Sur Saadhana

As she stepped out of the aircraft at the Lal Bahadur Shastri Airport, she felt a sense of calmness and serenity. She wondered whether it was the air she was breathing in this holy city of Benaras or was it the memories of her past in this city that gave her a feel like no other place. She was accompanied by her son, Tirthankar, and daughter-in-law, Anusuya, who was six months pregnant. While the son carried the two cabin luggage cases, Sabita carried a copper kalash that she clasped tightly. It contained the mortal remains of her husband, Gopal, who had passed away after a prolonged illness at Kolkata. The dutiful son had planned everything well and the waiting cab took them straight to the luxurious Hotel Surya, Kaiser Palace. After a good meal, the trio went out to the place where all roads led….the Holy Ganges. They hired a boat exclusively for themselves and enjoyed the breathtaking view of the ghats, the pristine water and people of all hues crowding the banks. They witnessed the magnificent Ganga Aarti from the boat in the evening before retiring to the room.

Early next morning they went for a darshan of the Kashi Vishwanath Temple and then to the Dashashwamedh Ghat where a priest performed the puja, post which the kalash was emptied into the flowing waters of Ganga. Sabita had tears in her eyes as she saw the ashes flow away and a gentle hug from Anu comforted her. They sat near the water front for long without uttering a single word as they remembered the times with the man they all loved and respected. For Sabita, the loss was even greater. For the last two years, she had been nursing Gopal at home herself and doing everything, from making his juice to feeding him, giving him a wash and handling the bedpan. She did not want to leave him at the mercy of the professional nurses, so she even gave up her well-paying job in a government organization.  She would now be very lonely, for Tirthankar and Anu lived at Hyderabad, both working at a tech MNC.

After a while the family returned to the hotel. The young ones were keen to go and see the other historical and religious places in the city before returning to Kolkata next day and wanted Sabita to join them, but she said she wanted to be left alone. After the couple had left, Sabita went out of the hotel and started walking in the tiny by lanes of Benaras. Her Google Map App was working well and she soon reached her destination-Sur Saadhana Vidyalaya….the board outside the dilapidated building looked faded, but the sight of it made Sabita smile. As she was admiring the board, a man in a short white cotton kurta and white dhoti came and stood next to her. Sabita turned and saw a man whose face was radiating. He had curls of hair hanging down to his shoulders and his fair complexion and smile seemed out of this world. He softly asked….”What is it that you are looking for?”

Sabita touched her ear lobes in respect as she spoke, “This is the music school of Pandit Kailash Nathji. He is a famous teacher of Benaras Gharana and his fame is world-wide. Almost forty years ago, I came here with my parents and sang before Panditji who liked my audition very much and wanted me to join this residential Vidyalaya. But being the only daughter to my parents, they just did not let me join and slowly, my musical journey gave way to worldly life of office, home and children. I am here once again in the city for some personal work, so thought of paying a visit to Panditji, just to pay my respects to the great man.”

The man folded his hands and bowed his head as he spoke, “I am Gyan Prakash, son of Pandit Kailash Nathji, who left for heavenly abode about seven years ago. Now I run this Vidyalaya. I am touched by your love for music and respect for my father. Why don’t you come inside for some time and see the school?”

Sabita was overjoyed. She instantly bent down to touch the man’s feet but he immediately moved his feet away…."No don’t do it please. It is me who should be touching your feet.”

As they entered the Vidyalaya, a soft chorus of girls singing bhajans could be heard. The singing stopped immediately on seeing Gyan Prakashji till he signaled them with his hands to continue. Sabita felt as if it was only yesterday that she was here and she remembered every bit of the school distinctly. It must have been her deep desire to be here that the one off visit, decades ago, had left an everlasting impression on her mind. She felt the missing inner peace in her as the music filled the air. This is where I belong, she said to herself. This is my home and it is so good to be back.

One of the girls offered her water from an earthen pot in a steel glass and it tasted so sweet and cool. She was loving her presence here. She wanted to open her arms and go round and round in circles singing her long lost songs of love and devotion but did not want to look foolish before Panditji and the young girls who were observing her as they sang. She sat on a mat on the floor with Panditji seated on a wooden bench before her. Sabita felt overjoyed and just could not hold back her true feelings as she spoke her heart out…

“Panditji, it may sound foolish but I feel I should ask you once….can I join the Vidyalaya now? You can say no and I will not mind one bit for I know I am asking for the impossible.”

“Music is in real terms the purest form of worship of God. This cannot happen in a day. It takes lots of hard work, you have to undergo innumerable hardships, make great sacrifices and go through endless devotion to be able to acquire the ability to get close to your God. Once you are there, you are blessed forever and then nothing else matters. It is a long and difficult road and is best done when young. It is not that you cannot do it now but to turn back the clock, to start living a life of an ascetic after having been exposed to a good and comfortable life is all the more difficult, if not impossible. If my father approved of you, surely you must be a good singer but then to turn the clock back and lead a life of renunciation, isolation and abject poverty is not going be easy. Even for me, it will be a herculean task since all others in the Vidyalaya are young and can be moulded easily in the right manner. This task can be a challenge for both, you and me, but I am willing to give it a try.”

“Guruji, I want to do it and am willing to pay the price and lead a new life here. I feel I belong here.”

“Okay then. First go and tell your people at home and surely they will not agree with your decision. You will be cut off from them completely except a postcard that you can write once in a fortnight. No mobile phone, no laptops, no social media, no fancy clothes, austere food and minimal living amenities are what you should expect. I will open the door for you and you can give it a try. When you think you cannot continue and wish to return to your real world of friends and family, I shall not object. Not many can survive this life.”

Sabita returned to the hotel where Tirthankar was walking anxiously up and down the lobby, looking at his watch and the entrance door wondering where his mother had gone. They went to their room where the mother told the son about her wish to pursue her dream of learning music in its purest form and what Guruji had said about the living conditions there. The son got furious as he heard the price his mother would have to pay in trying to achieve her goal.

“No…No…No! This is simply out of question. I will not let you go and live this life. You are not in your senses. With Baba’s demise, you have also lost your brain and ability to think right. You do not have to stay alone in Kolkata anymore. You will join us at Hyderabad and let Anu and me take care of you. We will hire a good music teacher there for you and you can do your riyaaz and saadhana there without anyone disturbing you.”

Sabita was adamant. Anu spoke up, "Tirtha, Ma has worked all her life. She has sacrificed her wishes and dreams for the sake of the family. All her life she has worked so hard at office and at home and lived a life defined initially by her parents and then by her in-laws and finally by your father. She has never complained about it. Now she is free from all such bondages and wishes something for herself. Let us give her an opportunity. It is quite possible that she will not be able to adjust to the lifestyle of the gurukul after having lived in air conditioned rooms and cars and staying connected with friends and family continuously. She may just be back in no time. At least she will not have the regret of not having tried pursuing her life’s dream.”

“Anu, please don’t take her side on this issue. You may want to see your mother-in-law go away so that there is no interference in our lives but that is mean of you to even think of letting Ma live a life she just explained. It is like living in a jail. I will not let my mother rot there as long as I am alive.”

Before Anu could react, Sabita held Tirtha’s arm and signaled him to stop. “Anu is my daughter and you will not speak to her like that. I have made up my mind. I will return to Benaras after closing down all the accounts and legal matters. You will inherit everything. I will be sending a fortnightly postcard to Anu and shall keep you informed of everything. I know it will be difficult for you to lose both your parents all of a sudden but such is life.”

