Life’s a Fairy Tale

“Kal Eid hai na Abbu?”

“Yes,” said Rehman as he put the three and a half year old Adil to bed.

“Abbu, please sleep with me and tell me a story.”

Rehman could not refuse. It had become a daily routine for him for the last one month. Every night after dinner, Adil needed a story before he closed his eyes for the day. As he lay beside his son, Adil pointed out to his father to the open sky, which could be seen through the broken roof above, and said…

“Has Ammi gone there, up into the world of stars?”

“Yes, she was a Pari who had come down to earth to give me my loving Adil. Then she left”.

“Pari gives everyone things they like and want.”

“Yes, if you are nice Pari will listen to you and bless you with all things good.”

Adil smiled and even before Rehman had started his fairy tale, he closed his eyes. He was dreaming about tomorrow….new clothes, kheer khurma and Eidi….it will be a wonderful day to celebrate. He would even break into soft giggles at times as he slept quietly.

Rehman got up from the bed and sat with his hands covering his face, deeply worried. It had been three months, since the shoe factory had closed, that he did not have a job in hand. The paltry money he had saved had all gone into the care for Adil’s mother Amina who passed away leaving him to take care of their son.

Today, Rehman was not worried about his poverty but the fear of the child losing faith in Pari who fulfils all wishes. Tomorrow was Eid and how miserable Adil would feel to find that Pari, who was also his mother, had forgotten him. He stretched his arm to pull out a packet that he had hidden beneath the bed. The packet was nicely covered with a colourful paper and looked as if some present had been wrapped. Rehman knew that inside was not anything new but a set of Adil’s used clothes he had got his brother-in-law Saleem, who owned a laundry,  to wash clean, starch, iron and pack them well with a used flowery paper. It was the best the father could give his son on a day of celebration. In the darkness of the night, Rehman carried it to an aluminium trunk in another part of the room, opened it and quietly placed the packet inside. The father tried hard but could not sleep that night.

In a couple of hours the loudspeakers from the masjid started the Azaan. It was time to get up and go for the namaaz. Rehman got up, took a bath and went to the masjid without waking up little Adil. Let him sleep longer, he thought. The longer he sleeps, the longer shall he dream and longer will he be happy.

After a while Rehman returned home. No sooner had he opened the door than he found Adil standing in front of the mirror trying to adjust the cap on his tiny head. The aluminium trunk was open and the wrapping paper was lying torn on the floor. Adil was wearing a brand new kameez and pyjama with a bright green jacket. As he saw his father, he turned around and ran shouting…

“Abbu, Pari had come last night and brought me new clothes for Eid. When I woke up, you were not there. I quickly had a bath and opened the box and inside it found the clothes wrapped in this paper. Pari loves me Abbu and so she has sent these for me.”

“Abbu there is more for me…look…look….”, he dragged the bedazzled father to the trunk and pointed at the small metallic box kept inside. Amina would keep her glass bangles inside.

“Abbu open the box please.”

Rehman lifted the box and shook it. It sounded different from the bangles. He opened the same and his eyes popped out. There were hundreds of coins of different sizes and some currency notes. The mother had been doing her little savings in the box. His jaw dropped as he stood speechless.

“Abbu meri eidi..please Abbu, the Pari has sent so much for the good boy Adil today. I am so happy.” Rehman pulled out a handful of coins and placed it in Adil’s palm. The little boy closed his fist tightly with a sense of joy showing all over his angelic face.

Just then there was a knock on the door. Rehman walked to unlatch the door. Outside stood Saleem, his wife Zubeida and their son Afroze.

“Eid Mubarak Rehman," said Saleem as he hugged the man who had taken so much care of his sick sister, never gave up hope and tried till the end. Saleem also handed him another packet.

Zubeida handed a bowl to Rehman in which  kheer khurma had been prepared with lots of dry fruits and thick milk. "This is for you Adil Miyan ," she said.

Adil did an impromptu dance as Afroze joined him in the celebrations.

"Rehman, we are going to the mela and are taking Adil with us. Hope you are fine."

Rehman stood at the door for a long time as he saw Saleem and his family walking away with a jubilant Adil. Rehman went inside and opened the packet Saleem had got today in which he found Adil’s used but well cleaned, starched and ironed clothes.

