in US! 

In my acceptance speech at the Award Function I had openly announced to the audience that I owe all my success to my revered guru Professor Desai, who taught me in my M.A. course at the MS University, Baroda, twenty years ago. He remained a friend, philosopher and guide ever since, till cancer took him away from the world three years ago. He was an amazing professor. None of us had seen anyone like him then, or ever after. 

Tall, distinguished looking, with a baritone voice, Professor Desai used to mesmerize the class with his knowledge and eloquence. Students from other departments came and attended his lectures, sometimes sitting on the floor, and often spilling into the corridor outside. Professor Desai didn’t mind. He was the most popular professor in the university and if there was an award those days for popularity among students, he would have won it year after year.

Professor Desai’s practical classes were a super hit. God knows from where he used to get such amazing ideas for practical experiments. To the best of our knowledge no text book covered those experiments. For the dissertation project in the final year, he used to guide ten students, selecting them by drawing lots. He never cared whether the student was a topper or a back-bencher. He believed, everyone had the right to learn from him and it was his duty to help every student. Luckily in my final year I was one of the ten who got picked up for doing a dissertation project under his guidance. My joy knew no bounds.

That year Prof. Desai gave us a completely new kind of project, something unheard of till then. Each student was assigned a ‘subject’, whose identity was kept a secret - only Prof. Desai knew him. The student should never try to probe his identity, should not ask any personal questions, such as the real name, address, age or marital status of the subject. The subjects were bound by a gentleman’s agreement not to reveal their identity. Prof. Desai’s formidable reputation ensured that no subject would ever breach the faith reposed in him. 

The content of the project was also unique. Over a period of one month the student would talk to him over phone on anything he feels like, and from that conversation he would prepare a psychological profile of the subject. The student will be assessed on his analytical ability and accuracy of the profile. Since Prof. Desai knew the subject well, he was undoubtedly the right person to evaluate the accuracy.

The project appealed to me. I had topped the class in the first year of M.A. exam and Prof. Desai was quite happy to have me as a scholar for his project. Seeing my excitement my friend Vilasini told me, 

“Don’t get so hyper Ranju, you will get a handsome, smart boy as your subject. You are so intelligent and fun-loving, after talking to you for a month he will sweep you off your feet, leaving Pratyay in the lurch.” 

I told her, “Impossible, no one can be more handsome or smarter than my Pratyay. There is no way I will leave him for anyone!”

Pratyay, who I married later, was my dearest friend. We had been together since our high school days, and there was no secret between us. We were crazy about each other. But Pratyay was a serious type, wanted to work hard for his law exams and become a judge one day. He was a student at the Law College in Ahmedabad, seventy miles away. He came once in a month to meet me. We used to go to Sayajibaug and Khanderao Market to roam around or to Aradhana Talkies to watch movies hand in hand, chatting away endlessly. I wanted him to come every week, but he avoided it saying he hasserious studies to do. Often in the dead of night I used to get up from sleep, my heart pining for him, and talking to his heart in a way that only young lovers can communicate.

Prof. Desai called me to his room and handed over a slip of paper with a name and telephone number.

“Good luck Ranjita, you have a lady as your subject! Here is the telephone number.”

I came out of the room, Vilasini was the first to see me. With a naughty smile she told me,

“Thank God, it’s a lady. Pratyay is saved, there is no danger for him.”

x x x x x x x x x



It was my first day with the subject. I was excited and nervous. My hand was shaking when I lifted the phone receiver and dialed the number. 

“Good afternoon ma’m! I am Priyambada.”

“Not your real name, for sure!”

The lady at the other end chuckled. I was amazed. What a sweet, lilting voice! I had never heard a sweeter voice in my life,

“I am Subhasini, not my real name either!”

“Wow, what a nice name Ma’m - Subhasini – the lady with the sweet voice! Prof. Desai could not have chosen a better name for you! You sound like a twelve year old girl. What is your age?”

She laughed, in an admonishing way.

“No personal questions to the subject. Remember?”

“Sorry ma’m. Won’t happen again.”

“It’s ok. This is my first day also in the project. Let’s be friends.”

In no time, she put me at ease. Asked me to address her as didi, the elder sister, and not as ma’m. For the next one hour we just talked and talked. She had this wonderful ability to talk freely and naturally. We talked of hundreds of things, just didn’t know where we started and where we ended. Like two long-lost friends our hearts bonded on the first day itself, although I found she was much more mature than me. Every time I came close to getting any personal information, she stopped me, reminding me of Prof.Desai’s conditionality. I realized that her loyalty to him was unflinching. But that’s what the project was meant to be! I noted all these as my first day’s impression.

For the next few days, time just flew by. We had agreed that I would call at five in the evening everyday. I started eagerly waiting for that hour.  When Pratyay saw my anxiety to speak to her he started teasing me, “Good, I am getting a sister-in-law for free when we get married. It’s a two-in-one deal for me.” Somehow I felt Subhasini didi was a sister to me, may be from my previous birth. My abiding regret during those days was the inability to see her, talk to her in person and hold her hand. 

In a way, the project was a bit of a painful riddle for me. And also frustrating. No matter whatever route I took to reach the inner mind of the subject, the path came to an end abruptly. How could someone know another person without figuring out how old she was, married or not, if she lived in the town or in the suburbs? But then, Prof. Desai lovedto pose such challenges to his students and test their ability. I learnt to live with it.

x x x x x x x x x



“Subhasini didi, what is your favorite pastime?” 

“To imagine things, to lose myself in a world of dreams, to visit places.”

“What kind of places?”

“The vast foothills of the Himalayas, the dense forests, the lovely sea beaches, everything that we don’t have here.”

“What beautiful dreams you have didi!” ?

“Yes, I would be roaming in the foothills of Himalayas, the soft sound of the falling snow would touch my heart, like the orchestrated beauty of a symphony. Or I would be sitting under a tree in the dense forest, evening will creep on me slowly and the air will fill with the sweet chirping of a million birds, my mind will find the joys of fulfillment of homecoming after a weary day. And Priyambada, is there anything better on earth than the sound of waves beating the shore on a deserted beach under the silence of a limitless sky? I wish I could be somewhere like that, on a beautiful evening, the waves sprinkling cool water from the fathomless ocean, the sound of the rolling sea singing like a lullaby and putting me to sleep under the open sky!”

“Wow didi, what wonderful thoughts. One day when I get a job, I will take you around the country and show you all the beautiful places.”

“Impossible, Priyambada. We cannot meet. I will never break my promise given to Prof. Desai, My identity will always be a secret to you.”

x x x x x x x x x



“Subhasini didi, what are you doing today, at this hour?”

“I am sitting near the window upstairs. There is a park down below. I can hear children playing, the exciting thud of the cricket ball hitting the bat. Small boys are fighting over a football. Girls are playing on the swing. From their giggles I know they are enjoying themselves. Children are crying for their mothers’ attention. Ah, what fulfillment in this cacophony! It’s like life’s caravan slowly trudging along a crowded street!”

“Didi, where are your kids?”

Silence for a few seconds.

“I don’t have any”

“I am sure one day you will be a great mother. You are so sweet, your children will be really blessed, to have you as their mother.”

The phone went dead with a mysterious chuckle from Subhasini didi.

x x x x x x x x x



“Priyambada, who is that boy?”

“Which boy, didi?”

“The one for whom your heart aches like a wounded bird, whose voice I can hear behind every word when you talk of love and life.”

“Pratyay, didi.”

“Ah, what a lovely name!”

“He is even better in person didi.”

“Lucky you! Do you meet him everyday?”

“No didi, he lives in Ahmedabad, and comes here only once a month. Keeps promising me he will come more often. But he revels in putting me through a sweet torture, to make me pine for him day and night. I can’t tell you didi, how much silent anguish I have suffered in my love for him. Last time when he was here, he told me how a girl in his class forgot her lines looking at his face during the mock trial. For three nights I could not sleep, consumed by the slow fire of jealousy!”

“Priyambada, his name is Pratyay and that means ‘trust’. So have trust in his love. I am sure he won’t let you down.”

“Didi, have you ever been in love?”

There was no answer for a full minute. Finally with a voice tinged with infinite sadness, Subhasini didi answered,

“No personal questions to the subject, remember?”

I felt sad for her. What is it that silently tortures her? I wish I could know.

For that day I wrote in the diary, whoever gets my sweet didi’s love will be the luckiest person on earth.

x x x x x x x x x



It was the last day of my talk with the subject. In the past one month Subhasini didi had become a part of my existence, filling my mind with her sweet presence. I was sad to think that from tomorrow I won’t be calling her again to ask how she spent the day; I will not be able to tell her if Pratyay called and what we talked. 

Prof. Desai had issued strict instructions that no student should ever try to locate the subjects and establish contact with them. He was also clear that the student should not forget the subject totally. In different turns of life, one should relate to the subject, revise one’s opinion about her with new experiences and incidents. The subject should remain an integral part of one’s learning process and by meeting her, the advantage of continuing to explore the unknown will be lost.  I didn’t really agree with this, but I had too much respect for Prof. Desai to question his judgment,

In a pensive mood, I called Subhasini didi for the last time. My hand was shaking, like the first day of the project.  My heart was seized with an unspeakable agony of the impending parting of ways. We talked a lot, carefully avoiding the topic of a possible meeting. Both of us knew it was futile to discuss that.

“Didi, what is your favorite fantasy?”

“To be roaming in the icy mountains of the Himalayas, looking for the wise sageswho have made it their abode. Suddenly the air will reverberate with the sound of ‘aum’.  A celestial symphony will start, led by the veena of Goddess Saraswati. Tiny bells will chime everywhere, soft, tinkling sounds, like the footsteps of the divine beings. I will sit there clad in soft snow and my heart will be filled with adeep, fathomless bliss.”

“Wow didi, you are great. Good luck in your quest for the divine and the Supreme Being. You have a pure heart, untouched by mundane inanities. God bless you.”