After a month, Sabita reached Sur Saadhana Vidyalaya with a small and simple suitcase and was welcomed by the other girls and Guruji. One of the girls took her to a small room on one end of the residential block. The room was big and had a big window but there was no fan above or a bed below. After putting her things down, she went to meet Guruji who explained her routine.

“Welcome to the Gurukul. We will initially work to cleanse your body and mind and then initiate you into the world of music. This would take three months. In the first month, you will be doing the most menial jobs of cleaning the floors and the toilets. In the second, you will be allowed to cook and water the plants and then in the third month you will be allowed to do Guru Seva where you can sit in the music classes but not be allowed to sing with the others. However, you can do the chores for me. This is the phase when you will be closest to being completely cleansed of all the worldly desires and vices and are ready to step into the world of music and devotion. On completion of the three months of a rigourous tenure, I shall give you diksha and your new life and journey shall commence. But as I said earlier, you will not last beyond fifteen days of the first month and if you do, I shall be the happiest person other than you to see you becoming a part of this gurukul and taking music to greater heights.”

Sabita nodded her head and went on with her prescribed routine. She was determined to succeed and nothing could stop her. She worked tirelessly from dawn till late into the night in cleaning up the floors and toilets of the residential building. She stayed away from the music classes and the absence of fan and bed was felt only in the first few days. After that she would be so tired that she would sleep off in no time and wake up on time without fail. Guruji would come inspecting her work from time to time and did not find one instance of her failing to do her job well. For Sabita, her sources of joy were twosome. One was the little girls who called her Didi and often tried helping her in her work and second was the occasional glimpse of Guruji. His presence was magnetic and the aura he emitted made her feel enlightened and joyous which was difficult to explain. When Guruji spoke, it would always be so respectful and graceful. Sabita told herself, if there is something to look forward to after all the hardship and saadhana, it is learning music from this man. I will not get deterred with anything and no problem will ever keep me away from my Gyan and my Guruji.

Sabita would write to Anu every fortnight. She would always be positive and speak how well she was and how much happiness she found in her new life. Anu too would send her a fortnightly postcard keeping her informed of every small detail in tiny handwriting trying to fit a big essay in a small space. By the time Sabita finished her second month, she got the news of the birth of her grand-daughter. That was one day she really felt like going home and being with Anu and Tirtha to hold the little angel close to her bosom, kiss her, love her and sing for her. But now having traversed the most difficult period, she could not waver one bit. Another month and then she would do what she was born to do. So she just went to the residential block and kissed many a girl there. The girls could not understand why their Didi was behaving so but they too liked being loved and kissed by a woman they felt closest to, after their mothers, at the Gurukul.

Slowly the days of the third month went by and Sabita could now sit in the singing classes and practice on her own in her own room. Her singing would liven up the residential block where she now lived and the girls would be enthralled by her range. Guruji, too, would come into the room quietly and sit in silence enjoying her singing. He knew, in Sabita, he had a disciple who would be next scion of the Benaras Gharana. The day of Diksha had come. Sabita found that a new saree and accessories had been kept neatly folded in her room as she came back in the evening from the class. She went for a proper bath in the Ganga, changed into the fresh new clothes and went to Guruji’s chamber. Guruji had everything kept ready for the puja with incense sticks burning and a small wooded fire lit as Sabita sat with folded hands and eyes closed while Guruji chanted softly the mantras in Sanskrit. The puja took long and then when it ended, Sabita bent down in complete devotion, put her head at the feet of Guruji who put his two hands on her head and asked her to get up. She got up and Guruji was the closest he had ever been to her and she looked into his eyes as he spoke…”Your pariksha is over and you are now initiated into the Gurukul fully. The only thing left is your Guru Dakshina.”

“I have nothing to give you Guruji.”

“Yes you have…” and in a flash wrapped his arms around Sabita’s waist and pulled her to him.

“No Guruji…No!”

But in the quiet world of the Vidyalaya, Sabita’s cries for help were lost and after a while she walked back to the residential block. All the girls were waiting for her there for they knew what Diksha meant. They went with her to her room and tried to hug her and console her but Sabita was completely stoned and showed no emotion. She even asked the girls to leave her but they stayed put there till dawn and all went back to their daily routine. Sabita, too, went to the class and acted as if nothing had happened and kept staring at Guruji who was trying to avoid her looks. In the late evening, Sabita went back to Guruji’s chambers once again. This time when the Guru embraced her, she was waiting and stabbed him in the back with a sharp kitchen knife. This time his cries could be heard by the girls waiting outside. Sabita opened the chamber door and let the girls inside. Then all of them went out together for a bath in the Ganga and hoped the holy river truly had the magical touch not just to cleanse but to heal their wounded bodies and souls. They hugged each other, cried aloud and then all dispersed to different places in the country.

Next morning at Benaras, the police were baffled at the death of Guru Gyan Prakash who had multiple stab wounds on his back. Who could have done this to the pious man who was loved and respected, not only in Benaras but beyond? The finger prints were far too many for the forensics to decipher. All the students of the Vidyalaya had vanished but the police could do little, as there was no register with names and addresses, no pictures, phone records of anyone and no witnesses to the crime.

Around the same time at Hyderabad, a bell goes ting tong and Tirthanakar is overjoyed to see his mother standing with her small suitcase. He calls for Anu and hugs his mother tight…."I will never let you go away from me even for one day now”…and started crying like a baby. From inside emerged Anu with the baby in her arms and gave the little one to Sabita who picked her up and kissed the forehead and started rocking her gently. “I will now sing and sing only for her, sing to get her to sleep, sing to wake her up and sing for her as she grows and glows.”

A year later, Tirtha and Anu were driving back from office and the All India Radio playing in the car announced....Vividh Bharati ke Sangeet Sarita karyakram mein aapka swagat hai....Welcome to Vividh Bharati's Sangeet Sarita program where we will listen to the rendering of Raag Malhaar by Sabita Devi....

SS

Sunshine

On a cold winter’s night, in the lobby of a multi-story building in East Delhi, two men looked on from behind a third, who was seated in front with his hand on the screen of the mobile phone, as the booming baritone of Amitabh Bachchan’s voice rang through the Sony screen of KBC…“This question is the fifteenth question and the right answer will fetch you fifty lac rupees. So Tej Bahadur ji, are you ready?”

“Ji Sir.”

“So here it is on your screen.. Mangal Pandey belonged to which regiment when the revolt of 1857 broke out? And the options are A, B, C and D”…. as he read them out once in Hindi and again in English.  “You do not have any lifelines left, so do not take any chances. Lock the answer only if you are sure, otherwise your reward will fall from twenty-five lacs to three lacs twenty thousand only.” The young lad sat at the KBC set in Mumbai staring at the options carefully, trying to eliminate the incorrect options as the audience looked on with pin drop silence.

At Delhi, the person sitting on the chair was being egged on by the other two people, “Give the answer, Ramesh.” And Ramesh confidently replied, “The answer is D- 34^th Bengal Native Infantry.”