Rehman went down on his knees and put his hands together as he looked up at the broken roof to thank his Lord.

Eid Mubarak.

SS

OF ANGELS & DEMONS

“Bhai jaldi ghar aa jao…Mataji  lagta hai off ho gayi hain.”

The man on the other side softly said in a voice that had resigned and reconciled to the event that had occurred, “Shanti tum wait karo. Main jaldi aata hoon.”

The man who was strolling in the afternoon sun post lunch with a colleague went up to his work station, went up to his boss, informed him and left for home. While on his way to home in the local train he called up Shanti once more to reconfirm that the end had come and there appeared no sign of life in his ailing mother who he had left home in the custody and care of Shanti who had been there for nearly a year between 8 am to 7 pm when others went to work and school.

Today’s morning was different. The man’s wife had left for Kolkata a day before on an official training for a week. So the morning chores of preparing breakfast and sending the teenage daughter to school was his. This was the least of his worries. The mother had been ailing for over two months now and was bedridden and lately her condition was worsening. This was the time Shanti had become indispensible to the family. She had to be kept in good humour and many of her shortcomings were to be overlooked for the greater good she was doing. Today he could not take a day off and take extra care of the mother as there was an important meeting where an overseas visitor from Dubai had come to do a business review. So, reluctantly, he wore a tie and a suit, something he abhorred on regular days, but this was a special occasion and he quickly left home as soon as Shanti arrived.

As the train moved from station to station, he tried hard to hold back tears for he knew there was much to do now and it had to be all done alone since the wife was also away. He dialed a colleague of his at Kolkata to inform him of the happening and requested him to convey the message to his wife as well as arrange for her immediate return ticket.  He got off the train, took an auto home and knocked on the door. He went straight to the mother lying still. The doctor was called and he came quickly, did a quick check and wrote down the death certificate and left.

By now the daughter had returned home from school. The man asked her to wait in the house with Shanti as he went out to the nearest cremation ground, took their time and then collected the bare essentials like flowers, dhoop, chandan and went back home. As he entered the house, he saw Shanti taking off the gold bangles in the old woman’s hands and putting them in a small box lying nearby. She explained that all ornaments had to be removed before the body was put on the pyre. Two of her sons had also arrived to help the man in preparing for the last rites. A couple of office colleagues too arrived and arranged for the hearse. And soon the last journey from home to the crematorium and from there to the fire happened with the son performing the rites, his crying daughter staying back at home in the comfort of a few family friends while wife was rushing to airport to catch the earliest flight home.

It was midnight when the lady of the house returned and by then everything was done. Shanti agreed to stay back in the room where the old woman lived as a mark of respect to her and as an act of solidarity with the bereaved family which had treated her well all through…from money, to clothes to allowing her leave when she wanted and respect she got from all for the noble work she was doing. Very early next morning when the couple awoke, after a few snatches of sleep, they found Shanti all set to leave for home. She had packed her clothes and a lunch box with all the non-vegetarian food which the family would not be touching for some time. The son and his wife took out two months pay and gave it to her and then bowed down to touch her feet as a mark of ultimate respect and thankfulness to someone who had done so much in their absence.  Shanti was told by them to come again after four days when a small puja would be arranged. “ Tumko aana hi hoga.” “ Haan zuroor aaungi,” she said and left. The couple went back to their room and thanked their stars for having sent them an angel in the form of Shanti or else one of them would have had to quit work to nurse the mother.

After some time the man went back to his mother’s room to see and feel the little things in the mother’s almirah…her sarees, the tiny box containing her zarda, her medicines, bags….when he realized that the box where Shanti was keeping the gold bangles and other ornaments on his mother’s body was missing. He searched frantically but couldn’t trace it. The wife joined the search but in vain….Oh no..Shanti leaving in a hurry in the morning, something to which they had not given a thought, now appeared very strange and fishy. The man rang up Shanti on her mobile number and every time the ring went unanswered. Finally after many a try he got through, “ Shanti ma ke gehne kahan rakhey hain?” (“where have you kept Ma’s ornaments?”) She went completely blank and denied knowing of any ornaments. She calmly said she could not remove them from the body which had developed a swelling after a couple of hours of her passing away. The man kept on saying that there was no ornament on his mother’s body as the priest had asked him to check the body fully before lighting the pyre. The man kept pleading, she kept on denying.

