We, The Unforgiving

They were born just a couple of years apart. Seraphina, aptly named, was the elder. Roxy, the rebel younger. Both were exquisite to look at, if different. Tall, with a mane of auburn hair, and brown, doe shaped eyes, Seraphina  drew envious looks from all the girls in the community. Also tall, with silky, black hair and mischievous dark eyes, Roxy, sensous and scintillating was always surrounded by boys wherever she went. Their father was one of the stalwarts of the town, a highly respected, very affluent man, an indulgent if strict dad. The mother, adored them and took great pride in them. From her three children (Her son was born much later ) tho, Roxy was the one who was the apple of her eyes.

The day her son was born was the unhappiest day of her life. For on that day, giving in to an unrelenting husband, she gave up twelve year old Roxy, to his childless elder brother. A tearful, inconsolable, bewildered Roxy went to live with her uncle and aunt, not really understanding why she had been torn apart from her sister and parents, and  had to accept her uncle as dad, aunt as mother. Her whole life hence, in spite of being loved and cared  for by the couple, she never ever called them father or mother. This was her revenge. Her own parents, she grew to have conflicting emotions of hate and love for. Her biological mother, unable to relenquish her, continued to keep the bond alive, calling her up often, reassuring her, trying to help her in anyway she could.

A tormented teen gave way to a discontented young girl. Roxy's marriage was arranged with an affluent young man. Though good looking, he was an insipid young man, too engrossed with his business to pay her much attention, a few years down the line. Seraphina, married well too. The most eligible bachelor in town, an engineer, seriously ambitious. He groomed Seraphina to be the trophy wife, he had desired. The perfect hostess, an elegant homemaker, she became almost a cult figure. The two of them together raised two sons.

Roxy bore her husband a son and for some years, became preoccupied with him, giving the child all the love that she had yearned for from her own parents. But as he grew older he grew more preoccupied with his studies and his dad's business. Older now, in her thirties, she was still very attractive. The day her son brought him home with him, she could feel him staring at her. A friend from college, he was a Tamilian. Dark and swarthy, he was young and reckless. Soon she found herself looking forward to his visits. Amused at first with his attentions, but bored with life, she went along with him. When they became serious about each other, nobody knew. All she knew was that, the only thing she looked forward to was his visits. His amorous wooing of her, his charm captivated her. All her life she had thirsted for this kind of attention. It frightened her to think of what would happen the day he left for good.

Finally the day did come. "I'm getting married," he told her. Her heart skipping a beat, she asked "Who to ?" Going down on his knees, looking deep into her eyes, he answered, "You. If you will have me."

The ensuing furor had shaken up the community. For they eloped and got married, settling in a remote town, away from anyone they knew.

Her parents as well as his disowned them, immediatly. Her siblings refused to even pick up the phone when she called. Everyone except her biological mother. The first year was idyllic. But soon enough, the enormity of their deed hit home. Used to a palatial home, and a luxurious lifestyle, she was a terrible homemaker, a bad cook. Increasing frustrations led to his taking to drink. When she tried to reason with him, he hit her, and accused her of ruining his life. But some decisions in life are irreversible, as they found out. Ostracised by the world, they had to live in the one of their own making. A dreadful mistake which they both regretted.

Then she was diagnosed with cancer. Her only succor in life came from her mother. Keeping her trysts with her daughter a secret from the rest of the family, she paid her bills and talked to her whenever she could.

Time crawled. Seraphina's son was getting married and half the country had been invited. The entire countryside where they had a grand home, was bedecked with flowers. From Africa, came the dancers, from all four sides of the country, came cooks. The entire community was abuzz with excitement, wedding planners were working overtime to fulfill the demands of their elite client.

Six days before the wedding came the news. Seraphina's father was dead. A sudden heart attack in the middle of the night had proved fatal. As the house turned from a celebratory mood to one of mourning, people poured in to offer their condolences. In the end it was agreed by all that they would have to honor his last wish, and the marriage would be held as planned. He had loved his grandson too much to have hindered his marriage.

The phone call came when she was least expecting it, so she didn't have time to plan her response. The voice at the other end was tearful, pleading, " Sister, " she said. "Please can i come for Dad's funeral ? Please. I don't have too  much time myself, and i need to make my peace with everyone. I want to see mother one last time before i..." Her voice tailed off. The reply came after a long time. "No. While he was alive he didn't ever want to see you, his  wishes have to be honored now that he is dead. Besides, no one even knows of you, and it would be too scandalous to have you over now." In her panic, she was almost brutally unguarded, the facade of the gracious socialite ripped from her. The click of the receiver as it was replaced had a heartbreaking finality to it.

"Let him who has not sinned cast the first stone, " Jesus had said. Messiahs came and died trying to reform us but we remain Unforgiving.   

The Winner

"Once upon a time there was a fruit orchard. All the fruits living there were friends, except for the banana. He was a very proud fellow, who always talked only about himself and was mostly rude to the others. One day, the papaya was going to his friends house when he tripped on the banana trees roots and fell. The banana saw him fall and laughing loudly, made fun of him, saying ' serves you right Mr. Papaya for being so fat.' The other fruits rushed to help him get up and go home.
The next night there was an Easter party at the Easter bunny's house. All the fruits were looking forward to it. That night, it had been raining so all the fruits were extra careful when they set out to go to the party. The banana too, was highly excited and a little late, so he hopped quickly along. In his hurry, however, he slipped and fell on the ground with a loud cry. Most of the fruits heard him, but because no one liked him, no one went to  help. The papaya finally wobbled across and helped him up, dusting off his clothes and helping him along as best as he could. 'Oh dear, ! Mr. Papaya. I was so nasty the other night when you slipped, i am so sorry,' cried the banana. 'That's all right, banana, we all need each other at some time or the other, i'm glad i could help.'said the papaya. The moral of the story is that we should never make fun of others, but help them if we can." As the rest of the class clapped loudly, eight year old Amanda, bowed from the waist and smiling happily went back to her seat.

Her story was chosen as the best in the under ten competition and she was chosen to say it aloud in front of the parents on annual day. A boy named Alex, from the other section was chosen to say a poem that he had written.

They waited nervously backstage. Amanda, wearing a pretty red frock with her hair tied neatly in two short plaits had her grandmother with her. Her mother had just had a baby and was unable to come to the concert. Her father sat in the audience, waiting anxiously. This was her first time on stage and he was nervous for her. Lately, with the new baby being born, her mother had not  been able to give her much attention. She had practiced with her gran, and he hoped that, that had been enough.

