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

The Prize

Hello Mr. Sen bol rahe hain?

Yes, but I don’t need any credit cards.

Sir, this is not a call for credit card but to tell you that you have won a prize. Congratulations Sir!

What prize? You think I am a fool who will fall in your trap. I never contested for anything and you will now tell me that $5 million will be credited to my bank account….Alibaugh se samjha hai kya?

No Sir, on 16^th of April you along with your family went to see Mowgli, the movie at Inorbit Mall.

Yes , so what?

You filled up a form after karaoke-ing the song Jungle Jungle baat chali hai pata chala hai, chaddi pahanke phool khila hai, phool khila hai. You have won the first prize and you are now entitled to…

Shut up! I know how badly I sing and you’re telling me I won a prize for it. Don’t fool me. I have lots of work to do than to waste my time listening to your bakwaaas.

Sir, ek baar listen to the prize and I am sure you will feel happy. This is no ordinary prize and we are a Fortune 500 multinational hospitality company doing our launch in India. We have just opened our first seven star hotel in Goa and your prize is a 2 day/2 night stay at the Presidential Suite on a twin sharing basis.

Twin sharing basis? Which means I can take my wife along as well. That's good.

No Sir. You will be going alone but the person sharing the room with you is a famous celebrity from Bollywood searched on the internet day after day.

Kya bakwaas hai? Main aisa waisa aadmi nahin hoon.

Tomorrow you will get the official invitation.

That afternoon, that evening, that night and the next morning with a heart thumping aloud, I waited for the invitation to come. It finally arrived. Normally I keep my cabin door open, but since this was ‘confidential’ closed it and, with the finesse of a surgeon, neatly opened the envelope. Yes the caller woman was correct. The invite read:

Congratulations Mr Sen.

Welcome to Hotel Exotica for a 2D/2N stay with me at the presidential suite. It will change your life forever.

With Love,

S

Bollywoord star with a name starting with S….Seepika Padukone- No. Sareena Kapoor- No. Satrina Kaif- No. Sangana Ranaut- No. Then who can it be? The tele-caller lady had given  the clue but I refused to believe it. So to end the suspense, I called the number given below to find out who was the Bollywood celebrity S. They said they were not authorised to disclose the name but it was not difficult to guess and anyone could guess it. To add to the confusion was the hotel name as the mind would read it as E_otica where the R replaced the original X….Men will always be men!

My business class flight tickets, hotel confirmation and pick up and drop- all had been arranged. All your life having sat next to women over 75 in trains, buses and air, having spent all your life with one woman for the last 26 years…..surely the itch is there in all men but opportunity as this never strikes and he remains the Loyal One Woman Man forever.

Boss at work was easy to handle…Sir going for a short vacation to Goa. Ok, enjoy self.

Boss at home was a different proposition where all your man management and leadership skills are tested and then you realize that Stephen Covey and his breed were theoretical masters….When Where, Why, How, Who and When….a lie for all six of the questions is not easy but we men master it over the years and….inevitably get caught as well and then as the Tanishq ad says how big will be the solitaire depends upon the size of your lie, folly and the state you are caught in.

I had two weeks of preparatory time. The first thing I did was to enroll into the Super Gym near the office with a super instructor who had to make sure four packs if not six appear in the given time. The guy was good, real good and he tried and tried hard and so did I try, try and try hard but by the mid-fifties wrinkles are easier to get but not the Abs plus getting these over your pot belly is even harder to get. My constant complaints to his boss ensured that the poor fellow went on leave by the end of week one, knowing fully well the false promise made by the owner, “Hum toh gadhey ko bhi ghoda bana detey hain, aap kya cheez ho!”

Next stop was the Palladium Mall near the work place where all the global brands were available under one roof. I had to be well dressed…dressed to kill. For once shopping was fun. My poor wife would plead with me to take her to the malls and I would make faces- glum and sad and almost had to be dragged there. Not today. Today was different. Swiping my cards bought myself a Burberry suit, Armani shoe….you name it, I had it. Just one bit of important clothing remained as I walked into the Jockey store. The Frenchie-man had to become Macho-man by wearing Jockey or Nothing. The pair I selected was the flashy one with designs made of the Serengeti Forest….felt The Complete Man.