Hello, I am Ramesh and belong to Azamgarh in Uttar Pradesh where I did my schooling and then did my graduation from the Open University. From the beginning itself, I used to read a lot of books and magazines on history and sports. I even started preparing for the competitive examinations for a job in the state government but, as luck would have it, I had to move to Delhi with my maternal uncle who enamored us with stories about the beautiful city and job opportunities for young men. Soon I realized that getting a good job with a graduation degree was near to impossible and so, to make ends meet, I joined Mamiji in ASS or Alert Security Services. While my job is boring and poorly paid, it has not stopped me from reading and keeping my love for quizzing alive. People in the building pose questions at me randomly and the right answers often get me anything from a ten to fifty rupee note as bakshish. I got married to Lata a year ago and she stays with my parents at Azamgarh. She is a nice and simple girl who sings beautifully. We’ve hardly lived together but I quite like talking to her and do video calls daily.

My job has a standard routine and all days are almost alike. With eight of us on duty at any given time, I don’t think any thief will ever dare to rob this place. We just run errands like checking the water levels and switching on the lights and making calls on the intercom. But like all jobs, we have had our bright spots.

Roshni worked as a cook in a couple of flats in the building. She would come during the afternoons and then leave by evening. She was a young, tall girl with real big and beautiful eyes. She always kept her long, black hair oiled and neatly tied up. Unlike other maids, Roshni would always be dressed in colourful sarees and that made her look attractive. For the other guards she was just another servant, who would come and go during the day, whose identity card had to be checked and the register signed every day. But to me she always stood out different and special. I made it a point never to miss being at the front desk at her usual arrival and departure times. Initially, she never took notice of me and but slowly some telepathic signals from me, possibly, reached her and the ignoring stance gave way to a knowing smile. As days passed, the smile improved to monosyllables like haan…na…theek hai. My universe started rotating round her and one look from her made my day shine.

And then she suddenly went missing. Roshni did not come to work for a couple of days and I felt sad and restless. I did not have her telephone number and was ashamed to ask the other maids. I even checked the office register but could not find it there as well. When she returned, she had a bandage on her wrist and she refused to look at me while showing her identity card and signing the register. I asked her, “What happened…how did you get hurt?” She kept quiet and went off to work. But I was determined to know her story so, by the time she finished her work and came down from the lift, I too was done with my shift and was waiting for her outside the building. I followed her to the bus stop and got onto the bus along with her. Before she could put her hand into her tiny purse, I pulled out money from my pocket and paid for the tickets…”Do ticket Seeelampuri ke liye dena.” She did not protest. The bus moved on from one stop to another and we stood silently next to each other.

We got off the bus one stop before her destination and started walking. It was then that she spoke up.

“Ramesh, you are making a mistake by following me. You don’t know anything about me.”

“So tell me.”

“My name is not Roshni, it is Rubina Sheikh. I am from Bangladesh and I am married. My husband has a meat shop and there are many from my native place living here. It is easy to get the Aadhar and the ration cards made with our new identities. All you need is to grease some palms and it is done in no time. If people knew my true identity and religion, all the Agarwals, Jains and Guptas in the building will never let me enter their houses. My husband often comes home drunk and abuses me both verbally and physically. This is quite common in these parts and so you should not get so upset about my injury. I have gone through this many times.”

I stood still as I heard Roshni and then turned brave and softly but confidently…. “Roshni, I dream of you every night and wait for you during the day for a glimpse of you. What you said about yourself maybe important to others but not to me. For me it is you that matters and not your religion, not your name and not you being married. I, too, am a married man but cannot think of anyone but you!”

She looked at me in the eye and smiled.

“Ramesh, we are now getting close to my house, so you must go back. If anyone were to see me with you, my husband will make my life hell and may also come after you as well.”

Saying this, she walked away briskly without looking back. I saw her disappear into the dark alley and I turned around to go back to my quarters. I did not know how she would react after I had opened my heart to her but then things turned out good for me. She would now find a couple of minutes to talk to me and for me those few minutes were the best moments of my days. Was I falling in love with her? Maybe yes, and yet I would religiously talk to my wife and parents back home daily but that call now seemed like routine duty more than any sense of longing, something I felt here while waiting for Roshni. She had by now shared her mobile number with me and we would often talk…we would share jokes and whenever I found her sad and low, I would try and lift up her spirits and get her back to normal. It seemed her husband’s behavior was going from bad to worse by the day and my leaning towards her stronger. I would insist on her sending me a picture of her every morning and she would oblige. I, initially, called it her attendance marking and then later named it as my sunshine picture of the day, something that would brighten up my day. She would at times pack some home cooked food for me. We connected discreetly lest others in the building were to come to know about us. This hide and seek of ours was fun.

Each month I would send home one half of my salary. I worked an extra shift in a nearby nursing home and the money I earned from there I would to keep it separately hidden in a trunk in my room. When I had a good sum saved, I bought a pair of small gold earrings to give to my wife as a surprise gift on our first anniversary. I showed it to Roshni one day and asked… How does this look?

You bought it for me? She asked with a sparkle in her eyes.

I could not say no and she smiled and kept the gift in her bag thanking me profusely. I felt like holding her tight in my arms right there and am sure she would not have resisted but I held myself back.

On the evening of my anniversary, Roshni was near me but stood away from the mobile screen as I talked to Lata. I had also put up a picture of our shaadi on my WhatsApp display picture to mark the occasion.

Don’t cry Lata. I will come home soon during Diwali. I have bought sarees for you and Ma and kurta-pyjama for Babuji. I long to have food made by you. When I am home, we will go to the mela together and watch movies…we will have Pepsi and popcorn….achcha gol gappas as well. Ek gaana suna de…

Mere piya gaye Rangoon

Wahan se kiya hai telefoon

Tumhari yaad satati hai

After the call, I went for my daily walk followed by the daily bus ride with Roshni. She seemed very tense and sad that day. She did not utter a single word.

Next morning she did not post her sunshine picture. I kept looking at the WhatsApp after every few minutes but she did not come online. In the afternoon she came and handed me the small box containing the earrings that I had given her.

No Ramesh. It is wrong on my part to take our relationship forward anymore. Ours is a hopeless relationship which cannot go on beyond a point. You have a happy family and a loving wife who trusts you. My family life is completely ruined and I cannot spoil yours. You are a good man and I know it will be difficult for me to stay away from you but I never would like to be called someone who wrecked another woman’s life.”

I saw her eyes moistening as she walked away pulling out her handkerchief from her small purse.

I was shattered and I fell down in the KBC of life from twenty-five lacs of prize money to zero. I could not sleep that night and many nights after that. Tried calling her and texting her but she did not respond. She was firm in her decision. I understood what Roshni had said and am now trying to accept my fate. I have changed my regular afternoon shift to night shift so that I do not encounter her. I have now adopted a kitten, who was born in the basement of the building, and feed her milk and food. She sits near me as I keep awake, sitting before the burning twigs as the chilly Delhi winds freeze us to the bones, and sing with my fellow guards, in our own dialect, songs of love and longing. And then, of course, there is KBC at night where I suddenly become the hero.

I have booked the train ticket for going home on Diwali and bought the gifts I promised Lata, plus of course the ring, of which she knows not . I still have some pictures of Sunshine saved on my mobile and do see them to brighten up my days. Wondering if I should keep them or delete them…..I think I will keep them.