One day he went to Shanti’s house to make one last plea. He offered to give her money to compensate her handsomely and he would forget the whole episode. She stoically and solidly denied it all. “Mere pass kuchh bhi nahin hai.” The man made one last request, “ Shanti you keep everything just return me her gold ring with the blue moonstone embedded. This is something I have seen her wearing since the time I was born and she never took it off ever in her lifetime. It was the one thing that always remains in my mind when I think of her for she had said that her father had got the rare stone from Burma where he worked.” The man’s tears failed to melt the woman across and, heartbroken and empty handed he left for home.

As was expected, Shanti never came home for the puja. Soon it was life as usual for the family. Parents running after Mumbai locals, office work and home chores while daughter coping with tons of books and reading materials. One day when she was reading the biology chapter on animal kingdom, the father happened to glance….” scavengers are those who feed on dead animals. The book spoke of birds like vultures and animals like hyenas” ….he walked by and wondered shouldn’t children be taught about human beings who should also be a part of the same chapter? For what others do we humans can do it better, after all we are an evolved specie, who can use the grey matter better than any other with little qualms to pick up from the dead carcass.

SS

JOY KINDLED

I am in love with my latest acquisition-a Kindle. It’s a gift from my daughter; a beauty to behold; a joy to hold; a loyal, undemanding, uncomplaining companion.

I had never imagined that I would enjoy reading a ‘digital book’ as much as a ‘proper book’. I can now say all war ends and I am completely at peace with myself the moment I sit in my rocking chair  holding this little thing in the palm of my hand and delving into Tolstoy’s early 19^th century Russia. Perhaps Blake had this futuristic vision in mind when he wrote “Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand and Eternity in an hour”. Time stops. I suddenly have wings.

Yes, I agree that the pleasure you get from turning the dog-eared pages of an old, yellowed favourite, retrieved from the last row of the topmost rack of a dusty, bookshelf, from which a delicate, poppy petal or a papery fern leaf falls out, is not to be found here. The dry, brownish pages cannot be felt here; the queer, moth eaten smell will not reach the nostrils; the oft read or the most turned pages will not keep falling out; the tear marks will never be visible to anyone nor will the old stains stir up any memories.

I also do not deny that it cannot infuse you with the same sensory or tactile feelings as you experience when you unwrap a brand new book or turn for the first time its freshly printed pages which still stick to each other and give out a smell that says ‘I am oven fresh’.

 However, as you gently touch this digital wonder with your forefinger and one page unfolds after another, you will soon realize that once again certain emotions are being kindled. The joy of reading is not growing less; instead, the sense of suspense is still growing; the feelings of boredom and loneliness are slowly abating; the characters are slowly coming to life; as the plot thickens the heart is once again racing; the pulse is missing a beat; the doors to another world are slowly opening up and miracle of miracles, you are once again enjoying!

To an old bookworm, who has practically survived the ordeal of life with the help of books, initially the digital world never held much attraction. Gradually, as time passed, I too succumbed to her charms. Presently on a self imposed house arrest, the world of internet, the online bookstores and the online libraries have been a boon. Though persistently and diligently I had been avoiding the Kindle, when it finally came from a loved one all wrapped up, I just had nothing to say. And now I have only one confession to make –I am in love with it.

While on the subject of books, I recall that it was the most common gift that we received as kids. Anybody visiting, or wishing you on your birthday or any other occasion for that matter, would do so with a book. A visit to a relative or family friend would very often earn you one. In fact, choices being limited, it was the most popular gift. Visits to the annual Book Fairs had become almost ritualistic. Train journeys also called for a last minute dash to the A.H. Wheeler stalls or saw uncles and cousins rushing to the platforms to see off the family armed with a packet of books. Prizes for good results also meant books. Pocket money too found its way to books. That is how we built our collection of fiction and non-fiction, how we survived the pangs of adolescence, unburdened our loneliness, lived through our moments of crisis or as Terry Jacks and Westlife have put it ‘Learned of love and ABCs / Skinned our hearts and skinned our knees’.