Alex was dressed smartly in a new suit, and his mother hovered around trying to tell whoever would listen how clever Alex was and that he had won the prize for best performer last year, too.

When her name was announced, Amanda walked on to the stage. A small, figure she stood in the centre of the stage.  Most of the parents, lookin at her felt a lump in their throats so vulnerable and sweet she was. Looking out at the audience, she saw her dad smiling encouragingly at her and started her story. Her voice, hesitant at first, became stronger as she went on. Halfway, thru, she sneezed then, looked backstage as a laugh rang out loudly. Alex stood stifling  his giggles but still laughing at her. Nervously, she stopped, then started searching the audience for her dad. The pause became longer, as she hesitated trying to remember where she had stopped, even as her dad realising what had happened, gave her a small reassuring wave. Prompted from behind by her grandma, she finished the story, giving a sweeping bow to the audience, who responded with loud applause for the little girl.

Alex walked on to the stage, confidently. From start to finish his recital was perfect, the expressions and hand movements, just as he had rehearsed with his mum over and over again at home. Bowing low to the audience as he finished, he was walking back, then turned around again to wave at the audience. Unfortunately, his leg got caught in the microphone wires and he tripped falling flat on his front. Even as he started to bawl, as a few giggles came from the audience, a small figure rushed out to help him up. Amanda put her arm around his shoulders and the two small figures slowly made their way back as the audience arose as one and clapped thunderously, as much for Amanda as for Alex..

Alex won the prize, but it was Amanda whom the parents smiled and petted as she left the hall with her dad and grandma.

Postscript:
The above story of the papaya and the banana was the first story written by my daughter. I could have burst with pride that day when she brought it home from school. She was hardly eight, then. 

The Alert Security

He sat strumming his digits on the desk. Long, florescent yellow, they hardly made any sound on the shiny, surface. ( all unnecessary sound was sensed by the tiny sensors fitted on his suit and eliminated) In charge of the peripheral security of his planet, his spaceship usually orbited his planet, but the rare reconnaissance trip took him to galaxies, distant and different and immensely exciting to him. This time, he was in the Milky Way. Two of his eyes,aquamarine orbs situated at the end of the antenna coming out of his sleek head, moved constantly giving him a 360 degrees view of the beautiful worlds swirling into his view. Suddenly, into his view came a lovely orb. As it rose into his sight, he leaned back appreciatively to admire it better. Blue clouds floating across a blue brown horizon, he caught glimpses of a world that seemed to have life on it. Tantalised, he adjusted his telescopic eye so that he got a closer look at this world.

He lost track of time, as he zoomed into this world, his invisible space ship giving him a bird's eye view of the huge buildings he saw. Hovering in a stand still mode, he peered into a vast white building, the room within, where several robot like things moved. Strangely they seemed not of metal, but flesh and blood. Leaving his spacecraft in hover mode he sat back trying to make sense of what his eyes beheld. All four of his eyes concentrated on feeding information to his computer like brain. He activated his thought processor, the sensor within his brain, that translated sounds into computer programmes that his brain interpreted as language, algorithms that made sense to him. He prepared to listen.

The president of the United States sat pensively. If he succeeded in his goal, he would have achieved what no other head of state ever had : A world free from the threat of nuclear warfare. The five point agenda with which he would confront leaders of all the countries, even the recalcitrant heads of Iraq, Iran and the various Arabian States, had taken years of research and negotiations to build. The recent Tsunami in Japan which had almost caused a nuclear catastrophe, and would have annihilated several of its neighbours, had caused sufficient panic for this consortium of heads to keep aside their differences and agree to contain a common, man made disaster waiting to happen. Specially if they fell into the hands of terrorists. With a sigh he got up and readied to face his elite guests.

Even more tense then the president was one other person. He was the head of security, whose task it was to protect the president and coordinate with the security staff of the visiting leaders. In spite of all the precautions, he was worried about the security personnel of the various heads. His own were a select, elite group who shadowed the president at all times. But he broke into a sweat, everytime he imagined a terrorist strike here. Almost the entire world would be left without a head.

The alien watched fascinated as the different beings streamed in. Each seemed to be surrounded by men carrying primitive fire guns, that he recognised from the archives back home. What amused and fascinated him was that they were doing the same job as him ! Security.  His X Ray vision enabled him to see even their body parts. What intrigued him about one was that only he was different. Instead of a protecting shield that they all wore, he was wearing what seemed like a machine. Different wires protruded from it and led to a clock that ticked away steadily. He stood hidden inside the wash room, dressed exactly like the rest, in army fatigues, as if on duty there.

The chief of the men gave a long speech waving around the two digits that he had. The one with the wires, edged closer.

His instincts honed by a training far superior than any on earth, his antennae receiving many signals emanating from the one, the alien waited and watched closely.

The chief of security was a very tensed man, specially now that he had received information of a possible terrorist attack by a suicide bomber. He moved constantly around the room where the meeting was in progress, every fiber of his being intensely alert. Acting on impulse he glanced in the washroom. A movement caught his eye. In a flash he was inside, but moving equally fast, the burly terrorist had him pinned against the wall, his hand clamped on his mouth. As the terrorists  knife started to plunge inside the chief's body, it happened. A bolt of high voltage electricity shot thru the room, weaved around the chief and struck the terrorist. He slumped to the ground, his body convulsing as if he had been struck by lightening. Gingerly the chief  bent over him, deactivating the bomb, that he had heard ticking inside his clothes, and gave the signal for a security breach. As hundreds of paratroopers moved in, he didn't have the time to think of what happened.

Later the post mortem revealed that the terrorist had suffered fourth degree burns, which killed him instantly.

As his spaceship took off into the skies, the alien smiled to himself. Life was tough for security personnel everywhere. He had been happy to help one of his ilk.  

The Amateur

The room was dark, the heavy curtains pulled across the windows. The smell of the sandalwood 'lobaan' (incense) emanating from the dispenser tucked discreetly into the corner of the room  lay heavy. On the ornate table in the middle  of the room was an ouja board. Sitting around it were four ladies. Clad in black burkhas, they would've been almost invisible, except that the light kept in their midst illuminated their faces, casting an almost eerie glow within the room.