“God bless you too Priyambada and good luck for your final exams.”

When I kept down the phone, tears were rolling down my eyes.

x x x x x x x x x



I was very happy with my project report. So was Prof. Desai. It had come out really well. I thought I would get an ‘A’ grade. But he gave me only a ‘B’. I was astounded. I asked him, “Sir, I thought I deserved an ‘A’!”

Prof. Desai shook his head.

“Ranjita, you are the best student in the class. So I had given you the toughest subject. Your analysis is perfect, and your language is superb. But there is a fatal error in your analysis. In your anxiety to achieve technical excellence, you have overlooked the obvious. There is a fundamental error. I am sorry, I can’t give you an ‘A’.”

“It’s ok sir. I accept your verdict with all humility. But tell me what is the error in my project?”

Prof. Desai smiled.

“Sorry Ranjita, you know my principle. Your project is not for your student days only. It is a lifetime engagement. I am sure at different points in life you will remember your subject and marvel what you had missed in her. I am sure one day you will have a spark of realization and know what was wrong with your analysis. Till then goodbye and good luck”

Despite the ‘B’ grade in the project I topped the class again and came to Delhi 

University for a Ph.D. In due course I became a lecturer and because of outstandingresearch and teaching abilities I became the youngest professor in Delhi University. I had kept in touch with Prof. Desai all these years, talking to him every month and seeking his guidance on various research projects. We used to meet in conferences and I could see the pride in him when he used to introduce me as the best student of his teaching career. Still, in a funny way the ‘B’ grade had kept rankling in my mind and the mystery of the fatal error in my project remained unresolved. I had never tried to speak to Subhasini didi again, out of respect for Prof. Desai’s intellectual integrity. The memory of those sweet evenings, when we talked like two long-lost sisters, had gradually faded.

x x x x x x x x x



Putting a brake on my reverie, the flight landed in Baroda, rolled unto the tarmac and came to a complete stop. The passengers started getting up and collecting their baggage from the overhead racks. I didn’t even look at my co-passenger in the window seat. Somehow she had filled me with an undiluted abhorrence. I wanted to collect my bag and leave the place, away from this unfriendly, indifferent and arrogant person. I was turning to collect my bag when she spoke up,

“Excuse me; can you please get my stroller from the overhead rack?”

I decided to ignore her. She probably sensed my annoyance. She hesitated a bit and extending a soft hand, touched me on my elbow.

“I know you must be annoyed with me for not talking to you during the journey. Actually I am not in a mood to talk. My heart is shattered. My elder sister, with whom I used to live since my childhood, suddenly died of a stroke three days back. I had gone to US to spend a few months with my brother, but rushed back on hearing the news. Please don’t mind and take out my bag. And also my walking stick. Without that I can’t get out of the plane. I was born blind.”

I just couldn’t believe my ears. The high heavens crashed on me! Oh my God, what have I done? How could I be so stupid, so insensitive? In the name of life and all that is sacred, can I ask for her forgiveness and do I deserve it? I wanted to hold her hand and beg her forgiveness, but my voice choked and tears of deep anguish blinded my eyes. I just touched her hand in an act of intimate, unspoken regret. I took out her bag and the walking stick and gave them to her.

In the last few minutes another thought had been troubling me. The voice of the lady sounded painfully familiar as if I have had extensive conversation with her somewhere in my life. And then in a flash, it came back to me. My God, this is the voice of Subhasini didi! How can I forget this soft, sweet, lilting voice, one which had filled many of my evenings with hope, faith and joy twenty years back?

With a sense of overwhelming wonder, I exclaimed,

“Subhasini didi! I am Ranjita, no, no, Priyambada! Don’t you remember me? You were the subject of my project twenty years back! Please wait, don’t go away.”

The lady had started to walk. My words stopped her on her track. She turned back, faced me. There was a hesitation for almost a minute. My heart skipped a beat. Then she slowly turned away,

“Sorry, I don’t know. I can’t remember being associated with any project in my life.”

With that she walked away, slowly, bent with the burden of grief. The way she emphasized the word ‘project’, I had no doubt that she was indeed my Subhasini didi. I also knew she did it deliberately, to remind me again of the promise we made to our beloved Prof. Desai never to compromise our identity.

And looking at her retreating figure, I suddenly remembered Prof. Desai’s words, “Your analysis has a fatal error. I am sure one day you will realize what it is and see your subject in a new light.” 

Pages from my memory kept unfolding and I realized what I had missed in my analysis. For the one month that we had talked, all of Subhasini didi’s dreams, words and thoughts were filled with the echo of sound, noise, music, silence and symphony. She had never spoken of anything that she had seen or wanted to see! In my eagerness to achieve excellent analysis, I had failed to discern this void in her life.

I found myself crying uncontrollably. The deep anguish of my sweet didi, the heart-rending emptiness pervading her existence and the elusive joy of sight that she has missed in life, filled me with a sense of melancholy. Silently I folded my hands, and touched my forehead, as a mark of love and respect for Subhasini didi. With a heavy heart I told to myself,

“Sorry, Subhasini didi, twenty years back I couldn’t recognize you from the voice across the telephone line. And today when I finally got to see you in person, you are going away from me, hiding behind the façade of a promise made to a dear, departed soul. Soon you will melt into the milling crowd of Baroda. And I will live with the regret that my aching heart, eager to touch you even for once, will be left pining for you for ever.”



..................................................................



8. REDEMPTION

Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

(From the Thirtieth Edittion of LiteraryVibes, 23 August, 2019)



In the midst of shehnai music and the din of an assortment of guests and relatives, I suddenly sensed a presence at my side. Our daughter Ganga’s wedding was just two days away. I turned and found my wife Shalini standing there. She looked up at me, her eyes wet with tears, a letter and a parcel in her hands. I panicked.

“What happened? Why are you crying? Whose letter is that?”

In reply she just handed over the letter and parcel to me. Her tears continued unabated. I opened the parcel. It was a red jewellery box. Inside was the most beautiful necklace I have seen in my life - a gold chain, with a string of vivid red stones joined together with loving care. The stones were blood-red, as if someone had squeezed his heart out and frozen it in pieces of timeless beauty. And the stones were sitting there spellbound, wondering how they could be made so eloquently charming.

Shalini had already opened the letter. The writing was familiar. Oh, the letter is from Chachaji! I was surprised. How did Chachaji know about Ganga’s wedding? I had not sent an invitation to him. In fact, for the last twelve years, I had never written to him, nor replied to his many letters. In my memory, Chachaji had become just a forgotten shadow in the canvas of life, a dim footprint in the journey of time.

Today with his letter, my mind went many years back - to our small house at Dhanbad, its open courtyard, the smell of jasmine in the evenings, and the incessant screams, shrieks, and chatter of our daughter Ganga every waking hour of the day. Our Ganga, the cute baby who had filled our life with so much joy and fulfillment. Pages from memory unfolded before my eyes, in the background of Ganga’s laughter, childish talks and our busy life.

It was 1984. I had just finished my degree in Metallurgy and got a job in a mining company in Dhanbad. Shalini and I were newly married. Dhanbad was new to both of us and we were looking for friends. Two days before Diwali, the Festival of Lights, my colleague Alok said,

“Come to Chachaji’s party on Diwali eve. Everyone from our company and many others will be there. You will find a lot of interesting people.”

I was curious.

“Chachaji? You mean your uncle?”?

Alok broke into a huge laugh.

“No my friend, he is not my real chacha. He is the universal Chachaji of Dhanbad.  Everyone calls him Chachaji, even people across three generations. He is the owner of the Chacha-Chachi Saree Bhandar at the Chowk. The funny thing is, he is not married, says the saree shop is his chachi!  Spends the whole day there and even the nights during festival times. He is a great guy, tells funny jokes, sings well and his parties are the best in the town - lively and entertaining. Both of you should come. I have already told him. He will call you.”

Chachaji’s call came within half an hour. From the throaty voice, I knew this must be an open man with a large heart. We were happy to accept his invitation. The Diwali party was a fantastic experience for us. More than a hundred people were presentand Chachaji had time for everyone. In his mid forties, he was a charismatic person, there was no doubt about it. He sang old Hindi songs really well. I am also passionately fond of old Hindi songs. I sang a couple of melancholic songs, ‘Ek wo bhi diwali thi, ek ye bhi diawali hey’ and ‘Sarangaa teri yaad mein’.

Chachaji had found out my name was Chhotu. He teased me,

“Hey Chhotu, you have just been married. Why are you singing such sad songs?Is Bahu torturing you too much?” 

Everyone burst into laughter. Shalini’s face became red with embarrassment.

That was the beginning of a deep friendship between us and Chachaji. He had this wonderful quality of striking a friendship with everyone and make him feel great about it. We visited each other’s home quite frequently, in the company of mutual friends. And gradually, Chachaji became like a family member to us. 

When our daughter was born seven months later, Chachaji was overwhelmed with joy. He named her Ganga, saying that was his mother’s name. We accepted, out of respect for Chachaji and his departed mother. Despite our mild protests, he loaded Ganga with dozens of toys and dresses. We spent some of the happiest evenings with him, he singing beautiful lullabies for Ganga, his eyes moist with emotion.

Time passed. Ganga grew up to be a cute, active baby, full of pranks and laughter. Chachaji was her favorite person, more so because of the abundant supply of toffees and toys. We used to tease that Chachaji was making sure Ganga would grow up to become a government official, fond of bribes and gifts! Chachaji disagreed, “Our Gudiya will become Miss World one day and spread joy and beauty wherever she goes!”

Three years into our friendship with Chachaji, something unexpected happened, and Chachaji’s life took a completely different turn. His elder brother, who was in politics, represented Dhanbad in the Legislative Assembly. He was also the Revenue Minister of the state. He suddenly died of a heart attack. 