Not since the mid-seventies when I lay my hands on the Hugh Hefner and the like magazines that made your eyes pop and at home would see them putting the huge Times of India as a cover, I picked out old editions of the Sanskrit manual from by-lanes of shady Colaba and brushed up my knowledge given by the sages of old.  This could only be read late into the night when the Boss at home had gone to sleep and I would sheepishly step into the study telling her with all the theatrical talent available that the Strategy Meet at Goa is killing me and have to do late night study of books and make presentations. Of course I covered the book with a brown paper and wrote boldly on top- Building a Winning Sales Force knowing her aversion to management books. This was a masterstroke in camouflage!

A day to go and one stop remained. This could not be done at the chemist near the house for they all knew you and knew The Boss even more. Waited till the last of the customers left and with a forced smile on my face, ‘woh dena’….as I played table on the glass top as I saw the chemist pull out the boxes. He put it in a small brown packet and asked for hundred rupees. Again I smiled and said ,’woh bhi dena’….’diya na, aur kya?’…árrey woh capsule, foreign wali’….the guy started laughing and said, ‘Uncle Maja Ma Cho!’ I wasn’t in any mood for such silly jokes as this was serious business I was doing. Quickly paid him and walked out now ready to conquer the world.

That night I couldn’t sleep. With her on my mind and the fear lurking what if I were to get caught, what if I failed to impress her after all she was the most desirable woman, someone who was searched more than the Honourable Prime Minister himself. Got up before the alarm went off and walked into the luxurious car with the famous Tristar on the hood waiting to pick me up. Landed in Sunny Goa….Oops what a give away…Sunny…and rushed to the Hotel Exotica where they had everything arranged…from a band to beautiful ladies with flowers and welcome drinks. I was royally ushered into the Presidential Suite which truly looked like the palaces of old. I had an hour to freshen up before S arrived. As I walked into the bathroom to have a shower, started humming, “aaj unsey mulakaat hogi…aamney saamney baat hogi…phir hoga kya, kya pata kya khabar.” Yes of course no one knew what would happen, how did the lyricist know about my state of mind…must be a genius.

Wrapped a bathing suit hanging by the door and walked to the Royal Bed waiting. Slipped into the blanket straight and poured myself a glass of Moet Hennessy. Then I heard a gentle knock on the door….my heart stopped…my vocal cords failed as I tried to say, ‘come in darling’. The door opened ajar as I saw S walking in….Sunny Deol…..Dharam Garam’s son! What is he doing here? Is he the S? The clue about day after day meant tareekh pe tareekh...OMG!! I fell from the bed with the champagne spilling all over the carpet. Somehow managed to get up and put forth my hand for a shake and remembered his famous dialogue, ‘yeh haat hnahin, hathoda (hammer) hai’….As he sat down on the couch, I excused myself to step out for a moment.

I ran and ran and ran till I came to the beach. Threw my bathing suit down and rushed into the rushing waves….I felt like drowning myself. Then I realized what a fool I had been to let my dreams take over my rightful judgement. After a while, returned ashore. Sat down in my Serengeti briefs…from Jockey or Nothing to Nothing but Jockey here I was a at Sunny Goa waiting for Sunny Leone, getting a Sunny Deol instead…Funny Sunny.

Looked up to the Creator, “Boss, kya panga hai is garib se?” Heard a heavenly voice softly singing Jungle Jungle baat chali hai pata chala hai, chaddi pahanke phool khila hai, phool khila hai.

SS

A PAGE FROM A DIARY

As I sat down in the bus going home after spending four gruelling days in the Burns Department ICU at the Safdarjung Hospital, New Delhi, I felt a sense of relief. My little one had today moved into the General Ward and the doctors attending said that in a couple of days the patient would be discharged.  My daughter, my first born, was thirty years old but had a mind of no more than that of a ten year old -so she was always  the ‘little one’ to me. My baby loved making tea at home and that fateful day she was making it for herself and her father, who was at home. As she began pouring the tea into the cups, she suffered a bout of fits, something she used to have since she was an infant. The tea  poured all over her as she fell on the floor wriggling with her eyes wide open, unknowing of any heat or pain. With the saucepan making a loud noise, the father rushed to the kitchen and saw it all. He called for help from the neighbours, rang me up at my office, which was not far from home, and rushed the girl to the special Burn ICU at the hospital.