SS

The Last Rite

Eid was the biggest day and the family gathered together to enjoy the wholesome feast at Mustafa’s house at Shopian, Kashmir. On the table lay wazwan of Gushtaba, Rogan Josh, Tabak Maas, Dhaniwala Korma with Chicken Pulao and much more. Incidentally, the word wazwan is said to have come from ‘waz’ or chef and ‘wan’ denotes a spread of meat curries and other dishes and is also popularly called the feast fit for kings. The reason for celebrations this year was even greater as his son, Tauseef, was home, taking a quick short break from his unending work. Tauseef was a young rifleman in the Territorial Army and, inevitably, he would be on duty on almost all the family get- togethers and festival celebrations since his seniors would remind him and his fellow soldiers that these would be the days when the police and the army had to be on higher alert than on normal days for fear of attacks by militants. The residents of the Valley lived in a state of perpetual fear not knowing whether bullet fired from the gun of the militant would knock them off or the one fired by the security forces. The dance of death was more often seen than the dance of joyous celebrations  which had, literally, become the Eid ka Chand….seldom seen.

Post the feast, a teary eyed mother and his sisters bid Tauseef adieu. Mustafa could hide his emotions well and put up a brave smile to wave Tauseef goodbye as he switched on his bike’s key and drove away waving to all. About half an hour later, Mustafa’s phone started ringing…it was Tauseef calling…

Tauseef, what happened? Have you reached your barracks already?

No Abbu. I will go there later. I just met a few old friends. They want me to spend some time with them. Just in case anyone from my command calls to find out about me, tell them, I am at home and will be returning to the barracks slightly later. Won’t stay here for long.

Who are these friends? Do I know them?  You should not delay as it is already getting dark and the roads are not too safe….chinta hoti hai…

Keeping the phone away now Abbu…Khuda Haafiz.

Allah Haafiz….do call or message me after you reach the camp.

Mustafa kept looking at the screen of his mobile waiting for that one text message from his loving son Tauseef who was his favourite among all his children. Even though all the relatives and friends cautioned him not to join the security forces….Indian forces as they would often refer to it.. but Tauseef was not to be deterred. Even though a lot of his school friends had joined the militants and were hailed as heroes by the locals, Tauseef was always determined to wield the gun for the country. He was treated by a section of people as a traitor and a pariah. He just ignored them.

Mustafa was thinking…5pm he left our house and called me at 5.30pm. Even if he were to spend two hours with his friends…it would be 7.30pm when he should have departed from Balapora…. From there Bashirbagh Camp should take him another twenty minutes to reach….so by 8pm he should have reached….it is already 8.30pm and there is no message or a call. This is not like Tauseef at all! Let me call him up instead. He dialed the last number on his phone…..

Sorry, this number cannot be reached….came the recorded voice message.

Mustafa was now worried as was his wife and his daughters. They sat around him in a circle as he kept dialing Tauseef’s number….all waiting to hear his voice and know about his well-being. It was not 10pm and Mustafa got panicky. He kept on dialing uninterruptedly but there was no change in status of the response….

Sorry, this number cannot be reached…please call back later…

Mustafa dialed Habib who was also in Tauseef’s command.

Habib Beta….Assalam Walekum….Mustafa Chacha bol raha hoon…Tauseef’s father.

Chacha, Tauseef has not returned to the camp till now. Our Commandant is also very upset with him. How can he be so irresponsible? He was given a couple of hours of special leave for Eid and it is almost twelve hours and he has not reported back.

Mustafa narrated the whole story to Habib.

Chacha, you please report the matter to the local police. I will also tell our commandant and we will do whatever we can to trace him. Don’t worry. He must be sleeping somewhere now after a good round of drinks with his friends.

Mustafa knew his son well. He was always very different. He was completely clean with no smoke and no drinks ever. But he did not refute Habib and kept the phone down. He wanted to go to the local thana immediately but was stopped by his wife as there would be no one there at that hour and they would anyway not be able to do much so late.

Mustafa did not sleep that night. He just twisted and turned in his bed. He did not get up fearing others would get disturbed. What he did not know that no one in his house was sleeping….they were all awake with eyes closed, just waiting for morning to break. Sharp at 6am, Mustafa wrapped his warm shawl and walked to the thana which was about a couple of kilometres away. It was pretty dark and sun was still some hours away from peeping out from behind the clouds over the snow clad mountains. He reached the small hutment with the board hung outside. There was no one around, so Mustafa sat down on the steps of the police station waiting for help to arrive. Finally, the policemen arrived around 9am and after finishing their tea and breakfast and Mustafa got an audience.

Sir, my son is missing since last evening.

The potbellied man in khakhi, sitting behind the desk laughed…He must have gone to the other side. We get such complaints every day. Go home now. He will come back soon, well trained and equipped and when we put him down in an encounter, we will bring him to your home for you to do the last rites….ha ha ha….

Mustafa was outraged at the clichéd comment but controlled his anger. He pleaded before heartless people who took him to be a mad man. Fortunately, Habib arrived at the station in his uniform and then the wheel started turning. A case of missing person was registered and all details were noted.

Chacha, you now go home. We will start our search now and get back to you with our findings.

Reluctantly, Mustafa went home and every day, for the next six days, he would arrive at the police station sharp at 6am to be disappointed by 10am and again to return at 4pm in the evening and once again return home without any news of Tauseef. The mood in the house had completely changed. The chandni of that one evening had given way to amavasya for the remaining six days.

On day seven, the station master shouted… Chacha come quickly…we have found…we have found….

Mustafa rushed to him…..Thank Allah, you have found my son.

Nahin Chacha….we have found his bike in Kulgam. Sorry to say, it is completely charred.

Mustafa sat down on the floor holding his hands over his head.  What he feared most seemed to be coming true but he still nurtured hope….after all Tauseef’s body had not yet been found.

After much search of the area where the bike was found, the police found Tauseef’s clothes in a ditch. Mustafa went there to see and he saw the beige trouser and brown shirt, the very clothes Tauseef was wearing on that fateful day, the only difference was that today they were soaked in blood and mud.

The police also found a piece of his shirt around the place that the bike was found and assumed that there was a scuffle first between Tauseef and his abductors before they would have overpowered and kidnapped him. The police claimed that ‘the case is under investigation and we are trying to trace the body.’ Actually, no one was looking for anyone any more. For them it was just another case and the file was open yet closed.

Mustafa accepted his fate and believed that his son was no more. He was surely killed by militants who hated all those who joined the Indian forces. But sadly, since the body has not been found and the police file is still open till date, so Tauseef cannot be declared dead and his last dues and pension for his family cannot be paid. All of Mustafa’s begging fell on deaf ears, which only wanted solid evidence and that was not there. A woman did come forward to confirm that she had seen Tauseef fighting with four men but that evidence was treated as not admissible.

Mustafa was helpless, so he decided to take things in his control. So now, for the last ten months, every morning he sets out from his house with a shovel and spade in his hands. He walks to the spot where the clothes were found and starts digging.  He hopes one day he will find his son’s body. Nowadays, some of the neighbours and friends have also started going along with Mustafa and they dig around the places and they have helped to increase the periphery of the search. In the evenings the search party returns home, rest and walk out the next day with shovels and spades.

I just want to give my son an honourable burial. I know he is no more but everyone deserves a proper departure before he proceeds to Allah’s home. He also deserves to be honoured by the country he wore the uniform for, fought for and eventually gave up his life for. My son deserves some respect, some honour and deep inside, as a father, I want to lay my son down gently one last time.