Chachaji went to Patna to bring his dead body for cremation in Dhanbad. His brother was extremely popular and thousands of people came for the funeral. There was a huge crowd and Chachaji got lost in that crowd. That was the last time we felt he was within our reach. He moved away, sucked by the whirlpool of events. The Chief Minister made him the Revenue Minister to fill his brother’s place. He contested the elections and won hands down. 

Chachaji got extremely busy with his work and political activities. Initially he came to Dhanbad once every week, but gradually the frequency became less. The shop was handed over to his sister’s son to manage and whenever Chachaji came to town, he remained busy with phone calls, meeting local leaders and the people. But he always made it a point to see us, and spend some time playing with Ganga, telling her stories and listening to her chatter. 

But we could see the change in him. His mind was always preoccupied. He remained absent-minded. Sometimes he would remove himself from us, talk on the telephone, giving instructions in a harsh tone, the language bordering on offensive.  

Whenever we visited his house, we found strange kind of people, sitting in his chamber or outside. We had the sense to know that some of these chaps were not desirable types. 

Gradually, we felt a bit uncomfortable in visiting Chachaji at his home. He also understood our discomfort. In fact, he was very happy when we invited him for dinner at our place, to meet Ganga and play with her. But his timings were so uncertain that it was embarrassing to include others in the dinner. Sometimes he would turn up close to midnight, keeping others waiting from eight o’ clock. So finally it came down to a one-to-one dinner with Chachaji, even late into the night. Ganga, surprisingly, would keep awake, waiting to play with him, and grab toffees, chocolates, and toys from him.

Late at night, after dinner at our home, Chachaji used to feel relaxed. Ganga would have gone to sleep on his lap, after listening to his stories. Chachaji would narrate to us his experiences in Patna, and share with us details of state politics and secrets of a few of his admirers and detractors. One day he was feeling expansive after a sumptuous dinner.

“You people will never imagine the kinds of things we have to do in politics. It is a game of cut-throat competition and survival. You need money and God knows where one has to dip his hands to get it.”

Shalini smiled and asked jocularly.

“Chachaji, why don’t you reveal those secrets to us? You have told us so many things! Let us also know the secret of making money!”

Chachaji shuddered,

“No Bahu, it’s better not to know those things. Some of them are like figments of a horrible nightmare. Good that I am not married and I don’t have a family. At least I won’t have to feel guilty before my own family!”

Shalini pounced on the opportunity to pull his legs.

“So, Chachaji, we are not your family? You have been lying to us all these days, saying all of us are like one big family!”

Caught off guard, Chachaji felt a little embarrassed.

“Arrey Bahu, what are you saying? You people are more than a family to me. And Ganga Bitiya? She is the throb of my heart! God bless her!”

Another evening, after dinner, Chachaji gave us a rude shock.

“You know a professional killer has been given a supari to kill me!”

Ganga had gone off to sleep on the sofa with her head on Chachaji’s lap. Shalini was dozing off. She got up with a start.

“What, Chachaji? What are you saying? A supari? You mean a contract to kill you? Is it true? How did you know? Do such things happen in real life? We thought that is all filmy stuff.”

“Yes, it is true. The DGP himself called me last week, saying he is sending the I.G. Intelligence to brief me. That I.G. is from Dhanbad and is a great fan of mine. He disclosed that a don of the coal mafia here has put out a contract for my killing.”

“Why Chachaji?”

“Political ambition, what else? These days a special security squad is following me everywhere. It is a bloody nuisance.” 

Shalini was curious. She moved towards the window,

“You mean some squad fellows are standing outside our house? Wow, Chachaji, we have become famous, thanks to you. Can I take a peek at them, through the window?”

Chachaji smiled at her childlike excitement.

“You can’t see them. It is their job to remain invisible and watch for danger.”

“How long will they be with you?”

“I don’t know.  As long as the danger persists.  May be till the don gets bumped off in an encounter.”

Shalini was shocked.

“Bumped off? What do you mean, bumped off? How can somebody be bumped off in cold blood?”

“It’s either him or me. Now that he has put a contract for my killing, only one of us will have the chance to live.”

I couldn’t hide my disgust.

“Chachaji, why are you going through all this? You had such a happy, carefree life before you became a minister! Why, we haven’t heard you singing an old song for more than a year now.’

Shalini nudged me and added archly,

“And for more than a year, you haven’t talked about the Bollywood heroines, which you used to do so often with a rare glint in your eyes.” 

Chachaji and I laughed, a little defensively, remembering the happy banter we used to exchange, fantasizing about the raving beauties of the film world, the way adult males with colourful imagination usually do. I continued,

“Why don’t you simply give up this world of cut-throat politics, Chachaji? Is it really worth, all this money, power, and admirers, if your life is at risk?”

Chachaji flashed a sad smile.

“It’s difficult to make you understand Chhotu. Politics is like an addiction. Once you are in it, you are in a different world, floating in a cloud. There is money, tons and tons of it, often easily acquired. There is comfort that you cannot imagine from outside. And above all there is the power - power over people, over things. The power that comes with unabated adulation, and the power to decide people’s destiny with a mere signature on the file. That is a heady feeling, rare in life, reserved for the few who get political power and lord over people’s destiny. It’s impossible to give it up. A person who loses political power lives in constant torment, like a drug addict without drugs.”

I am not sure I understood the feeling fully. But after Chachaji left, Shalini and I talked late into the night. Where have we lost our cheerful, innocent Chachaji, who used to crack jokes with his friends, whose eyes used to get moist while singing, ‘Chalri sajani, ab kya soche.’ The Chachaji of today is a different person entangled in a labyrinthine maze of power, intrigue and senseless violence, where he might be killed or few others might be bumped off so that he will live! We were worried for him.

x x x x x x x x x x x x 



Around three years after that evening, Bihar was seized with a new problem. Incidents of kidnapping became very common. Almost every day there were reports of children getting kidnapped. With elections to the State Assembly approaching, the government held the opposition responsible for engineering the kidnappings to discredit the party in power. The opposition blamed the government for staging the kidnappings with police help to collect money through ransom. Nobody knew for sure how it happened, but the kidnappings continued unabated.

In those days of uncertainty, on a cold December afternoon my phone rang at the office. I picked up the phone. It was Shalini, crying. My heart sank. Was there a problem? I asked her to compose herself and tell me what was wrong.

What she told me broke my heart to pieces. Ganga, our eight-year old daughter, 

the throb of our life, was missing. She had not returned from the school. Voice choking with worry, I asked Shalini, hasn’t the school bus come? How about the other children? Has she asked the other parents?

Between sobs, she told me that in the morning Ganga insisted on going to school on her bike and since the distance is only half a kilometer, she had let her go. Shalini was hysterical, blaming herself for our daughter missing after school. I too broke into uncontrollable crying, fearing the worst. After a minute or so I told her not to lose hope and promised her no matter how much ransom it costs us, we will get back our daughter. Beyond any consolation, she kept down the phone. I felt as if someone was cutting my heart to pieces and every passing minute was a moment of excruciating pain. I folded my hands and prayed to God to save our Ganga from any harm and renewed my pledge that I will spend any amount of money to get her back. 

The phone rang again. The kidnapper! Must be asking for ransom! With shaking hands I lifted the receiver. It was Chachaji on the other side! With trembling voice choked with sorrow, I told him,

“Chachaji, something terrible has happened. Ganga has been kidnapped while returning from school!”

There was a reassuring laugh from Chachaji.

“Chhotu, don’t worry. Ganga is safe. Her kidnappers had stopped at a traffic light, when my chaps spotted Ganga and gave a chase. Finally my men overpowered them and brought Ganga home. The kidnappers had made her unconscious. Now she has recovered. She is sitting with me, having pastry and biscuits and chatting merrily with me. Come and take her home.”

I called Shalini immediately and informed her. And then I took out my car and rushed to Chachaji’s home. Ganga was sitting near Chachaji, giggling and merrily drinking coca cola. When she saw me she ran towards me and jumping up, dangled herself on my neck and kept on kissing me. My eyes flooded with tears. I came to Chachaji and thanked him for saving Ganga from the kidnappers. Chachaji was furious.

“Chhotu, are you an idiot? How do you let Ganga go to school on a bike?’

“Sorry Chachaji, Ganga usually takes the school bus. Today I had left home at seven in the morning. Shalini says Ganga was insistent, so she allowed her to go to school on bike.”

“Tell Bahu not to make this mistake again. You know how bad the times are. What is the guarantee they would have let Ganga go even after collecting the ransom? Just think how terrible it would have been if my chaps had not rescued Ganga Bitiya!”

I started shivering with fear. Just the thought of Ganga in the clutches of the kidnappers made me sweat, like I was having a stroke. There was a common toilet between the drawing room and Chachaji’s office. Out of panic I ran to the toilet.

When I came out of the toilet after a few minutes, I heard Chachaji’s voice from the office room, as if he was quarreling with somebody. Curious, I glanced into the office. Chachaji was standing near his chair. His face was red with anger. A man in black trousers and a red tee-shirt was sitting calmly on the opposite chair, munching some nuts from his pocket. From his looks he appeared to be one of those slimy, vicious goons who look like any other man on the street, but capable of inflicting extreme violence without batting an eyelid.  Chachaji was shouting at him.

“Get out! Get out immediately. Who let you in?”

The man didn’t care, just went on munching the nuts.

“The day I need permission to enter someone’s house, I will be out of business. Now that I have got in, if you have guts, throw me out.”

Chachaji was furious.

“I don’t want to talk to you. Just leave. Otherwise I will call the security guards who will shoot you down.”

“Chachaji, don’t shout. Don’t threaten me. For a crook like you, it will take me just a minute to crush the life out of you with my bare hand. Now, listen to me. I heard that you are going to return the packet?”

Chachaji panicked and looked at the drawing room, his eyes showing naked fear. His voice croaked.

“Run away, I don’t want to talk to you.”