My ‘little one’after coming to senses would not let anyone touch her except me. The doctors made an exception in the case and allowed my son to also stay in the ward to help me and the doctors in treating the patient who would get violent at times. I took care of her during the day and at night when I would try and get some sleep, my son would stay awake keeping watch, calling the nurses, giving his sister water, getting medicines which the doctors would prescribe from time to time. The Head Matron had specifically told the boy, “Don’t eye the nurses in the ward or else you will be out of the ward!” On the third night suddenly there was a commotion….nurses came rushing asking all extra people in the ward to leave as an inspection team was coming. My son told me not to worry and also requested the nurses to call for him as he would be just outside the gates of the hospital in case they needed any medicine or help. That night, I stayed alone and awake in the ward while my son joined a sea of people at the major crossing outside the Hospital chatting with people, taking a few cups of tea intermittently.

Around 11 am next day, my younger daughter and husband came to the hospital to relieve us. Both of us looked terribly tired and exhausted. No sooner had we reached home than we took a good bath and went off to sleep because we had to go back again to the hospital in the evening. I couldn’t sleep much so woke up early and left for the hospital, leaving my son to sleep longer. As soon as I reached the ward, I saw a lot of doctors and nurses around my ‘little one’s’ bed. I screamed as I ran as much as I could and quickly wrapped my arms around my baby.  I held her tight as I could see her pain on her face but also a faded smile as she saw me coming. She was trying to say, “My Ma is here. Now everything will be all right for me.” And then……my girl slumped went completely still. The doctors checked her one last time and left us standing there alone. She had been very uneasy all afternoon and had become dehydrated. The doctor had slowly given up hope and that was when I came back. A question that I keep asking myself is whether my little one was just waiting to get a glimpse of me before bidding goodbye?

Since this was a case of unnatural death, the body of my ‘little one’ was kept in the morgue for the police formalities and postmortem. I repeatedly told them, “She has never slept alone. All these thirty years she has been by my side. She is afraid of the darkness and needs to often hold my hand in her sleep.” My cries fell on deaf ears. They wouldn’t listen. We went back home. By then the neighbours had come to know of the news and a lot of them crowded my small government house. By the time they left it was quite late and my husband, son and daughter went off to sleep. I stayed awake looking out of the window. It was a full moon night and the sky was illuminated. 

My ‘little one’ was born very beautiful. She was so soft and round and was the darling of all my friends. One night, as she lay beside me, she fell from the bed. We did not give the incident much importance but soon found out that while her body was growing at a natural pace, her brain was not. We tried sending her to a normal school but realised she was not able to cope up with the other kids. There were not too many schools for special children in our times so we kept sending her till class 5 even though her younger sister had gone past her and was studying in the 7^th standard. My ‘little one’ stayed back at home after that but we needed someone to look after her during the day when I would go to work. So we decided to keep a young couple who did not have kids and the wife was not working. My house was small and we had to give away one of the two bed rooms. My family of five were left with one bedroom and one living room and a common bathroom that was shared with the other couple.

To me all this did not matter. All that was important was that my girl was being taken care of in my absence. But once I was back home, I would do everything for her including feed her with my own hands even when she was twenty…she loved it and waited for it everyday. My husband was a quiet man and just went to work and stayed at home but I was the social type, never to miss a get together, a marriage or a birthday party. Wherever I went, my ‘little one’ went with me. If there was a party at the office, I would pack the goodies and bring it home to share with all my children but of course the biggest and the best piece was reserved for her. I made sure I took her to Calcutta every year during the summer vacations. On all these trips and outings I had to manage her alone for my husband never accompanied us. We tried all allopathic medicines including shock therapy and I even got a fakir home to do jhaadphoonk but the damage to the brain was irreversible.

How many nights I would stay awake for her whenever she fell ill. Her bouts of fits became more frequent and many times she would fall over sharp and tough objects thereby hurting herself. Only I could nurse her. I started taking sleeping pills on days she was all right as I just couldn’t sleep normally.

After today, may be, I will sleep as my baby sleeps alone tonight in that freezing morgue with nothing to cover her, just a white sheet of cloth. Tomorrow they will take her to the Yamuna Ghat and only memories will remain. I will dress her up well. She always liked red silk saris and lots of glass bangles. She always put a bindi on her forehead and so it will be tomorrow as well. I remembered her school going, her tiffs with her siblings and her most prized possession was the little piggy bank where she would put the coins her father gave her. Every Durga Puja the gullak would be opened and I would buy her a sari of her choice. I went across to the cupboard where her gullak was kept, lifted it and shook it slowly….the noise of the small coins inside sounded loud and broke the quietness of the night.