As was their wont, they started the seance with a chant, holding hands and ululating melodiously. When the leader looked up, their was pin drop silence. Lifting her head up, her voice rising to a crescendo, she invoked the spirits, pleading with them to reveal themselves. Their fingers poised on the board, they waited. Suddenly the leaders' finger moved, as the coin below it moved. In a hushed voice she whispered, "Ask my friend, for the spirits hear you." Her voice trembling, as did her fingers, the one sitting to her left, spoke softly, " Will i give birth to this child i carry in my womb, or will it to die after its birth as its  brothers and sisters before it ?" The leader twitched violently, as if the spirit had entered her body. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, like a man's, " It will live. You will call her 'Khadijah' for she was the first among women, the prophet's wife. Now release me for my world calls.."  Their voices raised in joy, the women started ululating again. The leader sweating profusely, opened her eyes, and looked upon the women, the one weeping copiously, fell at her feet and cried, "Fatema ! My husband shall reward you richly for this, for my home has stayed barren even though i have conceived seven times." Kissing her hands, she arose and took off the heavy emerald ring that she wore, dropping it into her lap, before she swept out of the room. As the women dispersed, a small voice asked, "Mama, can i come in ?" A small bright eyed child of ten entered the room. "Oh no!" Rukaiya ! You have been listening in an the seance again. One of these days a spirit will enter your soul, and i shall have to take you to the hakim. Do you know how he will exorcise it from your body ? He will whip you until you cry for mercy and faint." "Oh mama, you are so clever, even the spirits love you." she cried, as holding out her arms she kissed her mama and ran from the room.

The intense afternoon heat, had given way to a cool breeze that heralded the sunset. Fatema, exhausted with her efforts, lay fast asleep on her cot. The muezzins' call from the masjid across the road, jolted her awake. Gathering her robes around her, she rose to her feet to prepare for the namaaz. Suddenly,she stopped. Blinking her eyes, rubbing them to make sure she was awake, she listened intently. Yes ! Voices were coming from within the prayer room, where she held her seances. Going towards it, she quietly stood outside listening. Eyes widening in horror, she heard Rukaiya's voice. "Father, she was saying, tell me will Zainabbi carry her child." A voice, much like that of her dead husband, resonated around the room. "Yes, the voice said, the boy should be named Hamza. Release me, now child, for i have to go." Rukaiya's voice replied, "Khudahafiz, Abbu." As if from a distance came the answer, "Khudahafiz, my child."( May Allah be with you)

Stunned, rooted to the spot she stood, not knowing whether to chastise the child, or to believe in her, she listened to a chastened Rukaiya trying to explain hurriedly that this was the first time she had tried to conduct a seance, that she would never do it again. Going down on her knees, the mother pulled the child to her, and eyes boring into hers said "Rukaiya! Listen well!  I will forgive you, but you are not to mention this to anyone. Ever. Do you hear me. Or else they will take you away from me."

The next day Fatema called Zainab to her house. Telling her that she had a dream in which Allah had decided to bestow upon her a son, whose name should be Hamza. The elated Zainab left, promising her many riches if indeed, what she said was true.

Fatema waited anxiously, her prayer beads turning relentlessly in her hands. From within the room came the screams as Zainab went into labour. "Allah o Akber !" ( God is great) As the cry came, she hurried in. Exhausted, but smiling, Zainab declared, "It's a boy! Fatema ! Just as you said it would be."Added her husband, "He shall be named Hamza, just as it was predicted"

The tribe gave her a very fond send off. Of course, they had tried to convince her to stay, plying her with riches to convince her, but she was adamant. Holding Rukaiya protectively in front of her, seated on the camel, gifted to her by a grateful Zainab, she left. They would be anonymous far away across the desert,  safe from the greed of men, where her mothers' tribe lived.

Ambushed !

"Come on, come on, lets go !" Already late for my appointment at the dentists, i had been shouting at my son to hurry and get dressed, so we could leave. As he emerged from his room, i grabbed my bag, from the table and rushed to my mother in law's room. Ailing from the past month, she had been bed ridden. The maid had been given strict instructions to remain at home till we returned. She seemed asleep, so closing the door gently, i retreated to the hall, even as the door bell rang.

Pulling it open with a hand, i found myself face to face with two young men. "Courier ? " the word died in my throat, as i was pushed back inside roughly. The two jumped in and closed the door. "Hey ! What the hell do you think you are doing ?" this from my gallant youngster, as he drew himself to his full height of five and a half feet plus about half a foot of upright gelled hair. Wordlessly, they pushed me down onto a chair, one whipped out a knife, a small pen knife, actually, that he put against my throat. I noticed that his hand trembled slightly against my throat, though i was trembling so much i could have given him a run for his money too ( poor choice of words). "Move," the bigger one of the two said, "And he'll split her throat." I could see the stunned look on my son's face as all the belligerence went out of it. Replaced by a kind of desperate fear. The maid, stood in the doorway, also frozen with fear. Turning to my son, he said, "Keys. Quick. Give me the keys to the cupboard. " A small signal, from me indicated that it was inside the room. Herding my son and the maid towards me, he turned to go in. " Shyanpatti nai karne ka.  ( Don't try any tricks) Varna." (or else). He drew a finger menacingly across his throat. To our panic, however, he headed into grandma's room. Before we could say anything, we heard him yelling at her to keep still. In a world of her own she didn't react at all. When he realised she was not even moving, he started throwing open cupboards flinging things into a bag he carried. By now i had recovered sufficiently to know that the boy in front of me was a novice, i mean, he was sweating almost as profusely as i was ! Seeing the gleam in my eye, my kid, alarmed, said an urgent, "No, Ma. !" A rather sharp one. What happened next, was utter mayhem.

The thief, swung around to look at my son, mother hen instincts kicking in, i leapt up, swinging my huge bag, with its sundry knick knacks, as hard as i could. The boy holding the knife, had no chance. As he collapsed in a faint at my feet, my son, the amateur karate champ, aimed a kick which probably had the poor lad incapacitated for a week. The commotion had the second thief running in, and we collectively froze again, as he brandished a pistol at us. The lull, however was temporary, as we looked on in open mouthed horror, grandma teetered behind him and before we could react, had biffed him with, of all things, her bed pan! In tandem, we raced towards them , my son and i, while the maid flung open the door and raced out, setting up a banshee screech of her own. Another karate kick from my son, took care of the bewildered thief. My son dialled my husband and the police, while i tried to tie up the thief's hands, with a charger cord.