SS

NB. This is inspired by a real life story which appeared in the national newspapers. The names have been changed and some factual details have been dramatized in the narrative.

The Meeting

It was 8.30 a.m. and I had reached the gates of the local branch of the State Bank of India, Mumbai. The bank would open its shutters at 9.00 a.m. but pensioners, like me, are there in full strength in the first week of every month to update their passbooks, to see if the pension has been credited on time, if the interest has been computed correctly, if the DA has been adjusted….We know all this would happen on their own but we too need some excitement, some reason to get dressed early morning and show to the people that we still had our importance. The entrance outside, and then the waiting area within, till about 10.00 a.m., is a wonderful meeting place for grey heads like us. Most of us know each other well, where we were working earlier, who’s at home and, of course, we love to discuss politics and sports….the two things that still give us the adrenaline rush. Once in a while, we do come across a stranger but then we ignore the arrival of such migratory birds to our sanctuary.

At 10 a.m., the most disinterested person in the branch, who was assigned the task of updating the passbooks, would arrive and the work would commence. We pensioners are, however, the old world types who would maintain strict discipline, stand in proper queue and if anyone was seen jumping in between, he would be almost lynched for we could all quote verbatim from HR Manuals and lecture on the declining trend of moral character in the youth.  Today, the bank clerk was also assigned an additional task of accepting deposit cheques as a number of staff members had yet to return from the summer vacations. After about fifteen minutes, it was my turn to face the grumpy man.

Please issue me a fresh passbook. This one is almost over. Update in the new one.

No Uncle, I can’t issue a new one today. There is still half a page left in this one plus the bar code stickers are not there. Come next month and I will try and help you.

It must be fortunate today that the passbook printer was working and I was able to get back my passbook quickly. As I was standing there and checking the last few entries, a woman, who was next in line to me went up to the clerk to deposit a cheque.

Aunty, please fill up the deposit slip and put the cheque in the box there. Kyon time waste karti ho!

No, I want you to accept this cheque as it is very important that this goes for clearance today itself.

Ok Auntyji…..please fill up the deposit slip completely and you need to sign here as well.

I was staring at the slim and smart woman. She was wearing a simple yet crisp starched Bengal handloom saree, had short hair that was completely white except for a few black strands here and there, a big handbag that she had slung over her shoulder. She looked at me and I quickly turned my glare away towards my passbook when I heard her say…May I use your pen for a moment, please?

Yes..yes of course…. as I quickly handed my Parker pen to her. I saw her complete the deposit slip and then, finally, sign on it….that was a strange signature she had….she wrote the two alphabets of her name in a manner that reminded me of someone long ago who did exactly the same….the right arm of A would go lower down and then make a curve like a q followed by the rest of the letters….Aparajita D.

As she handed over the pen to me, I smiled at her and told her about my college mate at Delhi who signed her name in an identical fashion as her. She stopped and turned her eyes towards me and tried uncovering the face behind my beard and asked….you are from which college?

Hindu College….History 1979-82 batch.

You are Guna, right! exclaimed the lady, with her hand covering her mouth, open in amazement.

And you are Aparjita Dhar….Oh my God! This is unbelievable.

And we started laughing aloud oblivious of the other people watching us till the guard walked up  and in soft tone said….log disturb ho rahe hain…aap please baahar ja ke baat karein. And  so we did.

What are you doing here? She asked.

I am here for the last thirty years. After college, tried a few odd jobs but then finally joined the Times as a journalist and worked there all my life till I retired last year. What about you?

Oh, it is a long story and it will take time. So why don’t you come over to my house this evening and have dinner. Here, write down my address….204A, Creek View, Motilal Nagar, Goregaon and my phone number is 982……

As I put the slip of paper and pen in the pocket of my khadi kurta, she waved and walked to a black sedan…Honda City… and drove away. Usually, I would take an auto rickshaw to return home but, today, I was in a mood to enjoy the sudden meeting with an old friend….not just any friend…Aparjita…. I wish I still had my college notebooks; they would have this name written so many times, in so many fonts and colours all over the last pages. And as I walked back with a broad smile on my face, I kept checking the piece of paper in my pocket which was for me the map to the long lost treasure.

As I entered my one BHK apartment near Goregaon Station, I could hear the Mumbai local trains, perennially overflowing with people, running past each other in two different directions, while in my mind, trains of fond memories kept rolling in. Sitting on the rocking chair and watching the fan blades as they moved around making a screeching noise, I heard the doorbell ring. Mini, my saviour, had arrived. She was a chirpy, young girl of about eighteen who would do my washing, cleaning and cooking. On the days she would take off, it meant, I would somehow have to manage  with Maggie, eggs and fruits.

Kya Uncle, were you sleeping? I rang the bell four times before you opened.

Oh…I did not hear the bell as I was in the washroom.

As she started cleaning the house, I went to the bathroom and stood in front of the mirror…..hair going places….beard completely unkempt…crumpled kurta….No this won’t do. I cannot go to her house looking like this….

As I emerged from the washroom after twenty minutes, Mini saw me and was awe- struck….speechless she was, and then she started giggling….Uncle yeh kya hua….sab nikaal diya? Hero lag rahe ho….sachhi…aai shapath!

Shhhh stop it Mini…just do your work. You don’t have to cook dinner for me today. I am going out to a friend’s place…..

Arrey wah…who’s this friend Uncle…never heard of anyone before? Someone special…haan!

I was too embarrassed to answer. After she left, I too went out. My first port of call was Ajanta Hair Dresser.

Santosh Bhai, please cut my hair short. Don’t use the razor, just the scissors and trimmer and no shapes on the back, just a natural slope.

Santosh had been my regular person for over twenty years now, but today he was surprised at my request to cut the hair short for my regular style had been to keep slightly long hair, only the extra growth to be trimmed and, that too, once in a quarter. Anyway after finishing, he asked….Sir should I dye your hair as well…ekdum hero lagoge aap!

I just nodded my head in denial, paid him his money and a generous tip which brought a big smile to his face. I looked once more in the mirror and almost asked….Mirror Mirror on the wall….

My next stop was the Cambridge Shop on S.V. Road. I always found it to be economical and good. While most other people, I knew, promoted bigger brands, I was fine with this old shop where the bargains were such that I could buy my entire year’s clothes by paying a small amount.  I picked up a couple of shirts from the shelves and went to the trial room. I first wore a red and black checked shirt and admired myself in the mirror and then I tried a charcoal black shirt. Which one will be better to wear tonight….the informal check or the evening black?  This is tough….all my life I have always worn white shirts, so this was not a question I ever had to answer but today was different. After a while, I took the help of the store girl and asked for her opinion….Both look good, Sir. You should take both and with a purchase of two, you get a trouser free!

So, finally, with a nice haircut, two shirts, a denim trouser and a Bata sandal packed in multiple bags, I sneaked into my house….dropped them on the bed and, like an excited kid, opened up the packets and wore all the clothes one after the other…admiring myself in the mirror.

After a light lunch of two chapatis and sabzi, I just kept looking at the clock….was it moving slowly today and my pulse running fast….why is clock arm taking so long going from one number to another? Switched on the television but could not stand the cat fights on almost every channel. Went back to the new faithful, Caravan, and selected Dev Anand songs for only he could express how I felt at that moment. Finally,  the clock stuck five and I got up to make myself a hot cup of black tea. As I was sipping, the phone began to ring…..surprise…surprise..