“I don’t care if you want to talk to me or not. Just listen to me. Whether you keep the packet or return it, I want my fifty thousand rupees. That’s the price your men have fixed with me for picking up the packet. I want the money delivered to me by eleven tomorrow morning.”

Chachaji was now choleric, with anger, anxiety and nervousness.

“Just get lost. I don’t want to hear anything now. Leave my house.”

The man emitted a derisive laughter looking at the panicky, helpless face of Chachaji. Scorn poured from him, like unwanted garbage spilling from a broken bin.

“Don’t try to act funny with me Chachaji. If I don’t get the money by eleven tomorrow, I will pick up the same packet again and sell it in Calcutta, to roam on its streets, begging for alms with her amputated hands. Remember!”

The man left with the assurance of a professional who knows his job. I entered the room. The moment Chachaji saw me, he knew I had heard the conversation. All the blood drained out of his face, he started sweating and sat down on the chair. Unknown to him, his hands folded and he looked at me with the helpless gaze of a person about to climb the gallows for execution. It appeared as if with his pale face and folded hands he was begging my forgiveness.

Without a word, I left the room, picked up Ganga and drove home, my mind filled with a sense of deep anguish. I felt like I was returning from a burial ground after burying a close, dear relative. Ganga tried to cheer me up on the way with her pranks, but I had no words left in me. Ganga ran to Shalini the moment we reached home. Shalini picked her up and showered her with a thousand hugs and kisses.

After a listless dinner I narrated the whole story to Shalini. That night we made Ganga sleep between us, holding her in a tight embrace and reassuring ourselves that our heart-throb was back with us, with a new lease of life for her and for us. We didn’t let her out of our sight even for a moment, as if we had the moon from the sky in our fist and the moment we loosen it, she will jump out and escape again.

Next morning the phone rang at ten. It was Chachaji.

“Chhotu, where is Ganga? Has she gone to school?”

“No, we didn’t send her to school today.”

“Good. Chhotu, you, Bahu and Ganga come home this evening. We will have dinner and I will sing some choicest old Hindi songs for you.”

“Aren’t you going for your election tour today?”

“No! Haven’t you watched the news this morning? It’s in the TV, in all the channels. This morning, I resigned from my ministership, and from my Assembly seat. I have also quit politics. I am back at my shop, selling sarees.”

“Quit politics? Why, what happened to your famous addiction, for which you get ‘packets’ lifted from schools and roads?”

There was an audible sigh after a long pause. The sadness in Chachaji’s voice was palpable.

“Chhotu, yesterday my wayward, battered spirit was purified by Ganga. No amount of power or money can take me back to politics again, now or ever. Come home, we will chat in the evening.”

We didn't go to Chachaji's home that evening, then or ever. Instead in the afternoon we packed our luggage, locked the house, handed over the keys to a neighbour and boarded a train to Surat. Since I had a degree in Metallurgy, I got a fabulous job in the diamond industry here. For the past twelve years, I have never gone back to Dhanbad, not even once. The memory of Dhanbad and all that was associated with it, has remained locked in the deepest recesses of my mind like a forgotten scar of an old wound. After we had settled down in Surat, I had received a few letters from Chachaji, but I never opened them.

x x x x x x x x x x x x x x   



Today, after all these years, the letter and parcel from Chachaji revived those memories and brought an aching pain in our heart. Shalini had already read the letter. I sat down, Shalini by my side, and started reading the letter.

“Dear Chhotu,

I know you will not reply to this letter. In the past twelve years, you have never done that. I also know why you left Dhanbad on a cold December day and never set your foot again on this grey town. Your old friend Alok told me about Ganga Bitiya’s marriage. I could not restrain myself. I am her Chachaji, as much as yours. There was a time when she used to reign over my heart like a celestial princess. And how fond she was of me! In any crowd, if she saw me, she used to come running to me for a hug. I have often wondered, didn’t she ever enquire about me after leaving Dhanbad? Hasn’t she ever asked you about her Chachaji, how he vanished from her life?

Chhotu, had you invited me, I would have come myself and put this lovely necklace around my Gudiya's pretty neck and blessed her, with every drop of goodwill from my heart. In my absence, please give it to her as a token of my love and blessings. This small gift symbolizes my years of repentance and regret. It is as if, I have been waiting for this touch of salvation to liberate my tormented soul from the pyre of self-abhorrence and purify it with a sense of redemption.

Yours

In anguish, Chachaji.

By the time I finished the letter, my eyes were moist with tears. I looked at Shalini. Her face was contorted with grief. Grief, in the memory of that dark December evening, when we almost lost our dearest daughter, our heart-throb and the very essence of our being. And now the grief of the impending separation in two days’ time, when she will leave us and go away to a new home, tore our heart to shreds. We held hands and silently cried away, drowning the sorrow that every parent goes through at a daughter’s wedding.

Ganga saw us from a distance and came to us. She took our hands, locked us in a tight embrace, and burst into sobs. Like many unforgettable moments in our life, we got drenched in Ganga's tears, purifying ourselves in the reassurance of our abiding love for her, today, tomorrow and forever. 


...............................................


9. GENIUS 

Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

(From the Twenty eighth Edition of LiteraryVibes, 9 August, 2019)



On a February afternoon, near Rajmahal traffic signal, some citizens of Bhubaneswar town were treated to a rare sight. Sabyasachi Ray, the celebrated, most talked-about lawyer of the town, got down from his car while waiting for the light to turn green and started running towards the Station Square like a man possessed. He was seen tearing his hair, scratching his face and howling madly.

In no time his abandoned Honda City car became an object of curiosity. Drivers of the cars behind it started honking impatiently and finding no response, skirted it and moved on, casting angry glances at the unoccupied car. Before the traffic constables pushed the car to the side curb, half a dozen street urchins came near it, touched it with hesitant caution and rubbed their palm on its silky surface. One of them, more daring than the others, opened the door, got into the driver’s seat and started fiddling with the switches. Suddenly the car radio boomed into a loud song, throwing him off balance. Meanwhile two others had got into the luxurious back seat and sat on it, enjoying the comfort of the cushion. One of them started bouncing on it and found it to be ticklishly exciting.

Advocate Sabyasachi Ray would have exploded like a Diwali cracker had he witnessed this scene. He is too conscious of his aristocratic bearings – of his car, his dress, the Italian leather shoes and the Schaeffer pen in his pocket. The way his car was being manhandled by the urchins would have made him angry and he would have blasted them with his booming voice. 

For Sabyasachi Ray, the booming voice is a trademark, his USP. When he stands up to present his arguments, the entire court room becomes quiet, all ears tuned to his words. The elderly judges, prone to light naps at lengthy arguments, sit up and listen to him in rapt attention. Sabyasachi weaves a magic around the court room, his words are carefully constructed, his strategy consciously drafted to make a mockery of the opponent. He says, a good lawyer is like a python, he looks at the opponent’s eyes, makes him feel threatened, waits for him to crack and the moment there is a sign of weakness, strikes and swallows him whole.

A brilliant lawyer, Sabyasachi says, is not made, he is born as a genius. A genius is rare. If you give a bat and ball to a young boy and make him play cricket for years under a good coach, he will become a good cricketer but not a Sachin Tendulkar. Cricketers like Sachin, singers like Lata Mangeshkar, painters like Raja Ravi Verma are not made by training, they are born as genius. 

Sabyasachi considered himself a genius, right from the school days, when sparks of his brilliance used to dazzle others. After getting a degree in Law he started as a junior advocate under the tutelage of the famous barrister Nitin Chatterjee. Soon he opened his own chamber and in ten years’ time went far ahead of others. With fame, money, and success he became a celebrity in Bhubaneswar. Rotary Club, Lions Club, and Universities competed with each other to get him as a Guest Speaker. He didn’t have time for lesser institutions. A healthy contempt for rivals in his profession kept him on edge all the time. At a Rotary Club function, a journalist once asked him about his main competitor, “What do you think of Sadhan Patnaik?” Sabyasachi Ray shot back, “I don’t think of him. I don’t have the time!”

His two-storied mansion in Surya Nagar is a fine specimen of wealth and elegance. A stamp of aristocracy is evident everywhere – from the neatly manicured Korean grass lawn, the paintings on the walls, the potted plants on the balcony and the grills on the balustrade. When he, his wife Dipti and daughter Ananya go out in their Honda City to Chilka, Chandbali or Konark, people gaze in awe, conscious of their status and reputation.

Sabyasachi Ray is simply a brilliant lawyer. In the court room he enacts dramas to dazzle the judges, to intimidate the witnesses and to confuse his opponents. He knows the psychology of the judges and their weaknesses. Some are sympathetic to the poor, others consider themselves the sole upholders of truth and some others are the messiah of the downtrodden. Sabyasachi plays on their minds and tries to exploit their individual weaknesses. 

There is no end to the success stories of Sabyasachi Ray. He is a legend in legal circles. Clients know that once they pay the fees to him, their fate is safe in his hands. Sabyasachi says he doesn’t believe in truth or falsehood. It is his job to weave the magic of words and convince the judge with his version of the truth.  What lies behind the facts does not bother him. To him, the wad of currency notes paid by the clients is the truth. He has won hundreds of cases and most of them could have gone the other way, if some other lawyer had handled them. For him, success is an addiction. Even a single failure causes him acute depression, like a drug addict denied his dose of drugs.

Dancer Bijayini Das’s case is the most sensational victory of Sabyasachi Ray in recent times. The case had made headlines for many days in the local and national media, not only because she was an exceptionally beautiful young girl, but because the accused was the famous son of a powerful politician of Orissa. Vipin Samantaray is the MLA of Paradip and the uncrowned king of the crime world of coastal Orissa. Chintu is not only his son, but also his successor in every respect. At one time Bijayani was his constant companion, and his prize catch. For a couple of years they were seen together at Konark, Gopalpur, Chilka and all the famous resorts of the state. One day Chintu dropped her like a used napkin - just like that - here today, gone tomorrow. To prove that with his tons of money, he can acquire and abandon beauties like Bijayini at his sweet will.