After peace and grandma had been restored (With all her exertions and the sudden flow of adrenalin, she was difficult to contain. She lay on her bed, tremulously regaling awestruck neighbours with the embellished tale of how she had single handedly caught the thief, and saved her beloved grandson from harm.)

As for my husband, he never ever complained about how big handbags were getting these days.. 

The Hermit

The cottage lay nestled in the midst of the thicket. Small and unprepossessing, but surrounded by trees. The wind gently rustled thru the trellis of roses that grew around it. A small garden, tended by loving hands, had a profusion of flowers growing on one side. on the other was a patch of grass. He lay on the grass, a hat shielding his face from the rays of the sun that lit up the lawn. A blade of grass stuck out of his mouth. Had the trekker not seen the glint of the glasses that lay next to him, he would have missed seeing him altogether, so still was his stance, so one with his surroundings.

"Asleep ? " was his first thought. Something about the place, made him feel alien, as if he were trespassing, not only on the land but also in the man's domain. Turning around, he made for the back of the cottage. A small vegetable patch led to the window of the kitchen, he saw as he peered in. "Want something, son ? " The intruder swung around to find himself facing the man he had seen in the garden. He was tall and broad shouldered, if thin, and stood there looking askance at him. "Only a drink of water, sir, " he replied, holding up his empty bottle of water. Feeling the need to explain his presence further he said, "  I saw you back there and didn't want to disturb you. I thought i'd find someone else if i  came back here. " With a sigh, the man said, "There isn't anyone else here. Give me that bottle." Going inside the kitchen, he looked back and said, " Well, come on in if you must." The interior, he found to his surprise was beautiful. The kitchen led to a small dining area. The antique table had a vase of freshly cut flowers gracing it. The grandfather clock in the corner added to the old world charm of the room. Everything was spic and span, as if a woman had tended to it with loving hands. But the thing that made him catch his breath was the painting on the wall. It depicted the sea, majestic waves crashing towards the beach, on which rearing its head, in all its glory, was a horse. The azure of the sea, the different shades of blue, the nuances of color, contrasted sharply with the snowy white of the horse. He stood in front of the canvas, mouth agape, awestruck. Turning around to face the man smiling sardonically at him, he said, "This.. this is brilliant, sir ! I paint myself, and this painting takes my breath away ! May i know the name of the artist ? "


"It's an anonymous work. But thanks for your appreciation. " If you don't mind sir, can you tell me why you live here in the back of beyond. Are you here on holiday ? This place is of course, idyllic. A retreat away from the world. "

" Yes.. Yes, of course. I am on holiday. a permanent one. This is my world, where i live. The world, in all its modern glory, holds no interest for me. Once upon a time, i had a family, i was part of the cacaphony of life. Business, conglomerates, jet setting across the world, but never really seeing it. Moneyed, but impoverished because all i saw of the world were busy mammoth airports and cities. I was lucky, i escaped, in time. Now, i've found my peace, the meaning of my existence. No routines or deadlines bind me, harness me and put shackles on my passions. Books, paintings are my world. If i need supplies, i go to town on my horse cart. Otherwise, i am free. "

He awoke with a start. The noisy din of the alarm had him wide awake. The wonder of the night came back to him, as he made no move to get out of bed. Deep in contemplation, he sat unmindful of the time. "Dad ! Dad!" said his son entering his  room.  "Where are you ? You are late already, and if you don't hurry, we'll miss the flight ! If that deal falls thru, we'll lose millions. "

"You go son, I'm not going anywhere. This is it." "What ?" Incredulous, his son stood stunned before him." What's wrong with you? Are you sick or something ?"

"On the contrary, everythings right now. I was confused, and tired beyond words, before.. No more. I know, finally, what im going to do with the rest of my life. I've lived my life, you go live yours."

The Bond

The road wound thru the forest. The highway was smooth, the setting sun playing peek -a- boo from behind the tall trees on either side, added to the magic of the moment. The rest of my friends, lulled with the motion of the SUV, had nodded off, heads lolling against each others' shoulders. In love with the setting sun outside, seated next to the driver, i was wide awake, camera on the ready.

As the car took a steep turn, we could see faintly, in the fast gathering dusk, a few shapes in the middle of the road. Horn sounding persistingly, we neared the shapes. "Stop !" My voice rang out urgently, startling awake my friends. Sreeching to a halt, a little distance away, we all peered out. There she was. Literally caught in the glow of the headlights ! Hovering around the little one who lay on the road, was a Deer. We stopped a few feet before it. Cautiously, we tried honking a few times, which only seemed to add to her agitation. She circled her fawn, which lay on the road, but refused to budge. Lowering her head, hooves bent she made as if to charge at me, when I slowly alighted from the car. By now it was clear to us that the fawn was injured, probably, by a driver too callous to stop and help. Talking soothingly, in a low voice, i first held out my hand to the Deer. Sniffing cautiously, nostrils twitching anxiously, she must have sensed that i wanted to help, and so she allowed  me to go to her fawn. What is it about a small fragile deer that pulls at the heart strings ? Her light brown, speckled coat, glistening when it caught the rays of the sun, her little heart thudding fast under my arms, no human baby could have been more precious to me at that moment. I was also fascinated and caught  in deep admiration for the mother, who guarded her babe with her life, refusing to abandon it, as long as it lived.

My friend who was a medical intern, joined me in examining the small helpless little thing. Her leg was bleeding, and it was obvious to us, that it was a superficial injury, but the loss of blood had made the fawn weak, and so she had collapsed. With the mother standing close to us, we carefully tied a bandage and managed to stop the bleeding. After giving her a drink of water, I offered her some grass, which the driver managed to get. Picking it up tenderly, we walked a little distance away, inside the forest, carefully laying her down, in a grassy knoll. Loathe to leave her, but assured, by my friend that the fawn would be up and running by the next day, we returned to the car.

When we left, i could see the mother, snorting softly, preparing to settle down for the night, her fawn tucked carefully under her.

Civilization, after an idyllic holiday seemed even more cacaphonous. When the phone rang early in the morning, i was jolted awake. The voice on the other end informed me of the death of a beloved teacher's mother. My friends and I had always had a close bond with our library teacher in school, a spinster who lived alone with her mum, also a retired teacher. Ms. W had lived a life peopled with her precious books, and her extremely well read and articulate mother. The mother and daughter were inseparable. In her youth, the mother had been left to fend for herself after her husband had died. In the mid nineties, being a single parent was a herculean task. But she had lived alone with her child, braving the world and society around her as she educated her child, whilst teaching in a convent school.