Yes Appi…sure I am coming…no no…don’t send your car…I will manage with an auto or else my two legs carry me everywhere….no, I do not walk as fast I used to in college but there is enough strength left even now…ok bye.. see you soon.

Wao…she is really expecting me! Should I pick up some flowers for her…or some chocolate…naa…that will be too childish….maybe a small gift….a bottle of wine….maybe a nice perfume….forget it. She appeared to be quite well to do and don’t know who else will be at home…..Forget it. I have never given any girl or woman any gift ever, so why change now.

I reached the Creek View Society a little before 6.30 p.m. but did not want to go to her house too early. So I kept walking up and down the road outside for some time and then walked into a small Udupi joint for a Hot Kappi. As soon as it turned 7 p.m., which was the appointed time, I walked out and ran up the four floors to reach her flat where I saw the name plate, Mrs. A. Dave. I rang the bell. She opened the door immediately….Welcome Guna…I am so happy you could make it.

As I took my seat on the sofa, she went to the kitchen and I saw a house that was kept spic and span…beautifully and tastefully decorated with paintings and plants. On a side table was a picture of an army officer. I was watching it carefully when she walked in.

Here, have some coconut water first.

Arrey, Mallu ke liye narial pani….thanks all the same.

That is Major Ashwin Dave. He was in Economics in Hindu with us and joined IMA soon after college. As soon as he was commissioned, we got married and we had a child. Ashwin was called in to join the IPKF and was martyred in a mine explosion. Our daughter is now a fine lady and is happily married at Bangalore. I came to Mumbai to take care of my in-laws and also took to teaching. My innings at the school is now over and I teach children in the neighbouring slum all five days a week. Now with my in-laws also gone, I live alone and shuttle between Mumbai and Bangalore. I am quite enjoying this life. What about you and your family?

I never got married. Koi mila hi nahin…

Liar…you were quite a character in college and I am sure you’ve had your flings and swings. Don’t you tell me you never found someone to your liking? Someone ditched you or what?

No…just happy the way I am.

Come, let us have dinner and then we can chat later. I have cooked some special things for you….meen moili, appam and mutton biriyani plus khubani ka meetha for dessert.

In no time I ate almost all she put on my plate and remarked…this must be the best dinner I have had in ages….thanks so much for taking so much pain and effort.

She then took out some old photo album and showed me photographs of college days….our trip to Mussourie, at the college festival Mecca and the farewell pictures with friends and teachers. She showed me one picture where she was sitting with a friend whom I did not know and asked me

Do you know why this picture is so special to me?

No…how should I know?

You see the bead necklace I am wearing? You gave it to me on the farewell day. I still have it with me.

Me and a gift, that’s impossible. I never gave any gift to anyone. You are, surely, making a big mistake.

No Guna. I know what I am saying. Remember we had gone on the college trip in final year to Mussourie and one evening we had all gone together to the Mall for shopping. I had bought a silk scarf for myself and then I noticed this necklace which I liked very much. But I did not have money to buy it. And then, when the farewell day came a few months later and we were giving each other small tokens and cards, you handed me a box and quickly went away before I could open it.

I wish I could run away again from her today….she kept smiling at me and I was feeling so embarrassed. Other pictures and stories of batch mates kept us distracted and we then talked for long. At around 10.30 p.m. I took leave, promising to stay in touch.

I reached home, switched on the fan and lay on the bed without even changing into my night clothes. I was smiling and started visualizing Aparajita sitting on her bed in a meditative mood with the necklace of beads in her hands and using it like a rosary…..Guna Guna Guna….

I pinched my left ear to return to my senses and then opened an old diary to tick off one from the bucket list….Reigniting the Flame Within…

SS 

Paradise Won

There is nothing original about this story for it is taken almost verbatim from Kafan written by Munshi Premchand about ninety years ago. All I did was to juxtapose a few things in line with the changing times of today. The stories of great masters like Premchand are timeless and can fit in anywhere for dates and locations may change but the human mind and the inherent character of men, as brought out in their stories, remain the same….there has hardly been a true ascent of man.

It was late evening and two men, in shabby clothes and dishevelled hair, were seen sitting under a tree by the road side. They did not have any shoes on their feet and were merrily eating mangoes and chatting.  They were oblivious to the bad looks which the people passing by were giving the ugly duo.

Bapu, what is wrong with the world? Everyone seems to be in hiding. We hardly see crowds on the roads. The shops are all closed and no one goes to the market. Everyone seems to be afraid of the ailment except us. We are living the way we have always lived….free, with no fear. We go where we want to, we eat what we get and sleep when we feel tired….is this a sickness that people get with money and comfort? Apne paas na paisa aata hai aur na apne paas bimari aati hai….

Sukhi beta, you are absolutely correct. You speak like a true philosopher. I wish I could have sent you to high school and college for some education and you would have become someone great.

Let it be Bapu, for education of the books never did anyone any good. Neither have the people become any better nor the world a better place with education. So I am happy the way I am. Apne ko sabse hai pyaar, kisi se na nafrat aur na koi bair, aye mere yaar!

Sukhi, these mangoes taste good even though they look bad. Some seth sahab would have thrown them away by mistake into the dustbins thinking they have got spoilt. We were lucky to have put our hands into those bins early morning. Why don’t you take two of these for your wife who is expecting her first child. She has not been keeping well for some days. Why don’t you go and see her once? I will wait for you here.

What is the point of going now? She just doesn’t want to eat anything and since morning has been breathless and wailing. I can’t see her in that state. Neighbours were saying she is infected with the illness of the rich folks. How did she manage to get it? Maybe, while working in rich people’s houses, she must  have got it. Her fever is not coming down as well. I covered her nose and mouth with three masks. It will be complete protection for her and us. She will not get infected any further and we will be spared listening to her loud cries….ajeeb naari hai….na khaati hai, na peeti hai…bas roti hi rehti hai.

Arrey Sukhi, do you realize what you have done? You must have put the three dirty masks that we picked up from the kachra yesterday on her face, she will get suffocated and die. Go quickly and help her out!

Sukhi was worried that his father would eat all the mangoes alone if he left the place. So he stay put.

Bapu, why do you worry so much? She will not die so easily. We have seen so many days when there was no food in the house, when there was no roof over our heads and hardly any clothes to wear, yet we have survived. We are not like the rich and the lazy people. And even if she were to die, we will have one less mouth to feed. It may sound bad, Bapu, but the phrase ‘ the more, the merrier’ does not apply to us.

Sukhi, I think the police-wala will arrest us if we sit so close to each other. Just move some distance away. I have seen posters saying social distancing of do gaj. Ha ha ha…How can there be any distancing between family members…..we do not have any social circle so then this should not apply to us. But still let us keep away by two feet from each other.

The two stood up, stretched their arms towards each other and settled down, at what you might say, at arm’s length. They also strapped up two masks apiece over their faces….one on top covering the nose and the other on the chin leaving their mouths open to enjoy the juicy mangoes. With the juice dripping down on their masks, a host of flies came around but the two did not bother to shoo them away. They were too busy eating and outdoing the other in the number of mangoes eaten.