Bijayini shut herself up for two months and then took up the job of a dancer at the famous Neelkamal night club and restaurant – a meeting point of all the big-wigs of Bhubaneswar. Politicians come there, so do film stars, businessmen, industrialists, bureaucrats and police officers. Chintu is a regular there. When Chintu enters the restaurant with his friends, a hush falls over the place. Chintu revels in the attention – as the anointed prince of crime, protected by the powerful father and his connections. The manager constantly hangs around the table to check if everything is alright. One never knows what will happen if the young man with a mercurial temper loses his cool for some reason. But having Chintu makes good business sense. He never spends less than fifteen thousand rupees, and often leaves a bundle of notes without counting them.

Bijayini is the only one in the night club who doesn’t have any fear of Chintu. She goes to his table, makes taunting gestures, touches his hand and dances provocatively to make him angry. Chintu ignores her. But it was inevitable that one day Chintu would explode. It happened one evening. In full glare of the other customers and the manager, Chintu shot at Bijayini, killing her on the spot. Some customers had seen them talking heatedly and Bijayini spitting on Chintu’s face in a fit of anger. In a flash Chintu took out a revolver and shot her. He and his friends immediately left the place.

The police came to the scene of crime and recorded the statements of some of the employees. Chintu was arrested, but released on bail immediately. The police filed a case but it was apparent they were merely going through the motion of legal proceedings. No reliable witness came forward to give evidence against Chintu. The manager flatly denied being present at the scene of crime. A couple of senior police officers were present in the night club that evening but feigned complete ignorance about the identity of the killer. For the manager and the big-wigs, Bijayini Das was a mere dime-a-dozen dancer, while Chintu Samantaray was a rising star, and a leader in the making. One day he will inherit the Paradip constituency and the crime world from his father. How can any one go against him? Only a dancer colleague of Bijayini, two young waiters who were desperately besotted with her, and an elderly couple came forward to give evidence against Chintu.

Advocate Sabhasachi Ray made mincemeat of them in cross-examination. The dancer was harassed so much that she started crying in the court.  The elderly couple were made to believe that they were colour blind and had impaired vision. He proved to the Court that the night club was only partially lighted, colourful lights were playing to the tune of the music and no one could clearly see anything. The poor young waiters were badgered with questions, humiliated and were forced to admit that they had made unwarranted advances to Bijayini in the past and were men of dubious character. Impressed by Sabyasachi’s reputation and swayed by his histrionics, the Judge forgot to pull him up for violating legal ethics and intimidating witnesses.

Sabyasachi Ray, fortified with a fat fee, the fattest of his career, staged a big drama in the court room, and presented an alternative theory about the murder: 

Yes, Bijayini died of a gun shot, but it was self-inflicted. Bijayini was three months pregnant. She pleaded with Chintu to marry her, and to accept the paternity of the child. Chintu denied that the child was his. He pointed out to another lady sitting by his side, “This is Ajanta. We got married in a Court this morning and as soon as we get out of the night club, we will drive away to Gopalpur for our honeymoon.” Bijayini was crestfallen. She lost her cool, took out the revolver from Chintu’s pocket and shot herself. In the semi-dark hall and in the midst of loud music and the hide and seek of throbbing colourful lights in tune with the dance, no witness could clearly see how Bijayini died. It is a case of suicide and not murder. 

The Judge got carried away by the eloquent and forceful arguments of Sabyasachi Ray.  The testimonies of the witnesses were shown to be unreliable. Chintu Samantaraywas acquitted. This victory added another feather to Sabyasachi Ray’s crown. 

The Bijayini Das case was the pinnacle of success for advocate Sabyasachi Ray. It established him as the best in the field beyond doubt, with no one coming anywhere close to him. A few members of a women’s organization demonstrated against him in front of his house. But he didn’t care and told everyone, ‘I am not here to contest in an election, I don’t need to be popular. I have done my professional job. I have proved to the court what is the truth.’ Sabyasachi Ray famously says, there is no place for emotion in legal profession. There is only hard cash and a tough heart. 

After victory in the Bijayini Das case, Sabyasachi Ray knew there were no new heights to scale. Yet he was obsessed. He craved for more cases, more victories, and more success. He started losing sleep in the night over the cases coming up next morning. He wanted to win each one of them.

People asked him whether he wanted to contest elections. Sabyasachi Ray flatly refused. There is no fun in winning an election and defeating a rival. It happens once in five years. But Sabhasachi Ray wants the taste of victory every day. He can’t live without it. Everyday he wants to vanquish his opponents, and announce to the whole world, “I am the best, the absolute best and no one can unseat me from that position.”

A month after the verdict in Bijayini Das case, a dramatic event changed the life of Sabyasachi Ray. His daughter Ananya, a student in Lady Sri Ram College in Delhi, had come home for summer vacation. She was fond of driving and loved to take her dad’s Honda City for a spin whenever she could. Around six on an April evening, she drove out of their house towards the market. The sky was cloudy but no one had a foreboding of the torrential rain that would hit the town.  Around half past six the sky suddenly opened up and in one hour it rained fifteen inches - an unprecedented downpour. Old timers said they had not seen anything like that in their life, meteorologists later explained it as a cloud-burst.

Near Rajmahal Square Ananya had to stop the car. Visibility had been reduced to just two meters. In the blinding rain she parked the car near a two-storied office building and ran towards its partially open doors. The staircase was dimly lit, wind was forcing the rain inside through the slightly open door. She moved closer to the staircase. It was scary, she had an eerie feeling. She couldn’t see any one in that small space, but felt as if someone was present. She thought she would go out to the car and wait inside, but frequent lightning made the car unsafe.

There was a big flash of lightning followed by a deafening thunder. The electricity went off, plunging the entrance into total darkness. Ananya shivered out of fear. Suddenly a hand crept up from under the staircase, covered her mouth and dragged her in. She struggled and screamed but the torrential rain outside drowned her scream.

The rain stopped after half an hour. Advocate Sabyasachi Ray was frantic when Ananya did not return. She had left her mobile phone in the car and his calls were not answered. He took out his old Maruti Esteem and drove around, looking for her. One hour later he found her in the building which happened to be the office of the State Textiles Corporation. Ananya was unconscious. Her dress was torn, there were deep marks all over her body. She was bleeding from many parts. Even a strong-hearted Sabyasachi thought he would puke at the sight. He sprinkled water on her face and rushed her to the hospital. The doctor confirmed rape and let her go home after administering first aid and advising Sabyasachi to file a complaint with the police.

Advocate Sabyasachi Ray went mad with anger.  Rape!  Advocate Sabyasachi Ray’s daughter getting raped in Bhubaneswar? What has this town come to? Who could dare do this? Only if he could lay his hands on the rapist he would wring his neck and feed it to the dogs. He telephoned the Police Commissioner who was a personal friend from his Rotary Club. The police swung into action, but there was no trace of the culprit. The building was supposedly empty at the time of the crime and there was no one in the street who would have witnessed the incident. 

The police was under heavy pressure to arrest someone, to prove that they are effective and Bhubaneswar town is safe for women. After some investigation they arrested Dibakar Swain, the watchman of the office building where Ananya was raped. Bhubaneswar town heaved a sigh of relief; police trumpeted it as a success story of early detection and arrest.

Advocate Sabyasachi Ray was impatient. He wanted to meet the accused and if possible, lay his hands on him and tear him to pieces. Police Commissioner advised him restraint. There was intense media focus on the case and any adverse publicity will spoil their cause. He arranged to include Sabyasachi Ray in the team of lawyers to represent the prosecution and Sabyasachi took over the case like a man possessed. This was going to be the most important case of his life. Forget Bijayini Das – she was a mere dancer, fit to be used and discarded by rich, spoilt brats like Chintu Samantaray. Ananya isSabyasachi Ray’s daughter, and he cannot forgive a man who dared to put a finger on her. Dibakar will be made to pay the price. He regretted that there is no death penalty for rape, but he promised himself that after Dibakar finishes serving his sentence, Sabyasachi will unleash his four Alsatian dogs on him, who will tear Dibakar to pieces, limb by limb, starting with the throat. Sabyasachi Ray shivered with anger, his fists curled and face contorted. He stopped taking any other case. He was consumed day and night by a feeling of insane rage and obsession for revenge.

The court room was packed with people and media.  The whole town was curious to see how Sabyasachi, the unparalleled genius of legal world, will get retribution for his daughter. Poor Dibakar, a frail, emaciated man in his forties, who looked like a sixty-year old, trembled in the court room. Sadhan Patnaik, Sabyasachi Ray’s arch rival in legal profession in Bhubaneswar, was his advocate. With copious tears, Dibakar had pleaded with Sadhan Patnaik that he was innocent, and that he had never committed a crime in his life, unless consuming country liquor or smoking charas was treated as a crime. He is a father of four children, two of them are grown-up daughters. Committing a rape was unthinkable for him. Sadhan assured him that if he was innocent, he would be acquitted.  Sadhan volunteered to take up the case free for Dibakar. It was time to settle a score with the great, invincible Sabyasachi Ray, the celebrity advocate, who was getting increasingly unpredictable because of his uncontrolled rage and frustration.

Sabyasachi Ray gave a sterling performance, one of the best of his career. He presented four witnesses who had seen Dibakar enter the building at ten a.m. and coming out at nine p.m. The entry in the attendance register matched this statement. The head of the office, Abinash, an admirer of Sabyasachi Ray and also a friend from the Rotary Club, testified that Dibakar was a man of questionable character, often suspected to be under the influence of liquor and probably some dangerous narcotic substances. Abinash testified that sometimes he had noticed a foul smell coming from Dibakar’s mouth while talking to him. For such a man committing a rape in a vacant office building is quite plausible. 

Abinash was known to be a man of colourful reputation, corrupt, flamboyant, a big spender of money and a lady-chaser.

Sadhan Patnaik tried his best to discredit the head of the office.