When she was young, marriage had been on the cards, but her condition was that her mother, now afflicted with cancer would live with her after marriage. So they had continued to live as spinsters, having only each other to fall back upon. The years passed. Ms. W was now in her seventies. Her ninety plus mother had overcome the earlier bout of illness, but had been ailing for some time. Devotedly the daughter tended her. But as her health deteriorated further, the doctor requested an audience with Ms W.

"She needs to let go now. It's only her will power that is keeping her here, that and her concern for you." The old family physician advised her, " Speak to her ?"

They sat holding each other's hand. The deep love they shared reflected in her mother's eyes, she spoke, " Ma. I love You. I've booked myself into a home for the aged. It's a beautiful place in Kerala. I'll have good company there, and people to look after me so don't worry. Let go Ma. We'll meet again in a better place, ma. I love you."

Her mother died then peacefully in her sleep, the next day.

To attend the funeral, we passed through the same forest. The one where the deer had guarded her baby with her life. The mother and child bond. The only unshakable one on earth.

Press....surrrrre!

The computer ? The micro ? The i pad, i phone, ipod ? Sure. Sure! Absolutely. Todays Bharatiya Naari, can do without everything except her gizmos.  I mean, the male comes much much later in her life, its only all about the mail. The e kind . But there was a time.  Admittedly, great grandma's time, but there was a time, when she had none of these, not even a pressure cooker.

My mom's aunt was a small, absent minded old lady. Mild and timid. Except when thwarted. The 'Thing ' called a pressure cooker was guilty of just that crime. There it lay, in all its shiny new glory, on the marble floor, brazenly. Now aunts' house was not your small city flat. No way. The ceiling was so high, one couldn't be blamed for thinking one had stepped into the Buckingham Palace, where of course, resides her alter ego. It happened like this.  Aunt lived in the country with her sundry kids and minions, while uncle, as was the wont in those days, lived in Mumbai. Mumbai of the early sixties. Occasionally he loved to rattle her beatific existence with small challenges. Thus had arrived one fine morning, this 'latest' tapela, (gujarati for utensil.) the covering letter said it could be put to use for tenderising beef, trotters, etc. in a matter of minutes. The delighted aunt decided to test its mettle with goat trotters. And so it had been put ceremoniously to the test and the stove. When first it let out a whistle, aunt was frazzled, for there she had sat beside it, watching it getting hotter and hotter and letting out little puffs of steam a la her husband when provoked. She hurriedly called the neighbour who had helped her close it. Together they held counsel, and decided the food was cooked. Gingerly, the stoutest maid took hold of it and hurriedly smacked it down on the floor. Adjudged the ablest of them all and  bribed with the promise of  a few annas, she then attempted to open it, as the aunt and sundry fascinated neighbours circled it in, well... fascination, "Unghhhhhh. Erghhhhh, even Yaaaaaaaaa Allah" emanated from the maid, but it was of no use. The cover wouldn't budge.

Now the maid was truly annoyed. Here was a rare moment of glory for her, the attention of all the ladies was fixed on her like a bedecked bride, and the thing wouldn't open. "Hang on," she declared, and vanished kitchen wards. Out came the heavy pestle and lifting the offending cooker she plonked it in the hall, so that more people could watch her. Next she raised the pestle, and with a final "Ya Allah!" she banged it down on the lid.

Just then my mum happened to arrive on the scene. A scream escaped her lips, as she beheld a room full of women either in a faint or having hysterics. Aunt was standing, mouth open in shock, too stunned to move. Seeing my mum, she stuttered something like, " Pusar na para ! Na, na !  Para na super ! Arrey, Sara na uper, "(on top of Sara) and collapsed gratefully in my mums arms. Open mouthed with awe, my mum looked around to see the faithful Sara, lying spreadeagled on the ground, pestle still in hand, with something dripping on her from the ceiling on high. The erstwhile trotters, it seemed had sought refuge on the ceiling, where they had landed with a whoosh, when the cooker had been blasted open by poor Sara.

Suffice it to say that grand uncle never ever attempted to challenge aunt again. Never, ever.  

The Saviour

The vision before him was enthralling. Slowly she emerged from the bath. Her body ramrod straight, her   narrow waist accentuating her curves. Her milky white skin glistened and shone, in the morning sun. Her long black silky, tresses held reverentially by a slave. Even the gods must have held their breath when they first saw her. As she turned towards where he stood hidden behind the fronds of the palm tree, he caught his own breath. Her face was exquisite, the doe shaped eyes were a deep aquamarine blue, the small upturned nose perfectly highlighting, her full bee stung lips.

The cry from behind him, came from a slave girl, who approaching from behind had seen him. In a flash, he was held, his arms pinned behind him, by her body guards. "Who is it who dares to enter the baths when the Queen is here ?"  Her exquisite body, covered in a towel, her eyes shining with rage, she looked even more majestic. " How dare you, lowly minion, enter my chambers ? Dosen't thou know that thine life is now in my hands ? One word from me, and thou shalt be thrown to the lions. "

The young man stood before her, his handsome mane of hair falling on his face. It would have been a striking one but for the scar running across it. His body though was faultless. " O queen. Indeed i apologise for this intrusion, i'm but a messenger from the neighbouring country of Greece. But i was directed wrongly, to thine chambers, when i  was seeking an audience with His Majesty. "
"Then why did thou stand here hiding, thou should have left immediatly thy realised thy were in my chambers. " Retorted the queen. Looking at her, his eyes boring into hers he replied, "Even a God couldn't have taken his eyes from the splendorous vision before mine eyes, O Queen. I am but a human. " An unfathomable expression in her eyes, she commanded her slaves. "Take him away. The lions shall have a good meal on the morrow, when the games begin."

The morning dawned bright. The men streaming into the prisons led him off. In preparation for the games, he was bathed, washed, anointed with myrrh and robed in handsome robes of red and gold. He sat in the cages, behind the arena, in the colloseum,  awaiting his turn. He was tense, the adrenalin racing thru his body, each time the roars sounded from beyond. Knowing this would be the last day of his life, the warrior in him still adamantly fought against it. Death was not a stranger, many a battle had he fought for his king and lived to tell the tale. If the Gods favored him, maybe he would still live to see another day. Meanwhile, each time he closed his eyes, the vision floated across. Never had he seen such beauty. Maybe, the price he would pay for that indiscretion was worth it. After all, if he had died in battle, he would never have been so priviliged.