Books, undoubtedly, are the most trusted friends you can hope to have. You are free to criticize them, judge them, appreciate or condemn them; they will always be there for you. You just have to reach out for them. They also kind of grow with you. The same book you never could appreciate in your teens or twenties appear in an absolutely new reincarnation when you pick it up again in your fifties. For me they have been the best companions. Incidentally, I spent the most on them when I was a student and all the youthful resolutions with friends to buy the entire book shop the moment we start earning never actually saw the light of day. In fact, most people, I have seen, with the richest collection of books have not been the richest of people themselves.

Not that our love for books were always appreciated. A few illustrations of comments heard from the world of our elderly well wishers:

‘Instead of burying your nose in romantic novels and useless fiction, why don’t you concentrate on studies.’

‘What good will reading centuries old classics do- better to read textbooks.’

‘Amar Chitra Katha? You cannot learn English from reading such crap. Read Classics.’

Or an even better sample:

‘Enid Blyton’s books won’t help you get marks. Don’t waste time reading them.’

Interestingly, most of the Quiz questions on mythology I can still answer by racking my memory and filtering out names and incidents from those same Amar Chitra Katha illustrated series and I am sure many of my readers will agree that we first heard of butter scones and ginger ale, tuck boxes and midnight feasts in the fascinating world created by Ms Blyton.

No matter what they said, the love affair with books continued. Many idle afternoons have been spent in their company and so have passed many lonesome nights. How can we forget those interminably long train journeys which turned bearable only because of a few good books? Or when the whole family went off to a wedding feast and left us to study for the board exams? Even while waiting those insufferable nights outside hospital ICUs, in the company of equally anxious strangers, it was again books which saw us through. With books for company how many heartaches have we shrugged off like Scarlett O’ Hara saying “ I will think of it all tomorrow…… After all, tomorrow is another day”  or suddenly emboldened by dear old Rhett Butler we had the courage to turn back saying “ My dear, I don’t give a damn”. Perhaps, much of the joys of growing up lie in hiding a book inside a blanket on a winter night and reading those unforgettable and unmentionable lines only when the rest of the household have gone to sleep .

Continuing this tradition with our children can be equally enriching.Reading some of the same books again with your own kids is like a beautiful walk down a boulevard called life. You are able to re-live those years left behind and at the same time explore and discover many new ones on the way. How can we forget that it is the present generation that introduced us to the very magical yet so very human world of Harry Potter!

Though the number of book readers is going down, the love for books can never die out. Each one us might have our favourite genres-classics, romance, humour, biography, mystery, crime, history, sci-fi- but a true book lover usually reads extensively. After all it is a kind of addiction-you have to try out all kinds. Though whenever I try talking to youngsters these days most of them have many preoccupations or interests but books are certainly not among them. They state quite frankly that they are not into reading anything apart from those related to their subjects of study. In spite of whatever is apparent, that ‘breed’ called booklovers has not died out. Suddenly you come across a young boy of twelve or thirteen who says he loves reading all kinds of books though Greek mythology is his favourite. Another eighteen year old girl, I met once, told me that though she intends studying statistics, her hobby is reading books on history. Once I saw a young collegian, in a tightly packed ladies compartment of a Mumbai local, holding an apple in her right hand and George Orwell’s ‘Nineteen Eighty Four’ in her left, getting crushed all 360 degrees, but managing to maintain her balance well while continuing to read for all forty five minutes of the journey.

DS

Rang De Basanti

Gum Bahadur was a soldier in the Gurkha Regiment posted in Amritsar, Punjab. Six days of the week he would either be quelling the protesting locals termed rebels by the Gora masters or doing early morning rigourous training in the army camp. However, whenever he would get a chance, Gum ,on Sundays, would go across to the Golden Temple. There was something good about the place that gave him inner peace – was it the shabad kirtan playing or the sight of the Granth Sahib or was it the taste of the kada parshaad which brought a smile to his face. He gave himself another luxury of going to Kallu’s Dhaba and gorging on the Amritsari Kulcha with chhole. One day, while enjoying his kulcha, he saw a toddler, not more than three or four years old, who came running to him. “Uncle yeh bandook kya asli hai?” Gum smiled at the little one and holding his .303 Lee-Enfield gun tight, “Hain asli hai.” The mother, who was seated at the table nearby wearing a white shalwaar kameez , came across and pulled the boy away ,despite his loud protests, back to her table. Gum looked up at the mother and was stunned….she looked beautiful with round eyes, sharp nose, fair complexion and a tall figure…everything seemed right about her. Gum tried hard to look away but the more he tried, the more he would sneak a look at the woman.