“Do you know Advocate Sabyasachi Ray personally?”

“Yes”

“How often do you meet each other?”

“Almost every month, at the Rotary Club.”

“Are you good friends?”

“Sort of.”

“So, you are giving this evidence to help him nail Dibakar? Has he asked you to do that?”

For a moment Abinash was taken aback, his mouth remained open.

“How can you say like that? I am a senior officer of the government and you are attacking my character?”

“Please answer the question. The Court is aware how senior you are and many in this room have a fair idea about your character.”

There was loud laughter in the court room. Abinash lost his cool, his face became red.

“Fellows like Dibakar should be hanged, he is a risk to the society, to every single woman in this town.”

“So you have already decided that he is the culprit and your evidence is doctored to prove that theory? Has my learned friend, the celebrity advocate Sabyasachi Ray asked you to do that?”

Again Abinash lost his temper.

“You think, I am an idiot, I have no brains, that any advocate can convince me of anything?”

“Please don’t argue with me. Just answer my question.”

Sadhan Patnaik looked at the Judge.

“Your Honour may kindly direct the witness to maintain the dignity of the court room.”

Sabyasachi Ray sprang to his feet.

“Your Honour! It is my learned friend who is lowering the dignity of this court room by imputing motives to the witness and suggesting that I have tutored him.”

The Judge ignored Sabyasachi Ray. He was rather enjoying the line of questioning by Sadhan. He directed the witness to give exact answers to the questions put by the lawyer of the accused.

“For how long have you known the accused taking alcohol, or, as you have mentioned ‘other narcotic substances’?”

“He has a long history of being an alcoholic and user of charas.”

“How long?”

“I don’t know. I have only heard about it.”

“So, you are giving only hearsay evidence. How long have you been head of the office?”

“About three years.”

“Have you taken any disciplinary action against Dibakar?”

“No.”

“Have you even initiated any action against him?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want the poor man to lose his job, because of any action I take against him.”

“Why are you against the poor man now? Because your friend has told you that  Dibakar has raped his daughter?”

“Everyone in the town knows that Dibakar has done it.”

“How do you know everyone in the town thinks Dibakar is the accused?”

“I have talked to many people.”

“All of them are your friends?”

“Yes.”

“And friends of the celebrity lawyer Sabyasachi Ray?”

“Most of them are also friends of Sabyasachi Ray.”

“So all of you have already decided that Dibakar is the accused and you have come to give evidence against him?

Abinash was silent.

“How do you know that Dibakar is a drunkard and a drug addict? Have you ever seen him drinking?”

“No, but I have heard that he drinks a lot.”

“How many times have you seen him smoking?”

“Never.”

“You told the court that you have sometimes found a foul smell coming out of Dibakar’s mouth.”

“Yes.”

“How many times have you found that smell?”

“Two or three times.”

“What kind of smell?”

“I don’t know what exactly is the smell. It may be charas.”

“Are you sure it is charas or is it only a cigarette?”

“No, no, it is charas.”

“How are you so sure? Do you smoke charas?”

“No, of course not.”

“Does any one in your family or any of your friends smoke charas?”

“No! How dare you suggest that?”

“Just answer my question. How do you know that the smell coming out of Dibakar’s mouth is that of charas?”

“I don’t know. I have only heard that he smokes charas. So I presume the smell is that of charas.”

“You are presuming a lot of things. You have never taken any action against Dibakar for consuming alcohol, you have never seen him smoking charas, just by hearsay you presume him to be a drunkard and a drug addict. Is it true?”

“I know he is a drunkard and a drug addict, because everybody knows it.”

“So now you say he has raped your friend’s daughter because everyone says that and possibly your friend has asked you to say that! Are you an educated person or an ignorant rustic?”

Advocate Sabyasachi Ray got up, agitated, “Your Honour, my learned friend is trying to intimidate the witness! This cannot be permitted.”

The Judge looked at Sadhan Patnaik, “Any more questions?”

“No your Honour, I have established him as an unreliable and a biased witness. His evidence is based on hearsay, not facts.”

It was apparent that everyone had presumed Dibakar to be guilty. The media had already crucified him, there was public outcry against him and the mighty Sabyasachi Ray was out to finish him off. The case would have been closed early but for the brilliance of Sadhan Patnaik whose cross-examination of the witnesses was thorough, methodical and incisive. The prosecution had presented four more witnesses, all working in the same office, who testified that Dibakar was a man of dubious character and prone to crime. But Sadhan Patnaik demolished their evidence with the same brilliance he had employed for Abinash.  Except for a reputation of being addicted to drinks and charas, there was nothing to suggest that Dibakar had committed a rape.

The case dragged on and the court got closed for summer vacation. Despite Sabyasachi Ray’s best efforts he could not get an early conviction against Dibakar. During the summer it was found that due to the unfortunate incident Ananya had got pregnant. Sabyasachi Ray and his wife Dipti were shocked beyond words. Relatives advised them to get an abortion, but the lawyer in Sabyasachi wanted to prove Dibakar’s guilt by a DNA test. Ananya was adamant – let a DNA test be done and Dibakar be punished. Somehow the news got leaked and the sympathy of the whole town was with the poor girl. Anger was growing by the day. If Dibakar was not in jail, he would have been lynched by the public.

Before the summer vacation, the defence had presented one witness, Dambaru, a peon working in the office where Dibakar was a watchman. Sadhan Patnaik wanted to tread carefully, because Dambaru’s reputation as a drunkard was as bad as Dibakar’s.

“What’s your name?”

“Dambarudhar Majhi, Sir.”

“Where do you work?”

“I am a peon in the Textile Corporation.”

“Is it the same office where the accused Dibakar Swain works?’

“Yes, Sir.”

“Were you with him on the evening of April 23rd when there was torrential rain in Bhubaneswar?’

“Yes Sir, we were together in the office.”

“What were you doing on a holiday?”

“I had been asked by my bosses to arrange some papers and registers. It could be done only on a holiday.”

“Was Dibakar with you when it was raining?”

“Yes Sir, he was sitting near the entrance since morning. I only asked him to come up and close the windows. The rain was sudden and heavy. A lot of water entered the office hall and papers got blown away in wind. So both of us got busy in closing the windows, and arranging the papers. Some of the window panes were broken and we were busy in closing those gaps with papers and file boards so that rain water doesn’t enter the office.”

“It rained for more than an hour. Did it take that much time for you to close the windows and arrange the papers?”

“No Sir.”

“What were you doing after you had closed the windows?”

An embarrassing smile spread over Dambaru’s face. Actually he and Dibakar had taken out a bottle of country liquor and had polished it off in that one hour. But he had not told it to anyone. With downcast eyes he replied,

“We got tired and went off to sleep. We were feeling a little cold because of the dampness and the cool air.”

“When did you wake up?”

“Around nine when we heard a lot of noise and some people woke us up.”

“What was the noise about?”

“People told us that a girl had been raped and her father had taken her to the hospital.”

“What did you do?”

“We panicked. Dibakar thought he will lose his job because he had left the entrance of the building open when he came up to help me. I panicked because I had called him up to help me in arranging the papers.”

Sadhan Patnaik knew that drinking liquor in the office was the real reason of their panic, but he did not probe it. Dambaru and Dibakar were reeking of alcohol when people found them in deep slumber in the hall of the office. Both had locked the building and run away to hide in a friend’s house. The police could meet Dibakar only the next day, sober and fresh as a lily.

During cross-examination Sabyasachi Ray attacked Dambaru with a vengeance. Any friend of Dibakar deserved to be mauled!

“Why were you in the office when the rains started pouring?”

“I couldn’t get out. The rain was so sudden that nobody could move out anywhere.”

“With so much rain and thunder outside, how could you sleep?”

Dambaru was tempted to tell Sabyasachi that if one finishes half a bottle of country liquor in about forty-five minutes, no noise can stop him from getting knocked out, but the fear of losing his job made him give a decent explanation.

“I am used to noise while sleeping. My house is small and with my old mother and five children there is no space inside, I sleep outside in the verandah of my house in Rasulgarh, on the Cuttack-Bhubaneswar main road. I hear noise of trucks and vehicles through out the night.”

“What were you and Dibakar doing after you arranged the papers?”

“We chatted for sometime and then went off to sleep.”

“Who fell asleep first, you or Dibakar?”

“Dibakar, Sir.”

“No, you are lying. It was you who went off to sleep first. Dibakar was still awake. Seeing you asleep, Dibakar went down and raped the victim, then came up to sleep in the hall.”

“Impossible Sir, it was he who dozed off first and fell asleep on the floor. He was still sleeping when I got up due to the noise made by the people. Then we woke him up.”

Sabyasachi Ray kept on grilling him, but Dambaru didn’t flinch. He insisted that he was telling the truth and Dibakar couldn’t have committed the rape.

Hearing in the case resumed after the reopening of the court. Sadhan Patnaik wanted to examine Ananya. The Judge was hesitant, but she volunteered to give evidence. Like everyone else she had made up her mind that Dibakar was guilty and her hatred for the man was so intense that she wanted to do everything possible to crucify him. She had not gone back to college after the incident. The trauma in the initial days was too severe. But a modern girl like her cannot sit quietly at home and allow the accused to get off lightly if she could convince the judge to award the maximum penalty.  Sadhan Patnaik examined her with caution, knowing the all-round sympathy  for her.

“Your name?”

“Ananya Ray.”

“What were you doing on the evening of April 23rd?”

“I was driving my dad’s car. I had to stop at Rajmahal Square because of poor visibility in torrential rain. I locked the car and ran to the nearest building, which was the office of the State Textile Corporation. That’s where that animal raped me.”

She pointed out Dibakar Swain in the accused’s stand.

“Wait a minute. How do you know it was him?”

“I have no doubt in my mind.”

“Because the police has arrested him?”

“Yes, and he is known to be a criminal.”

“Did you see him that evening at any time?”