The rustle of silk roused him from his reverie. His eyes flew open, as he rose to his feet. She stood before him, regal in her robes. Yet again, he found himself short of breath as he looked at her in all her splendour. What surprised him was that she stood alone, her slave standing near the door. "Go"she said, in a low voice. "Thou art free. I can't have thine death on my conscience." His decision made he replied, "No, Queen. I am prepared to face my fate. I am a warrior, not a coward."

That day, the miracle happened. The man who fought the lions, seemed to be a God, himself. Or a lion. Three lions were brought into the arena. But they were no match for him. Finally, he was set free.    His eyes soaking in the sight of the queen, standing before him, he bowed low before the king.

Many years elapsed. The war was long and victory nigh on  impossible for the Macedonians. Battle wearied, the stragglers returned to the palace, with news of loss and death. The city lay ablaze, its citizens dreading the plundering of their homes by the victors.

The Queen, her four month old babe in her arms, prepared to flee the castle. The sudden thundering footsteps heralded the arrival of the mob of soldiers. Guided by her guards she ran into the secret passage which led to the outskirts of the city. The cries of her kingdom pillaged and looted tore at her heart, but for the sake of her child, the heir to his now dead fathers' kingdom, she was prepared to go to any length.

Emerging from the tunnel, she paused looking around. The sound of running behind her had her whirling around. The arrow that struck her, felled her on the ground. As she fell, a figure surged before her. He fought like a man possessed, much to the consternation of his companions. The few who dared to confront him, paid with their lives. The rest, fearing for their lives fled. Bending low, he picked her up in his arms and ran. To her chest she clutched her precious load. In the thick foliage of trees, he stopped, put her down. In the light of the glowing torch, held by her slave, she saw him. The messenger from Greece. "My Queen, " he cried, seeing the blood  oozing relentlessly from her side. Wordlessly, she held him out to her, her babe. " Thou art his father, and his mother from this day on. Save him. "

Holding her dead body in his arms, was death to him. His soul died within him, as he grieved, his strong body wracked with sobs. A gentle hand on his arm bade him rise. "Save her son as she saved thine life that day," said her slave. At his agonised, "What?" he replied, "Didn't thou feel a difference ? The lions were fed drugged meat before they entered the arena, at her command. She knew thou would choose to fight instead of fleeing.

Return Of The Prodigal

Hot, humid. Summertime in the City of Joy, Kolkata. I sat in the shade of a decrepit shop, watching the world go by. More than the heat, it was the humidity that was killing. Sweat dripped off my brow, tiny rivulets making me squirm as they trickled down my neck. How the heck were you expected to look composed, ready to face the inquisition of an employer for a job, when all the body wanted was to lay itself down, preferably in an AC room and sleep. Why was i even here, i thought, this city was not for me. I would be physically drained even before i got to work. The frequent power cuts, 'load shedding' ( why did they call it that? Because the profound heat made the city a sauna in which the kilos simply dripped and fell off one's body ! ) only added to the woes of the long suffering populace. The amazing irony was that, you could die sweltering in a packed mini bus in the traffic, while a long winding procession took over the streets, demanding, protesting against everything but their living conditions. Conditions that made  their lives hell on an everyday basis.

Decision made, i got up from the step on which i was sitting. I was going home. To Mumbai. The city of dreams. My dreams. I may have been born and bred here, but now this was an alien city, an alien way of life. I could make my peace with a brutal way of life, but i wasn't prepared to handle inhuman environs, this apathetic way of life.

The soft tinkle of bells jarred me back to the present. The rickshawpuller had stopped beside me. He was an old man, his 'bhara' (fare) was a small boy. Amazed to see a five year old alone, i watched while he lifted him in his arms and entered the nearby building. I followed them in, dire thoughts of abduction in my head. I saw the old rickshawallah painstakingly climb the stairs, carrying the child in his arms, the little fellows school bag slung across his back. . 'Arrey ! ' came a shout from above. 'Nobody's home. His mother left in a hurry. Her father fell in the bathroom and hurt his back.' By now the little fellow's face had crumpled. The rickshawpuller emerged again from the building. Seating the child in the shade, he consoled him talking softly, offering him water from his satchel, carefully, slowly, pouring it from a height into his mouth. Soon the child was fast asleep, the old man sat fanning him with his 'gamchha' ( the cloth most labourers sling around their shoulders.)

Sighing, i made to leave. Across the street was an old familiar haunt. Ganguram's. The rosogolla shop. I went in, siting on the bench (was it still the same ? ) i was mopping my brow, when an old familiar face, peered at me from across the counter. I offered a smile, and was rewarded with a toothless grin ( That was still the same!) A stream of bengali followed. ' Arrey, bachha, (Child. This to thirty plus me!) . You've come after a long time ! How are you ? "  Before i knew it, i was plied with all my favorite sandesh. The 'aabar khabo', the 'cham cham. ' ( bengali sweetmeats ) I revived like a wilted plant on which water had been poured lovingly, just before it would have died forever ! The sweet dulcet tones of the women around me, speaking in a tongue that was straight out of a Rabindra Tagore book, the respect and courtesy they showed each other, the warmth with which i was served, nay showered with !

I sat there, imbibing all of the attention, revelling in it.

Mumbai. The city i had chosen to migrate to. That day, i had boarded the subarban train to return home, from work. Packed to the gills, we were hanging on for dear life, near the door.  The girl standing beside me was struggling to take out her cell phone from her bag. Then she stood talking, i could hear her reassure a child, saying she would be home soon. The rod struck her all of a sudden. As the cell phone fell from her hand, she lunged almost reflexively, to catch it. Instinctively, i lunged too. In a fraction of a second it was all over.

We sat on the station, weeping. She almost incoherent with gratitude, i almost in a faint, over what had just happened. She had lost her phone, knocked from her hand by a hoodlum from atop the train. But i had managed to hold onto her before she fell on the tracks. Traumatised by the incident, i had fled the city. In search of peace, i had returned to Kolkata.

I got up and hurried out. Anxiously i hailed a cab. If i hurried i could still make it to that interview. Kolkata. The hot, humid but humane city.