Perhaps what has happened has happened for good. Who would have looked after her when I would not be around? Couldn’t expect my son and daughter to do all this? Not fair for they have a normal lives to lead with their families and shouldn’t be chained to her. I am sure she too felt bad about not being normal and must have suffered a pain that she never could express of being possibly inferior to her brother and sister and to the other people she knew. May be the Lord has been kind to relieve her of her pain and misery. May be He may have taken pity on me- No, no way. Why pity me? I never asked for it. No matter what she was to others, to me she was always My Little One. Tomorrow her final journey commences and if there is any God up there, He will take care of her till I meet her again. Instinctively I put my hand out of the window with my index finger pointing towards the sky….Take care, My Little One. Love Ma.

SS

THE SOUND OF SILENCE

Pray, do not mock me:

I am a very foolish fond old man,

Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less;

And, to deal plainly,

I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

(Shakespeare, King Lear)

“Happy Birthday, Ma”.

My daughter greets me with a kiss. Today is special. They are saying it is my eighty second birthday. Does it really make any difference… 81^st or 82^nd or 85^th.Everyday is the same. It starts with a tablet and ends with a capsule.

Someone has kept fresh flowers in my room. My son-in-law must have got them.

The telephone rings. It’s my son calling…my first born….he is nearing sixty, they say, but he is still my little boy. I accept his wishes, exchange some small talk. What a beautiful child he was…he got his father’s complexion, thankfully not mine. I remember people telling me how handsome he was. I wonder how he is managing without me…he could not move a step without my being around. All his clothes had to be kept in place, his socks, his handkerchief; I would also have to keep good, clean, new currency notes separately for him. How he hated handling soiled notes! My daughter says you have spoilt him. May be I have, but what could I do? He needed me all his life. He has always been like that. He apologized for not being able to send a birthday card; the card shops, he knew of, have all closed down. He sounded sad. My daughter explained, people don’t send cards any more. The mobile does everything. Good. Yes, I quite like it, you don’t have to go and pick up the phone any more. They bring it to you. In my house, I was the one to first answer the phone for everyone, call the person, receive messages for him and pass on messages. Fortunately, in those days I never forgot anything.

When I was younger, I never forgot anybody’s birthday or anniversary. They would all make fun of me. My mother-in-law used to joke, “She must have been the nurse who brought us all into this world.”

Yes, nowadays I find it difficult to remember so many things. My daughter says she is tired of repeating the same instructions to me. I don’t blame her. Strangely, I do remember going with my father to Beleghata at a meeting where Gandhiji had come. I remember touching his feet. I was in school then. I was telling her about it. She smiled, “It is strange how you still remember the incident.” It is one of the few memories that I have of my father.

What was I thinking of…oh yes, my son. My daughter says I should have learnt from the innumerable movies that I watched all my life and should have kicked up a storm, left house or even tried threatening my son with committing suicide in true ‘filmy’ style. She says only then would he have agreed to get married. May be.  May be not. I am not so sure. I listen quietly.

Yes, it is true I was very fond of movies… Uttam – Suchitra were my favourites. Then came Soumitra, Amitabh, Madhuri, Shashi Kapoor, Dharmendra, Meena Kumari, Audrey Hepburn, Clark Gable. I could watch any and every movie. With anybody-friend, cousin, children, neighbour….they used to make fun of my craze for films. Even now they search the channels to find some interesting movie for me to watch..but now I lose track…ads, breaks, sleep…too many interruptions. I can’t remember where it stopped and where it began again.

My daughter gives me the phone again..it is my niece calling. We grew up together in Dover Lane in Calcutta in my eldest brother’s house. I had lost my father when I was not even fifteen. My nieces and nephews were around my age, a few months older or younger. They used to call me by my name. On some occasions they still call me up. I recognize her voice- the same drawl, the same stress on certain syllables. There is nothing that comes to mind, nothing new, so we talk of growing older, being a burden and waiting to die. My daughter is irritated with me, “Don’t you all have anything interesting to say to each other. If someone recorded your conversations, it would be the same thing playing over and over again”. She forgets that we are the scratched and old long playing records of yesteryear, repeating the same thing over and over again, stuck at one point.