“No. When I entered the building, the light in the staircase area was very dim.”

“Where was he?”

“Hiding under the staircase.”

“Why would he do that, when there was a chair meant for him to sit and guard the building?”

“How do I know? You should ask him. May be he was waiting for a victim like me!”

“Do you recollect, from the feel of the man who raped you if he had the same build as Dibakar?”

There was silence in the court room for a few seconds. Then Sabyasachi jumped up, his face red with anger, rushing towards Sadhan Patnaik.

“You scoundrel, what kind of a question is that?”

It appeared he was about to assault Sadhan Patnaik. Others restrained him. The Judge was severe on Sadhan Patnaik.

“Mr. Lawyer, I know you need to ask if the rapist had any resemblance to the accused. But be decent in asking the question.”

Sadhan Patnaik had got slightly rattled by the threat of a sudden physical attack from Sabyasachi Ray. He looked at Ananya.

“Madam, my apologies. Let me put the question in a different way.”

Ananya interjected.

“It’s ok. You ask anything you want, but I want the accused to be punished.”

“Yes, let the real culprit be punished, but I will prove that my client is not guilty. Did you have an occasion to see the face of the man who attacked you?”

“No, the light had gone out when he attacked me. It was pitch dark.”

“Was he a very strong man, a huge man, or frail like the accused, standing there?”

“The man put his hand on my mouth and in a minute or two I fainted out of fear. But I don’t think he was a huge man. His hands were thin. He was like the accused standing there. I think, it was the same man.”

“No, I think it was not the same man. I will prove it shortly.”

Ananya looked at him defiantly. Sadhan Patnaik continued,

“Forgive my asking this. Is it true that you are pregnant?”

Ananya had not expected this question. For the first time during the cross-examination she felt shy. She nodded her head.

“Yes.”

“Did it happen because of the incident that evening?”

Her eyes flashed with anger.

“Yes, how else?”

“No, I was just wondering. You study in Delhi?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have boy friends?”

“Yes, I have many friends, some of them are boys.”

“Are you physically intimate with any of them?”

There was a shriek from Ananya.

“What? What are you saying?”

Simultaneously, Sabyasachi Ray, the lawyer with the booming voice let out a deafening roar.

“Bastard! You bastard! You are insulting my daughter in the open court room? I will get your license cancelled. You cheap bastard.”

He rushed at Sadhan Patnaik and tried to give him a blow. Sadhan ducked. It took a full five minutes to calm down Sabyasachi Ray. There was pandemonium in the court. Before the judge could pull him up, Sadhan Patnaik apologized to him.

“Your honour, my apologies again. But I will prove to the court that there is a reason for my asking the question. If the court permits I will ask one more question which is critical, in order to prove my client’s innocence.”

“Please proceed, but be sure it is relevant.”

“Thank you, Your Honour! Now, madam, everyone has sympathy for your condition. Please tell us honestly in this court, because you are the only one who can do that, is your pregnancy solely due to the unfortunate incident of the evening of April 23rd?”

Ananya looked at him with burning eyes.

“Yes, I am one hundred per cent sure of that.”

Sadhan Patnaik bowed at her and turned to look at the Judge.

“In that case, Your Honour, my client is innocent. He is certainly not responsible for the crime he is accused of. Here is the certificate issued by the Nirakarpur Primary Health Centre eight years ago, when he got himself operated for vasectomy after his fourth child was born. Dibakar Swain is incapable of fathering a child.”

There was a hush of silence in the court. Sabyasachi Ray was the first to get up. His face was distorted with shock, disbelief and anger.

“What kind of a cheap trick is that? The certificate must be a fake.”

Sadhan Patnaik stood there, smiling. This was a rare victory against Sabyasachi Ray. It spread a glow on him like a slow fire on a winter evening. To his surprise, the court room erupted in protest and anger. The public was not prepared to accept his argument. Thanks to the media, Dibakar Swain had already been pronounced guilty by the public.

“He is lying. He is lying. That certificate must be a fake, tear it up. Give justice to the poor girl. She deserves it.”

The Judge found the audience in the court room getting increasingly unruly. He asked the police to restore order and take away Dibakar from the court. He invited the counsels and Ananya to come to his chamber for a discussion.

Sabyasachi was seething with anger.

“Your Honour, my learned friend has played a cheap trick. Such certificates can be obtained by paying a bribe. I am sure it is a fake.”

Sadhan Patnaik was still smiling. It appeared as if the smile will not leave his face for the next few days.

“Your Honour, we can produce the Register from where the certificate has been made. My client is innocent.”

Sabyasachi Ray attacked him.

“If a certificate can be faked, a register can also be faked. Don’t you have any legal ethics?”

Sadhan Patnaik shot back.

“Mr. Ray, you take care of your legal ethics, I will take care of mine. The whole Bhubaneswar town knows how much legal ethics you have. They don’t have to go to heaven to ask Bijayini Das about your legal ethics!”

“How about my poor daughter? Do you know what trauma she has gone through?”

“Yes, we all have sympathy for her. But being a legal genius that you claim to be, I don’t have to tell you that cases are won in court not by sympathy, but by cold facts and hard evidence.”

The Judge intervened.

“OK, enough. Gentlemen, you can settle your personal rivalry outside my room. I have no option except dismissing the case.”

Sabyasachi Ray panicked.

“Your Honour, wait a minute! I have no doubt that this vasectomy certificate is a fake. Let us wait for a DNA test of the baby to prove that Dibakar is its father. I have checked with some reputed doctors. They say that although a DNA test can be done in vitro, a hundred percent certainty can be ensured if the sample is taken after the baby is born. We are prepared to wait for five more months for that.”

The Judge looked at Sadhan Patnaik.

“Your Honour, I am sure even the DNA test will be negative, but I am not prepared to let my poor client rot in the jail for the next five months, waiting for a DNA test to be done. I will agree to the DNA test if my client is let out on bail. Otherwise, I will press for an outright acquittal.”

The Judge looked at Ananya.

“How about you? Are you prepared to go through this?”

“Yes, Your Honour, we have already decided that the child should come out and prove to the world that the villain Dibakar is an animal in human form.”

“But how about the child?”

Before Ananya could reply, Sabyasachi Ray shouted in anger.

“We will give it away to an orphanage. I am not going to keep that disgusting thing in my house. We have not gone for an abortion only to let the child help in proving the guilt of Dibakar.”

“Or disproving it” – interjected Sadhan Patnaik.

The Judge again looked at Ananya.

“How about you? Do you agree to this? After all, you are the mother.”

A shudder passed through Ananya. She caught hold of the chair in front of her to steady herself.

“I agree with whatever decision my parents take.”

The Judge passed an order granting bail to Dibakar and posting the case for 15th February.

People in Bhubaneswar were stunned at this dramatic turn of events. No one was prepared for it, since the whole town had assumed Dibakar to be guilty. Now they all waited anxiously for the baby. It will be a unique baby. The fate of poor Dibakar Swain will depend on its arrival – will it be the confinement of the jail or free, open air for him? 

Days rolled by. Ananya felt the pangs of a baby growing up inside her. By a strange quirk of nature, she started liking the idea of having a baby, nurturing it and watching it grow. When the baby gave its mild kicks from inside, she no longer cursed it; she started enjoying the kicks and gradually waited for them. Just knowing that a part of her was growing inside, was alive and kicking, made her feel happy. A few months back if someone had told her that she would soon be a mother and a part of her flesh and blood would come into the world screaming, after a nine months’ wait in the dark chamber of her womb, she wouldn’t have believed it. Nature was gradually preparing her to bring forth another spark of life into a world of light and splendor. Her emotional turnaround was dramatic, but she was too scared of her parents to show any such feeling. She was worried for her father. Advocate Sabyasachi Ray had became a shadow of his previous self. He had stopped taking new cases. His only obsession during his waking hours was to win Ananya’s case, humiliate Sadhan Patnaik and send Dibakar to a long imprisonment.

The day a male child was born to Ananya, Sabyasachi Ray and his wife Dipti almost fainted out of shock. It was a peculiar child – not ugly, but something was different about him. What worried Sabyasachi the most was, it had absolutely no resemblance to Dibakar. The child was of a dark complexion, with small curly hair, big round eyes, thick lips and the eyebrows joined together. Added to his unusual features was a peculiarity which horrified Ananya’s mother. On his right hand, next to the thumb, the child had a small appendage, something like an extra finger.

Ananya’s mother refused to touch him. Sabyasachi Ray got the doctor to collect the blood sample for a DNA test and the next day he wanted to send the child off to an orphanage. To his horror, Ananya refused to part with the child. Her maternal instincts took over and defied all reason, logic, and pleading of her parents. She threatened to leave home and run away with the child if they insisted on sending the child to the orphanage.  

The DNA test was negative. The Judge acquitted Dibakar. Out of caution the police commissioner got the DNA matching done with the sample of Dambaru. That also turned to be negative. Sadhan Patnaik’s joy knew no bounds. He became the new hero in the legal fraternity. The Lions Club felicitated him for the doggedness and perseverance in getting justice for poor Dibakar. People of Bhubaneswar kept wondering about the real perpetrator of the crime. The police admitted they were clueless. So far they had put all their energy in trying to prove Dibakar’s guilt.

Advocate Sabyasachi Ray became a pitiable wreck. Never in his life had he encountered defeat and despair at the same time. His professional life was in doldrums and his personal life was a mess. He just couldn’t accept Ananya’s child. Its presence at home haunted him like a bad dream, constantly reminding him of his defeat in the court room. For petty reasons he snapped at his wife, at Ananya and at everyone in general. He stopped going to the court. He would often take out his car and drive around the town in a vacant state of mind.

On a late February afternoon, he left his house in his car. At Rajmahal square, he  stopped at the red light. He stared ahead, lost in thought. Suddenly there was a knock on the window on the left side of the car. He wanted to ignore it. Must be a beggar asking for alms! Absentmindedly he turned his head and looked at the window. The next moment blood drained out of his face. His eyes popped out, sweat broke out on his forehead and he felt as if someone was hammering inside his brain.