Mirror Mirror On The Wall

The reflection in the mirror showed a pretty girl. About seventeen, with a striking face. Usually, it was aglow with a kind of innocent happiness, that reflected who she was : A happy go lucky youngster, who loved her life, except for one thing. She was, to put it bluntly, fat. Obese. At the present moment of time she was also miserable. It didn't help either to have an older  sister who was slim and svelte, with a figure to die for.

It hadn't mattered a lot when they were growing up, she had been content to be in her own world, peopled with books, and food. In fact, being the younger of the two, she had been the darling of the family, indulged by everyone, including her sister. Cocooned in their love, she hadn't much cared that she was overweight. Except for the occasional snide comment thrown her way, her friends had accepted her as she was. Trouble started when she had her first crush.

The marriage took place from her home. Her sister's N R I  groom was a sweetheart. She had warmed to him immediatly, on meeting him. He, on his part had taken the trouble to get to know her. They discovered a  mutual love for books and chocolates, that endeared them to each other. The excitement leading up to the marriage had engulfed the entire household. Her clothes for the marriage had been skillfully stitched, but at the fittings, seeing her sister twirl in her finery, a strange envy was born in her heart. Everything her sister wore seemed to enhance her figure and made her seem even lovelier then she was. No one saw her leave the room quietly, her clothes flung on her arm.

Trying them on in the privacy of her room, she was aghast. Why had no one ever made her realise she had put on too much weight? The beautiful lehengas (indian skirts) and sarees, exquisite silks in beautiful colours, seemed drab, over the top, when she wore them. Still, her parents and friends assured her she looked beautiful, her brother in law even joked, that had he wished he was not commited. Borne on the wings of their love and indulgence, she recovered her smile and sailed thru the ceremonies. Then he came.

The first cousin of the bridegroom was, in todays' words, hot. Tall, suave and handsome with an accent to die for, he had all the girls at his beck and call from the moment he entered  her home. She first saw him as she came down the stairs, her hands loaded with flowers. Her pretty face, glowed above the flowers, and  busy negotiating the stairs, she almost tripped, as he swung up from where he was sitting to help her down. As their eyes met, he smiled, " Heck! " he drawled. " I almost had you in my arms there." Blushing a beetroot red, she allowed him to take the flowers from her hand.

"Who are you ?" he asked. Recovering her wits she retorted, "Shouldn't i ask you that ? This is my home after all. " Smiling impudently, he said, " In that case, i'm too tongue tied to reply. You Indian girls have got my head spinning with your beauty." Just then, the door burst open, and her cousins streamed in. Seeing him there, they  crowded around him, preening and pirouetting before him. With a shrug of helplessness, he turned away, a "See you later, " drifting her way.

Stunned she stood there, her heart thudding within her chest. Then recovering her wits, she fled upstairs. and now she stood before the mirror, giving it a piece of her mind. Head whirling she found herself floating in the air. "He called me beautiful !" she was ecstatic, then again despondent, "He just saw my face ! " Today was the last reception. The last time she would see him, she thought. Slowly she got dressed. The hairdresser was trying different hairstyles on her, but she was in a world all her own. "What if i don't see him at all again." to a despairing "He'll not even look at me again. So many girls are throwing themselves at him."

She stood at the doorway,with her parents, greeting the guests as they came in. Her eyes anxiously scanned the entrance again and again. Nervously, she kept looking at her reflection in the mirror,across the hall, chiding herself for longing so to see him. "You dont even know his name, cool it ! He was just being polite. These Americans are all flirts." But her heart would listen to no reason. The second she saw him coming from afar, it was racing like a runner off the blocks.

Coming nearer, he saw her. Eyeing her from top to toe, he  came near and bowed low, looking up at her almost mockingly. "Hi stranger, " he whispered as he drifted close, too close to her. Tongue tied she stared at him. The long red silk kurta made him seem like Krishna incarnate. "With the gopis tripping all over him, " she thought wryly to herself. It seemed to her as if she never lost sight of him the entire evening. When she dropped a spoon, he emerged from under the table with it. When she sank on a chair and slipped off her killer heels, he made as if to reach for her feet, and laughed as alarmed, she backed off. Floating on a cloud, she was on her way to the wash room when she heard someone say her name from within.

The girls stood powdering their noses. "Did you see her making eyes at him ? Gosh ! As if a hunk like him would have anything to do with her. I mean, has she even looked at herself in the mirror. She and her sister are like.. like Laurel and Hardy." As the women sniggered, she staggered away from there, tears spilling from her eyes. This was the last straw." Here, sit down." said a voice beside her. Holding out a tissue, he drew close and dabbing gently at the tears, he said, as the girls emerged from the washroom, "Lets go dance." Rooted to the spot they stood, as away from the crowd, he drew her close and slowly waltzed her round them.

A year later, she stood in front of the mirror, sweating profusely from her exertions, her eyes lingered critically on her reflection. The obese youngster was now a curvacious woman. By no means,svelte, but her full figure drew attention wherever she went. Next year he was coming to India to pursue his doctorate, her facebook friend. She knew that this time around , she was prepared.    

The Face Off

"Over my dead body. You heard me ?"

They stood confronting each other across the table. The father and the son. "But dad," he protested, "We'll be finished if we don't move with the times. The competition will wipe us out. How long can we hold on ?" Smashing his fist on the table his dad retorted," So be it. So be it ! I'll take my chances. " Then trying to reason with his only son, his voice softened, "We've been in this business since grandfather's time. This shop, this enterprise, was set up by him. He came here with nothing, and built it up, almost brick by brick. With his sweat, toil and tears. It's lasted thru almost eighty years. Peoples' basic needs never change, so why should we ?"

"I'm not asking you to shut shop, dad. God forbid. All i'm asking is that we expand our wares. Make the whole place user and customer friendly. How long can we sell groceries, grains, over the counter ? With the malls coming in and offering huge discounts, we'll be wiped out. We have to rethink strategies, change our display and marketing strategies, offer discounts and gifts and reward customer loyalty, have competitions and games to draw the young generation. We have the space for it dad. I beseech you, listen to me. I have the whole plan right here. Just see the power point presentation i have  on my laptop. If only you give me the go ahead, within the year i can double the business. Please dad, listen to me."

" I can see that the money i spent on your MBA was wasted. As was the time. The meeting is over." said his dad stonily. He picked up his bag and left. Sighing with frustration, the son picked up the phone which had been ringing for a while now. "Yes mom, " The voice of his mother on the other end, always soothing  to him, was specially so now to his battle wearied ears. " No way, will he agree. " "Let  me talk to him in some time. Maybe i can convince him." "It's no use mum, " he said. " He refuses to even listen to me. God knows i tried."