Gum now had another reason to come out on Sundays as he found the mother and child also coming there around the same time. Slowly, Gum became friendly with Jagga who was now allowed to hold the gun; of course Gum had to support him as well. The mother would let Jagga be around the soldier. Gum was a fierce soldier and death was never something he feared but for once he was afraid, what if some day the mother and son wouldn’t turn up or what if the woman were to take offence at his looking at her and smiling? One day Gum found a courage of which he knew not and went straight and sat at the table where Jagga and his mother were eating their puri sabzi and lassi. The woman looked up in surprise but followed up with a gentle smile. Gum didn’t know how to react and being trained in the best military tradition his right hand went up in salute…..he soon realised his folly but the young mother laughed aloud.

Santokh Kaur was born and brought up in Gurdaspur but after marrying Dalbir Singh she had moved to Amritsar. Dalbir was a nationalist and was completely involved in the movement against the foreign rulers. About four years ago Jagga was born to them and three years after that Dalbir went missing. No one knew where. Some said he had been killed, some said he had gone into hiding and others said he had been imprisoned and sent to Andamans to serve at Kala Pani. Santokh never understood the freedom movement and the so called patriots and revolutionaries. To her, ensuring that she and her son got their two square meals a day and a shelter over their heads was enough. This wasn’t too difficult as Dalbir belonged to a well-to-do family which ensured that Santokh and Jagga were reasonably well taken care of.  After a while, waiting for Dalbir’s return, Santokh had reluctantly reconciled to the possible reality of life and started wearing whites despite protests from the husband’s family.  She would assist in the family kitchen and give a lot of time and attention to Jagga. Soon her life revolved around him and whatever he wanted, she would try and do it for him.

She found Gum a gentle soul and someone who showed her respect and more than that she felt something good in his presence.  Although he never said anything, Santokh too, like Gum, always looked forward to Sunday afternoons at Kallu’s Dhaba. Their conversations were very limited for she spoke chaste Punjabi and Gum’s Hindi had a strange accent which amused others listening to him at the Dhaba but not Santokh. They managed that small window of about thirty minutes, always were pained when the time arrived to part but looked forward to the calendar pages.

Baisakhi was approaching. It was the most colourful festival of Punjab. Gum knew about it and had saved a part of his meagre salary. He had gone to the market place and bought a colourful chunni- it was bright and beautiful. He had also bought a toy gun for Jagga. On the Sunday before the Sikh New Year, Gum handed over the packet to Santokh and said, “I know you wear white but I dream of you in colours. Wear it to the Baisakhi mela and I will be happy even if I can’t see you.” From where had the soldier found such courage mystified the speaker but he had done it and she just took it from him, opened it and silently sat down without an expression. She knew she would not be able to even though her heart wanted not to wait but do it right now. He returned to the barracks happy, she returned home puzzled but happy. It had been long since someone showed so much love. She couldn’t remember when last anyone had presented her with a gift. When all had gone to sleep, she closed the door of her room, lit the hurricane lamp, took out the packet from underneath the mattress of the bed, spread it over her head and looked into the small mirror and smiled. For long she had forgotten how beautiful she looked. The smile gave way to a giggle but then she quickly folded the chunni back and hid it away as she put out the light. A confused Santokh couldn’t sleep that night.

On the 12^th of April 1919, the commanding officer of the barracks called all the troops. It took the Gurkha Regiment no more than five minutes to be ready, guns and khukris shining with crisp khakhi uniforms. Colonel Dyer was the commanding officer and everyone feared that  man. He had a temper beyond words and the smallest of provocation was enough for him to punish the soldiers mercilessly. His hatred for the Indians was known to all. The commander roared, “The bloody Indians must be taught a lesson. They have been protesting everywhere, some peacefully and others have taken to arms. To me it doesn’t matter. Anyone who holds his head high against the British Government is a rebel and a terrorist and I shall not permit anyone to do it in my territory. Recently a mob had dishonoured an English missionary lady and I want to teach them a lesson. Tomorrow, at the park near the Golden Temple, as they gather to celebrate their festival, we shall teach them a lesson that will ensure no one takes us lightly, we shall crush their spirits and ensure our rule forever.”