After finishing the fruits, the father and son got up and started walking towards their house. On a moonless night, there was no way anyone else could have found their house which was motionless and dark inside. The two men looked at each other in amazement….it was strange that there was no sound coming from their hut. The father made a gesture with his eyes to the son who slowly walked into the hut. In no time, he rushed back.

Bapu, she is all cold. Her eyes are popping out and her hands are hanging out of the charpoy. I think she is dead!

The father and son sat down outside their hut and started beating their chests with their arms, crying out loud…their crying could be heard over quite a distance…..

Hai woh mar gayi…hum ko akela chhod gayi…..hamaran kya hoga….hum toh lutt gaye, barbaad ho gaye…

Hearing their cries, a lot of people came out of their houses and realized what had happened. They heard the duo saying that they had taken so much care of the woman, given her all the medicines even though they did not have money, they had taken money from people for her treatment and now they were left with nothing. The neighbours knew that the two rascals were surely lying as they had never ever done anything for the house in all their lives, leave alone doing anything for the wife, who was the sole bread earner. They knew these two never had any money as all they ever did was to pick up trash from the bins and road side, sell the stuff they could, get some money which they would spend on themselves….country liquor and, lately, they had taken to drugs which had reached their small town. The kind hearted people still pooled in some money and handed it to the father asking him to arrange for a minimal funeral, something that all dead deserve.

When the neighbours left, the duo counted the money while still making crying sounds. In some time , they slipped out of the place and went to the two houses the daughter- in- law worked in and again begged for money for her funeral. Unwillingly, the people gave them money and asked them to use it for the woman’s funeral only. The duo started walking back to their hut…

Bapu, Binni is no longer alive, so why spend money on her funeral? Why not spend it on ourselves? If we used this to live and enjoy life even for a little while, surely Binni would feel happy in this world or the other. Think of it Bapu, the kafan to cover her will cost three hundred and the wood another thousand. Then there is the Brahman who will charge another five hundred and we will be left with nothing. Why waste covering Binni with a new cloth after death when she never got one when alive?

But, Sukhi, we still have to take care of her corpse? We just cannot leave her there rotting in the house. We will have to give her a funeral somehow.

They reached home. By now the people gathered earlier had all dispersed. The two wrapped the corpse in the bed sheet she was lying in; picked up the charpoy from the two ends and walked out into the night without making any sound. They walked quite a while till they came to Sarayu River. The charpoy with the corpse was gently lowered into the flowing water and in no time it was lost.

Binni is blessed. She will surely go to heaven. We immersed not her ashes but her body in the holy river and, surely, the gates of heaven will open for her. I do not think even she dreamt of such a beautiful end to her tragic life. She is truly blessed.

The two put their hands together and said a little prayer as the gushing water made a gusty noise on a dark night. As the prayer ended, the two men smiled at each other as they pulled out the money from their pockets…..they knew they had a fortune in their hands now.

Sukhi said…ik pal andhera, duje pal savera!

Bapu, you know the rich have to get themselves injected to get well from this illness that is terrifying them. For getting the injection, they have to use their mobile phones…..someone was saying that they are not getting the injections now. They have the money but no injections. But not us….ha ha….let us now use our mobiles for getting our injections which has no waiting, no scheduling….just ask and get….apna DoWin App kabhi fail nahin maarta….Do dose zindagi ke liye…

Hello, Barkat bhai….yes…we need 4 strong shots….two for Bapu and two for me and our vaccination will be over in one night itself. Yes…money is no problem…cash hai to aish hai….

In some time, a man on a two wheeler arrived at the banks of the river and handed over a parcel to Sukhi and the father gave the man the money for the same. They now sat on the ground and opened the parcel. Their eyes lit up on seeing the stuff….Barkat bhai  was the best for his stuff was always top quality. They used the needle in the packet and pulled out the liquid in the four small tubes. The father injected the son and then the son did the same to the father, twice over. They put their hands over each other’s shoulders and walked to Nandu Halwai’s shop where they ordered puri, chholey and rasmalai, not just for themselves, but for all those who were present there including the beggars….today they were feeling rich so the celebration ought to be big and inclusive.

The drugs, by now, had started having its effect as the two started laughing slowly and then with greater ferocity. Then they got up and started dancing and singing the old Hindi number….beedi jalaye le badan se piya…later changed the lyrics to …injection lagai le tu hum se piya….The others at the shop joined the wild dance with their benefactors as they saw the father and son making strange faces, making new moves now and then, rolling on the ground in complete frenzy. Then suddenly the older of the two stopped and pulled the son aside….

Sukhi, Binni will surely go to heaven for all the hardships she endured on earth but when you meet her there, she may ask why you did not get kafan for her on the last journey from this world….what will you say to her then?

Bapu, firstly, the two of us will never go to heaven for the sort of life we have led here. So, chances of meeting Binni ever again are as good as zero. More importantly, you tell me is this moment we are living in now not heaven….good food that we are having and sharing, good friends as company, dancing, singing to our hearts’ delight….Can it be any better up there? If we can enjoy heaven here, why go there….Gar Firdaus bar-rue zamin ast, hamin asto, hamin ast….

SS

 

 

 

Masterji

Hello! I am Qausar Nissar and this is my little story. I live in a chawl in Bangur Nagar in Mumbai along with my two younger sisters. My father is a carpenter and works in a furniture shop called Fine Living. My mother works as a maid in four flats in the big, tall, beautiful building adjoining our chawl. I study in class IX in a municipal school where the teachers do not come on most days and when they do come, they hardly teach us anything other than making us do a fixed set of questions and answers that we have to learn by rote and write the same in the exams.  Had it not been for the street school, which helps kids like us who have no one to guide at home on studies, I would never have understood any concept or been able to write answers applying logic and understanding. This is a school run by a few good, old men who arrange for volunteers to teach the kids and  then there are some Samaritans who financially contribute for the essentials for running the school. The best part about the school is a wonderful, healthy, hot meal we all get on all days except Sundays when there is no school. This school has no roof above; there are no benches to sit on. We sit under the open sky on plastic mats at street corners and municipal parks with makeshift black boards. This is our open street school.

Arun Sir was one such volunteer teacher. He was studying in college and would come on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays to teach us English. He was easily the best teacher of all for he would never get angry and was very patient with all of us. He would often give us chocolates when we did well in the tests he conducted. I would never miss his class for anything. I would only study English at home and come prepared for his classes. I would quickly raise my hand to answer the questions he asked and soon the other children knew it was no point competing with me. I loved going to him and showing my note book for corrections. Seeing my interest in the subject, he even agreed to devote some extra time on some days to help me speak English. Sitting with him alone, I tried to concentrate on what he was teaching without getting distracted which was not at all easy. This was by far the best part of the day for me always.

Arun Sir was also good in dramatics and would always help the children of our school put up shows on Independence and Republic Days. While I am otherwise a shy girl and, despite resistance from my parents, I made sure I was in the group where Arun Sir would be the director. This year on Independence Day, we planned to enact the story of Rani Laxmibai and I wanted to play the role of the Queen. Sir however asked Rukhsat to play the same while I was given a small role of a soldier who fought for Jhansi. That night I cried at home and I wanted to ask Sir to give me the central role but did not muster enough courage to say anything. I kept going for all the practice sessions and stood there watching Sir devote all his time and energy to Rukhsat. I felt jealous but was happy that I was with him for an extra hour of practice beyond study time which my parents would never have approved otherwise.