It is now time for me to do some free hand exercise. I am supposed to follow a time-table—exercise, bath, fruits, meals, sleep, TV, walk—but I can’t remember. I can’t even remember which month or year it is. She tried making me calculate my age. I failed, as usual…The poor girl gets exasperated with me, “You can recognize Manoj Kumar  and Mukri  when you see them on TV and you can’t remember that it is time for you to do your exercise?” Why can’t she leave me alone…no matter how much I move my legs or arms, my twisted, bent, shrivelled body will not be the same again. “No, it is because you don’t try enough.” It is no point trying to say anything to her, she has always been adamant. She would argue, even as a child.

My daughter has made some payesh for me. She said something about baking a cake. Why is she even bothering? In our time, we never cut cakes. Even when I was a kid, my nieces used to gorge on Swiss and Belgian chocolates and other confectionery from Flurys but I never liked them and used to give them my share. I still love samosas, though I am not allowed to touch them these days. She gets angry with me for not talking to her the whole day. “You just listen, Ma, why don’t you say anything? Or can’t you hear me?” I can hear her, but sometimes I pretend not to. It is better that way. There is peace.

I remember getting married six days after my 21^st birthday. That month there were three weddings in the family, one after another. Imagine, in the peak of summer. Mine, my niece’s, followed by my fourth brother’s- all in our family home in Baidyabati, in the Hooghly District. This was where my father built our home some years after moving from Bikrampur, Dhaka. This house has seen the footfalls of several distinguished leaders from history- Rajendra Prasad, Sarojini Naidu, Subhas Bose. I was born in this house. I was the youngest of eight children. I had five brothers and two sisters, now only one is alive and he is still living in this very house. Sometimes, my daughter connects me with him. Usually his wife does all the talking and if she gives the phone to him, he only cries. There was a time, I remember my mother saying, when at least forty people would be sitting at a meal on a normal day. My father ended his teaching career by quitting his job at Presidency College to join the Non-cooperation Movement when called upon by C.R.Das, and the whole burden of running the show in the Baidyabati house fell on my mother. A small, stout woman but she stood like a huge, old banyan tree and kept the extended family together. Later in life, whenever any of us were in need of a little rest or succour, in sickness or in crisis, all would run to her. See I have again lost track… what was I thinking about… this happens ever so often. Yes, the three weddings. The guests stayed on, the pandal was not dismantled for a month and the soulful music of the shehnai reverberated through the house for days. I went to my in-laws’ place in Calcutta for two days post my wedding and then I was back again – how could I miss out on all the fun?

Uff..there comes my daughter again shaking me out of my reverie. She really has some problem. “It is time to walk around a bit. Why do I have to remind you every time?”  Who is asking her to? I was not one for walking much. Even my husband knew that. Everyone knew that- I liked to talk, have fun, relax and enjoy life.

A few days after my marriage was fixed, I had my B.A. examination. My husband wanted to come and meet me at the test centre during the lunch hour. I remember saying no, please don’t, very vehemently. I did not want my friends from Lady Brabourne to tease me later. My days in the Brabourne hostel were the best days of my life. My daughter loves to hear me talking about my college days. My best friends then were Zeenat and Aruna and we had such pleasant times together. After marriage we kept in touch for some years and then we lost contact. I used to be cash-rich in those days- thanks to one of my brothers, who happened to be very magnanimous with the pocket money. I still remember buying a pair of high heeled sandals and some pretty georgette saris. My granddaughter refuses to believe- Dimma and georgette saris with high heeled shoes! Yes, who will believe it seeing me in these drab cotton nightgowns most of the days?

 My husband’s family wanted me to pursue MA. But I flatly refused. I told my husband, I did not get married to study. Actually, his elder brother’s wife had got married after her matriculation and had completed her M.Sc in Physics and was teaching in a college. “But all this was never part of my dream when I said yes to marriage”, I said very clearly. They were surprised with my decision since my father and eldest brother were well known names in the academic circles.

There comes my daughter telling me it is time for my afternoon siesta. Why can’t I sleep when I feel like? No, she decides everything.