The dark man in tattered clothes, a dirty face with big round eyes, curly hair, joined eyebrows and thick lips smiled at him and raised his hands with a plastic bowl to ask for alms. 

With blurred eyes, Sabyasachi Ray noticed the extra little finger attached to the beggar’s thumb. His brilliant mind took only a few seconds to realize that this unkempt man with tattered clothes is the father of Ananya’s child. Suddenly his mind snapped, the thought of how this dirty man would have mauled his delicate daughter’s body on that rainy evening turned him crazy like a wounded tiger. His head started reeling. From deep within his heart he heard screams – a rising crescendo of piercing screams from Bijayini Das and many others whose souls were crying for justice, that was so craftily denied to them by the brilliance of Sabyasachi Ray and his ilk.

The genius lawyer lost his mind, opened the door and ran down the street towards Station Square tearing his hair, scratching his face and screaming at the top of his voice at an unforgiving God.
 

10. THE ETERNAL BELOVED - CUTTACK FROM MY CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

Mrutyunjay Sarangi 

(From the Third Edition of LiteraryVibes, 15 February, 2019)



I was born, as Bishnu Kumar Sarangi, at Cuttack in 1953, a non-descript year by all historical accounts. Cuttack in those days used to be the biggest town of Orissa, though in a few years the newly built capital at Bhubaneswar outpaced it in every respect, except in the typical spirit of camaraderie Cuttack residents are proud of. Having spent the first nineteen years of my life in Cuttack, the cute little town, surrounded by the rippling waters of Mahanadi on one side and Kathjodi on the other, remains embedded in my heart. Its cacophonic bazaars, sprawling green maidans, tree-lined streets and vibrant community life keeps the image alive in me of an ever-young, ageless beloved who welcomes me in an adorable embrace every time I return to visit her.

The earliest memory of my childhood is the fullness of the house where my parents used to live with us, seven children, and an endless stream of guests who used to come from our nearby village mostly for medical treatment. It was a government house. My father, a police officer, stayed in that house for sixteen years till his retirement in 1968. Although it had two large rooms and a separate visitor's room at the front entrance, almost all the space was used as sleeping quarters. A huge verandah cascading into an even bigger courtyard served as the dining space cum gossip centre. The courtyard was the most coveted place in summer for spreading the bed and sleeping in the open waiting for sporadic breaths of air from the stifling sky. Hand-held fans made of palm leaf were hardly adequate to produce the required degree of coolness, but one would eventually go off to sleep with the palm leaf fan slipping noiselessly from the tired hands. Morning sun, hot and burning even by six o clock would wake us up and made us scurry into the cooler shelter of the verandah. Electricity was still in the wombs of the future, a few years away.



In late fifties and early sixties the whole of Cuttack had only half a dozen cars and may be around fifty scooters. Bicycles were relatively larger in number and cycle rickshaws were the only means of aided transport available. We used to walk everywhere, to the school, the river, the markets and the playground. With at least half a dozen children available in every home, there was no restriction on our movement. One could leave home at any time and return at will, enter any neighbour's house and gladly eat whatever was offered. Parents would worry only if a child doesn't report back by evening.

On one such evening, when I was a four years old brat, my parents and brothers panicked as I didn't return home. Everyone remembered me leaving home around noon, going for a stroll (!) but no one had seen me after that. My father and brothers fanned out in different directions, all neighbours were enquired, some of them joined the search and when I could not be located, they were sure that I had strayed somewhere and might have been kidnapped. My mother started crying and my father had no words to console her.

Somehow before it became completely dark, I walked down the long grassy path of the colony and came home. Needless to say, my parents were overwhelmed with joy and relief. No one knew where I had gone, I myself had no clue. Out of great relief my father announced grandly, "Bishnu Kumar, today you have conquered death. From now on you will be known as Mrutyunjay".

When I was told this story in later years by my father I didn't believe him. But he had proof. He asked me, "do you know why your pet name is Biku?". I had no idea. He explained, "your eldest brother had derived this from the initials of your original name - Bishnu Kumar Sarangi - BKS - Bikesh - Biku! And from the day you were lost and found I named you as Mrutyunjay, the conqueror of death." The name has stuck ever since.

Those who knew me in my school and college days will find it hard to believe that till about six and a half years of age I was a big "Paath Chor" - someone who runs away from school and the very mention of studies arouses the caveman in him! My father tried his best to take me to school, but I would always find some excuse to run away. Sometimes the plea of an inescapable urge to go to toilet, sometimes a head ache and at other times a clever distraction by me made my father loosen his grip on my hand and I used to disappear into nameless hiding places till the evening. When the cows came home, I also did so, cautiously and stealthily, to escape my father's beating and mother's scolding. After repeated failures my father beat me black and blue one day and announced that he would never try again to take me to school and as soon as I am able to work he would put me as a helper in the bicycle repair shop in the market. I happily looked forward to the prospect of becoming a bicycle mechanic in due course.

I don't remember what made me change my mind, but one day I started going to school at  the Baxi Bazar Police Line. A young teacher who had newly joined the school miraculously found some merit in me and put me in the second grade in the middle of the year. He also coached me for the district level scholarship exam for the third grade next year. Another  miracle, I won a scholarship of three rupees a month and never looked back after that. 

For the fourth and fifth year I had to shift to another school at Machhua Bazar, half a kilometre away. But the walk was adventurous, through a busy market and a narrow lane dotted with houses on both the sides. It was interesting to see old people playing cards, grand mothers  giggling with small kids and women quarrelling at the top of their voices. I remember some of the most colourful expressions in Odiya - both printable and unprintable- were acquired by me during those pleasantly formative two years and have remained with me, always eager to come out on apprpopriate occasions.

As children we had household duties assigned to us. Although electricity supply was given for street lights in Cuttack around 1963 or so, domestic connections came only in 1964. Till that time we had to depend upon kerosene lamps and lanterns. Somehow it fell upon me to shoulder the responsibility of cleaning up the glasses of the lamps and the lanterns. After I was around eight years old, I also had to walk to the Baxi Bazar market half a kilometre away to buy vegetables, fish and mutton twice a week. Fish was available for one rupee and mutton for six rupees a kilo. I somehow remember we never had chicken in our early childhood. The first time we had chicken and eggs at home was around 1966 or so, when one of our cousin brothers, a Veterinary officer, came to stay at our house for a couple of days. He had brought chicken and eggs with him which my mother refused to cook in the regular kitchen. They had to be cooked in a special chullah in the courtyard. I also remember once my fingers almost got chopped off in the mutton shop in the market when I tried to push the mutton to the centre of the cutting log when keema was being made. The butcher got so angry that he threw some hitherto unknown expletives at me and I had to ask my more accomplished friends in the school the meaning of those bombshells!

Toffees, which were euphemistically called lemonchush, ice creams and lassies were the stuff of our dreams and we had to work hard to get the money for them. Somehow all my elder brothers and most of the visiting cousins had this near hysterical weakness for body massage  which essentially consisted of me or my younger brother walking over their prone bodies, stamping our feet on their back or even doing stationary jogging on their legs and outstretched hands. The reward was a princely sum of one anna and sometimes two annas if it was just after their payday. With that fortune in hand we used to run for the icecream, usually the stick variety. In our limited vision we used to think licking an icecream stick was the ultimate pleasure God has granted to humans! We had an icecream factory near our house. Seeing the ice cream being made and drawing the sticks out of the mould was a lifetime experience!  One had to save for a few days to have a go at the lassi but it was so unbelievably delicious that the pleasure was worth the wait.

Cuttack of my childhood days was a place of dreams - the dim lights of the streets, the colourful shops with their varied wares, the football matches in the Police line ground, the occasional film shown in the maidan, the playing of the police band, the lawns, flowers, in the big IG's office - all this wove a magic which kept our minds floating in a gentle dream of mild euphoria. Walking down the streets without any fear of getting trampled gave the feeling as if we owned the streets and everything else of Cuttack. There was no fear in our minds. We loved Cuttack and Cuttack loved us in return, making us feel safe, wanted and helping us grow.



The nearby Amareswar temple in the main road, a mere hundred meters away from our home offered endless excitement with melas, kirtans and bhajans. The evening Aarti and the morning prasad -  everything drew us to the temple like a magnet. On the mela days dozens of shops used to spring up selling innumerable goodies, from animal shaped sugar candies to balloons and toy pistols. A small sum (probably eight annas) was given to us as mela expense and we ran to the Mela like an Arab Sheikh out to buy a Mediterranean island! When I was eight (or nine?) years old our neighbour aunty spotted me in the temple and entrusted her seven year old daughter to me asking me to hold her hand while the aunty goes and finishes her darshan. Being a hopeless, congenital sucker even at that tender age, I fell for the girl's charms and spent my entire mela fortune on her, buying ribbons, candies and hair clips. And when the mother came to fetch her, la belle dame sans merci left without even a glance at me, let alone a smile!

I left Cuttack in 1972 for post-graduate studies in Bhubaneswar. I have not gone back to Cuttack to live there again. But Cuttack has never left me, not even for a day. Wherever I see dim street lights creating an enticing mixture of half light and half darkness, Cuttack comes to my mind. When I walk under a canopy of trees lining the streets, Cuttack nudges me to remind me of Cantonment Road and often in my dream I see the temples, the fairs, the lantern-lit shops, and the loud banging of cymbals and dholaks.

I imagine the dawn in Cuttack would still be opening up a clear blue sky with the stars twinkling their smiling goodbyes, the evening sky would be dotted with colourful kites and the lighted bazaars would be coming alive every day, welcoming customers like smiling damsels. I often see these timeless scenes marching before my eyes in a silent procession and realise with an aching heart, the Cuttack of my childhood is an eternal beloved, unparalleled in beauty and charm.