Everything was going fine till suddenly the good old men of the NGO announced that it will not be possible to continue with the school as a lockdown had been declared in the country. As soon as things would get better, the classes would resume, they assured.

I heard about online classes for children on television. This must surely be for rich kids studying in expensive schools and not for children like us. We all have smart phones but you cannot study with them….our municipal school teachers are not equipped to teach online and none of us have computers to enable us to do so. We started spending time at home, initially enjoying the holidays but then started doing the chores at home. With father’s workshop also getting shut, he suggested to Ammi to arrange for a couple of houses where I could do the cleaning and dusting work.

Par Abba mujhe jhadu-pocha nahin karna hai…meri padhai ka kya hoga?

Zinda rahe toh pardai kal bhi ho jayegi….aaj paisa chahiye jeene kel iye.

So off went the books into the bag and in its place came the mop and the broom in my hands. Some homes were good. They would treat you well and offer you tea and food at times while in the others, you were shouted at and abused. You were told how bad your work was and threatened to be fired so that I over-worked myself to keep my job. When I used to return home after work, I never complained. I would simply smile and hit the bed early. I looked forward to my sleep for often I would dream of Arun Sir. He would wake me up and take me away for a walk in the garden or the Marine Drive. I even dreamt of him singing for me and me joining him in a duet. The other day we went to a nice restaurant where he ordered my choicest food of noodles and chilli-chicken and in the end he even ordered for butter-scotch ice cream. I hated the mornings when Arun Sir would have to leave me but he was, possibly, my only source of happiness in those difficult times.

One day, in one of the houses I worked, a young boy of eight was creating a huge ruckus.

I want a laptop and refuse to work on the desktop anymore. All my friends make fun of me.

The mother spoke, Beta listen to me. The PC is working fine and you can do all you work sitting in one place. You do not have to carry it around to another which is what you need a laptop for.

I said no, and I will not switch it on even if the school marks me absent….the boy folded his arms in front of his chest and turned his face away from the pleading mother and started sobbing.

Bahu, let us buy him a laptop. I will give it to him for his birthday which is a month away. It will be his advance present this year, said the loving grandfather.

And what will we do with the desk top, Papa?

Give it to the kabadiwala. No one will give any money for this old obsolete thing.

Quasar, you want this thing? You can take it for free, the house lady asked.

And so the desk top came home. Late in the evening, I started working on the machine along with my sisters and we were delighted at the unexpected arrival of the gadget in the house. It surprisingly seemed to work well. It took  us some time but with a little help from some friends in the chawl and a shared wi-fi connection, we learnt how to Google, open Gmail accounts and without telling our parents, we even opened our Facebook accounts. So far WhatsApp was a good companion but FB was far better!

After everyone in the house went off to sleep, I would quietly open up the magic machine and go to my FB page. I would go to the ‘search friends’ option and type Arun and I found about a hundred thousand Aruns popping up. I would patiently eliminate a hundred Aruns a day. It was a long and tedious process and disappointed I would go back to sleep but my search for Sir continued silently and secretly.

One day walking to one of my places of work I met Raghu Uncle who was one of the key organisers of the school for street children.

Hello Qausar, how are you and how are your studies progressing?

I burst out crying and hugged the old man tight in a state of helplessness. When he heard my story, the old man wiped the tears from his eyes in his great helplessness. Thanks to the pandemic, the street children were now sadly turning away from the school and pouring on to the streets, something they had worked tirelessly to prevent all these years.

You cannot give up on your studies Qausar. Here are the mobile numbers and email IDs of the teachers and you can approach anyone of them anytime. They will surely help you with your curriculum gladly. You were so good in your studies and it will be a tragedy if you have to give it up.

That night, I opened up the sheet of paper given by Raghu Uncle and my eyes lit up seeing Arun Sir’s number and email id. I quickly opened up my Gmail and carefully typed the gmail id and started composing. It took me very long for I carefully thought over every word, after all it was my first mail.

Hello Arun Sir.

I got you mail from Raghu Uncle. I am good. I am missing school and there are no studies now for me and my sisters. I now work in two houses. School was good with friends, food and teachers like you.

How are you Sir?

Yours respectfully,

Quasar

I wanted to write in the end what my friends often wrote to their boyfriends…with…but I just could not get myself to do it. What will he think of me? I smiled as my heart skipped a few beats as I pressed the button for send. This is the first mail, maybe will write more openly to him later.

Next evening, I returned home and switched on the PC to check my mail box. There was no reply. I switched off the machine and rebooted it to check once again but still could not find any reply that I was looking forward to. Disappointed, I shut the set off and went to sleep without having dinner saying I was not feeling well. The next two evenings also were as disappointing and now I had accepted my fate that Arun Sir had either forgotten me or did not think it important to answer my mail. I once thought if I should send one more top up mail but then held myself back lest Sir would think of me as someone desperate and crazy.

After a few days, I had given up all hope and stopped checking my mails. I even stopped playing with the PC and checking FB which I found very dull, boring and full of people trying to show off anything and everything. I felt so out of place in their midst with nothing to talk about.

On Saturday, my youngest sister, Salma, who was working on the computer, ran to me in excitement…Qausar Baji, come and see. You have mail from Arun Sir.

I got up in disbelief and walked slowly to the screen hoping it must be another hoax my little sister was playing but was pleasantly surprised to see the mail. I clicked on it and read…

Dear Qausar.

I read your mail today and could not reply earlier as I was down with fever and cough. Now I am fine. You were my best student and I always felt you would do well in higher studies especially in English but now feel very sad that you are no longer pursuing studies. This is not fair. I will come and speak to your parents. Before that I want to meet you. Please come to our house at the address given below when you can and then I will see what can be done.

As I used to tell you, never lose hope. All will be well in the end.

Regards,

Arun

I read the mail…again and again and felt so happy that I grabbed Salma and kissed her tight to her complete astonishment. I decided to go to Sir’s house tomorrow as it was Sunday and surely he would be there. Next day, I got up early, had a bath and changed into a clean set of ironed clothes…the best I had. I quickly gulped my breakfast and walked to the address given in the mail. At the gate I was stopped by the guard who asked for my name and flat number I wished to go. The guard called up on the intercom which a woman on the other side asked…

Kaun hai

Madam, koi Qausar hai

Achch aaane do…

I signed the register and took the lift to reach the 16^th floor….I was feeling restless, afraid and my throat was drying up. What will I say to Arun Sir…. I had actually practised all the answers to his possible questions in my mind while pretending to sleep last night.  And now the time had come and I hesitantly rang the doorbell.

A middle aged woman in sari opened the door and before I could speak, rattled off…

So you are the one Bela Madam spoke highly of- ok we will see. Remember there will be no chhutti and I will deduct from your pay for every day of leave you take. You have to wear clean clothes every day, come to work on time and must do the work properly. We will pay you 2000 rupees per month and give you 500 rupees on Diwali. I hope you are honest and will not steal anything from the house. My son is careless and leaves everything including his wallet outside. Chalo, you can come to work from tomorrow.

I did not utter a single word and just turned around and took the lift back to the building reception. I signed the register again and walked out. I went to the nearby bus stop which was vacant and put my head between my palms and cried, first softly and then uncontrollably. After a while I calmed down and walked back to my house, changed into my regular clothes and went to the kitchen to help my mother.

Now I know for sure that Cinderella stories happen only in fairy tales.

SS