It was a master stroke by Colonel Dyer. Even though Punjab had larger regiments but they had Sikhs there and he wasn’t sure of their loyalties in the brutal operation he was planning to execute the next day. Only the fiercest and the most loyal of His Majesty’s troops, the Gurkha Regiment would do and die and not reason why. As the soldiers retired to their beds, Gum was a worried man. Tomorrow Santokh and Jagga would be going to the very park where Dyer had planned a massacre. At night, Gum tried to sneak out of the barracks and make his way to the place where Santokh lived but such things only happened in fairy tales and not in real life.

Next morning ninety troops of the Gurkha regiment got ready in their battle fatigues. Fifty of them carried .303 Lee-Enfield guns and forty had a bare khukri in their hands. They walked in unison behind a motorized machine gun. As they came to the entrance of the park, Colonel Dyer realized that the motorized machine gun could not enter. So it was kept outside and the Gurkha troops were ordered to march in a single file. As Gum entered the Jallianwala Bagh, he saw a huge crowd inside but his eyes were looking for the red and gold chunni. He could see not one but many women all of whom were brightly dressed and many adorned the red and gold colours. Gum’s heart sank….is Santokh here…she said she would come with Jagga here. “God help them…Please save them”, he prayed as his eyes looked from right to left and left to right.

“Soldiers Attention! Take positions in two files. One standing and one on their knees. When I say Fire, fire till all the bullets you have finish. Show no mercy to the rebels.” Gum knew the Gurkha Code of Honour. Never to question but act as commanded and that is why his people were always considered the epitome of loyalty and integrity. As he knelt down and raised his .303 Lee-Enfield to take aim, he felt heavy in his heart. How could he kill his Santokh? How could he fire at little Jagga, one who played with his gun every Sunday? As the fight within him reached a peak, he heard Colonel Dyer roar, “FIRE!”

On an unarmed crowd of 15000, about 1650 rounds of bullets were fired. Official records show about 400 killed and a 1000 wounded but honestly no bullet could have missed its mark. Surrounded by walls, the hapless crowd had nowhere to go. The Gurkhas kept firing and bodies fell one atop other. Gum saw women and children jumping into a lone well in the park. He saw one woman with red and gold dupatta jumping and he prayed she were Santokh…his Santo. As the bullets exhausted, a satisfied Dyer examined his victory by thumping his chest and then commanding the troops to return to the barracks in an orderly fashion as the wounded lay unattended.

The Lieutenant General of Punjab, Michael O’Dwyer wrote in a telegram to Colonel Dyer, “Your action is correct. Lieutenant Governor approves.” Far away in Calcutta, Rabindranath Tagore received the news and wrote to the Viceroy, Lord Chelmsford ,as he gave up his Knighthood, “I…wish to stand, shorn, of all special distinctions, by the side of those of my countrymen….the time has come when badges of honour make our shame glaring in the incongruous context of humiliation.”

A month later in the army barracks in Amritsar a court martial proceeding was going on.

“Gum Bahadur you are charged with treason against His Majesty’s Government for not firing a single shot even when commanded by Colonel Dyer. Do you accept the charge or have anything to say?”

“Yes Sir, I admit I did not fire on 13^th April 1919, not for showing disrespect to my Commander but because my gun was not working. It had got jammed. I tried hard to make it work but failed.”

Colonel Dyer who was standing in the court room stepped forward and asked Gum, “ Check this gun. Is this yours?”

Gum held the gun and he knew it was his. How much he took care of the gun, polished it, greased it…it was his pride. It was his earlier actions that had promoted him from a mere khukri wielding Gurkha to a gun. He always felt a sense of pride when he held his gun in his hand. “Yes Sir. This is my gun.”

“And you are saying it was not working on that day? It was jammed!”

"Yes Sir."

Dyer held the gun to Gum’s temple, unlocked the gun and pressed the trigger…..Booom!!

Gum fell down as blood rushed out.

Dyer threw down the gun and said, “I rest my case. The famed British justice is delivered.”

SS