My mother-in-law, widowed at twenty one with four small children, had only her old father-in- law to fall back on for support. When her brothers came to take her back, she refused, saying she wanted her children to grow up in their own house, not in their uncles’. My husband, fatherless at four, was a self-made man, who worked his way from the age of sixteen. When I was married to him, he was a Chartered Accountant, working in a small private firm. Soon after he cleared the UPSC examination and joined the Indian Railway Accounts Service. I came into their family when they were financially stable. It was from my mother-in-law that I heard the stories of their struggle- there was a time when all three, my husband, his brother and his wife would leave the house every morning pursuing their post- graduate studies and part-time jobs. Today I am the only one left behind…they have all gone, one by one.

I enjoyed moving with my husband all over India, from small houses to sprawling bungalows; from insignificant small towns, known only in the Railway circle, to big cosmopolitan cities. My husband, a sports lover, was a good sportsman too. He was a very good badminton player but in the railway clubs he changed the rules about husband -wife partnership in mixed doubles. Reason, my dismal performance on the court! He was a truly handsome man! I remember how the spinster sister of another Railway Officer, living in our building, would watch him walking back home from her balcony every day and once remarked to me, “Your husband is so handsome, they should have made him the Chairman Railway Board”. It still makes me laugh even to this day!

Yes, I have lived, loved and laughed. As I sit by the window, broken, twisted, uprooted, I sometimes retrace this journey. My daughter asks me “Ma, what are you thinking of?” I just reply, “Nothing much.” My home, my children, my precious garden, the sudden twists and turns of fate, the little joys and sorrows, friends and family, all come back to me in sudden flashes, in bits and pieces of scattered memory. I have reached the end of the room, very close to the exit door. It is now a matter of crossing over, a time to let go.

My daughter has turned on the music player and the faint music of “ Jibono moroner shimana chharaye, bondhu hey amar, royechho daraye..” wafts through the air. I fall asleep.

DS

IF WISHES WERE HORSES

(An ordinary Indian’s dream inspired by Robert Browning’s The Pied Piper of Hamelin)

Delhi Town’s in India,

By the famous Indraprastha City,

The river Yamuna, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied,

But when begins my ditty,

Almost twenty years from now.

To see the townsfolk suffer

From vermin, was a pity.

Corrupt, vile, selfish politicians

They fought the dogs and killed the cats,

They bit the babies in the cradles,

And ate the cheese out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladle’s

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men’s hats,

And even spoiled the women’s chats.

By drowning their gossips

In innumerable immeasurable scams.

At last the people in a body

To Rajghat they came flocking

Pray to thee O Gentle One

Arise and awake

To rid us of this vermin.

After a while came out of his painted tombstone

A slim old man with strange attire

And nobody could enough admire

A long staff in hand, a half- naked fakir.

He advanced to the council table:

And, “Please your honours,”said he,“I’m able,

By means of a secret charm, to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep or swim or fly or run,

And I chiefly use my earthly charm

On creatures that do people harm,

After me as you never saw!

The mole and toad and newt and viper,

And people call me the Pied Piper.

In 1947 I helped free the nation

From a huge swarm of Poms;

If I can get rid of your town of politicians

Will you give me a promise?

If I can rid your town of politicians

To make this nation great again,

Make it the country of my dreams.

Yes, Yes! cried one and all.

Into the streets the Piper stepped,

To blow the pipe, his lips smiled

And his sharp brown eyes twinkled

Like a candle flame where salt is sprinkled

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

you heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling

And the grumbling grew to a mightly rumbling

And put of their houses the politicos came tumbling.

Liars, thieves, cheats, rogues…pols of all hues

Great pols, small pols, lean pols, brawny pols,

Brown pols, small pols, grey pols, tawny pols,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives,

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,

And step for step they followed dancing,

Until they came to the River Yamuna

Wherein all plunged and perished!

Did I say all? No, One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, he was used to say,-

It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can’t forget that I’m bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see

Which the Piper also promised me.

You should have heard the Indian people

Ringing the bells they rocked the steeple.

Go, cried the people, Rejoice!

For the evil Politicians are gone

When suddenly, up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market place

Rejoice you may but

First, if you please my promise thou shall keep!

Yes Bapu, we shall

For now the corrupt, vile, selfish are gone

We shall work to create

A nation of your dream

Where freedom, liberty, equality shall prevail

Where no people  go to bed ever

Without food, water and shelter

Where man woman child stand tall and equal

No boundaries of caste and creed

No religions to divide

All for One andOne for All

Shall live in this nation of your dreams.

SS