When the father went home that evening, his wife waved two tickets under his face. "We are going for a movie, tonight." He looked up at her,smiling fondly at his wife of thirty years, "You always know what i need, don't you. "

In the hall, he sat relaxed, glued to the movie unfolding before him. Often he reached out for his wife's hand, which was unusual for him. He was of the old school that hated public display of affection.

He sat wordlessly all the way home, lost in thought. Wisely, his wife left him alone. Once home, they went to bed, immediatly, both tired after a long day. She felt him toss in bed, thru the night, but thought it wise to keep her counsel.

She woke up in the morning to find him already dressed for work. Bewildered she looked askance at him. kissing her on the forehead he said, "Important meeting. I'll talk to you when its done. " So saying, he strode purposefully away.

"Ma. It's happened ! Dad has given me the go ahead. I've never seen him so energised, so determined before ! What on earth did you tell him last night ?" Smiling broadly, she replied, " Nothing. Not a word. We were at a movie, last night. Maybe that had something to do with it. " Curious he asked, "Which one ?"

"The Artist." replied his mum. Maybe you should go see it too.."

For the benefit of the reader, 'The Artist ' was the much acclaimed film, which lit up the Oscars this year. Surprisingly so because it was a silent film. the story goes like this : The film's hero is a renowned actor of the nineteen thirties, when all films were silent. With the coming of audio he is told to change, but arrogantly rebuffs his producers saying films could never be cacaphonous, and that they wouldn't run. He goes ahead to direct, produce and act in his own film, which releases at the same time as the first sound and light film. His film bombs at the box office while the other runs to packed houses. In the stock market crash that follows, he is reduced to penury and even tries to commit suicide, before he is saved by the actress who is famed for her roles in the new films. He then is persuaded to recapture his past glory by accepting the new films, the new times.     

The Heidi Syndrome

"No one could be so foolish," I exclaimed. "How could anyone want to live there ? I'd die of boredom in a day !"
The place being discussed was just a tiny dot on the map. It was the birth place of the folks, a small village in Gujarat. A place that still struggled between being ancient and old, it had no access to television even. What it did have however, was an ancestral home, that was in dire need of repairs and it was being proposed that I go live there and provide an overview since i was at this point of time footloose and fancy free. Just having finished college, i had been looking forward to a holiday, backpacking thru Rajasthan with my friends, and was instead, being ordered off to a godforsaken place in the back of beyond. One in which i had no interest whatsoever. "Im not going, and thats' final," said I, before leaving the room in a huff.

So it was that a week hence i started off for the village. Imagine if you will, a row of elders standing arms akimbo, breathing down your neck, glaring collectively thru their glasses at you, everytime you looked up. So finally i had to throw up my arms in despair and agreed to stay there for a month. No more. It helped that dad converted the Rajasthan trip to a trip to Jerusalem, something i'd wanted to do most of my life, if i went to Sidhpur first.

It was the month of June, the rains had started. When i got off the train, my senses were assailed with the smell of fresh earth. Not just a whiff, that you might perchance get in a garden in Mumbai. No. This was the real thing. A heady wafting of a light breeze swirling all around you, scented with that most elusive of perfumes, the smell of moist, freshly rained upon earth. I sat in the Tonga, the horse cart that carried me home. My eyes closed, the clip clopping of the horse adding to the magic of the moment, i savored a strange peace, one i hadn't felt in quite a while.

Before me, when i got off,  was a gate. Had i entered a Ruskin Bond novel, i wondered as it creaked open. There ahead of me was a small path.  A small chipmunk, stood on its hind legs, head turned to watch this unexpected intruder. I stood. I stared. Was this regal looking house, ours ? Accustomed as i had been my entire life to a flat, i felt like a maharaja surveying his palace as i looked up skywards at this imposing mansion.

A small cough from behind me brought me back to earth. A small lady accompanied by a stout man, stood behind me. "Welcome," they said in unison, as they led me into the home. A film set, yes, thats' what it was, i told myself. A huge hall, a wondrous chandelier suspended in its midst, had opened up before me. Further ahead was a winding staircase that led up to the chambers above. The dusty marble floors housed regal sofas, covered with dust sheets. I wafted up in an awe induced stupor, and was led to my bedroom. I closed my eyes, then opened them as the door opened. A huge four poster bed, stood in the middle of the room. Feeling like an imposter, i climbed onto it. I was dreaming, surely. That night i slept soundly. The pitter patter of the raindrops on my window was surreal almost.

 Through the portals of this, my ancestral home, i had been transported to a different world.  From a sullen, modern day youth, i  had become a feudal Lord. No book, no movie had ever prepared me for the grandeur of this house. Each meal was a celebration, served by attendants who revered you almost, never mind your age. The very thought of a television seemed like a desecration. Something i never missed at all, in the time i stayed there.

Even after a week, i was still caught up in the marvel of living life, in so grand a house. Days were full of wonderment at the treasures it housed. Nights were magical. I had never known a darkness so complete as the one outside my window. The chirruping of crickets, the distant glow of firewoms, the whistle of a train passing by. I lay in bed, feeling for the first time, a oneness with my surroundings, a peace that reached my poor soul, inundated with the cacaphony of the city, thus far. My ears attuned to nature, i was alive as i had never been before. Never once did i feel like an alien, which surprised me no end. Instead i felt like i was meeting an old ancestor, a  beloved parent whom i had neglected all these years. My life changed, as I revelled in exploring who i was, where i came from.

The carved antique cupboards, yielded precious treasures. A long forgotten gramophone, its golden horn like appearance, so rich to behold, a collection of old coins, brass vases, copper utensils, even my great grandfathers' regal velvet coat. One room housed antique carpets, so fabulous, i found myself scared to even touch them, leave alone walk on them. One cupboard housed crockery. Fine glassware, tea sets from a past era, when cups were the size of mugs, and mugs the size of canisters. Bedsheets and pillow covers, hand embroidered so exquisitely, they made me gasp in awe. Clocks, the grandfather one in the hall, and the timepiece that belonged to my grandfather, were still in mint condition, so lovingly had they been preserved. In one of the attics, i even found a cradle, hand carved, custom made with my fathers' name etched on it !

Time flew. Soon enough, it was time for me to leave. Eyes moist, heavy heart, notwithstanding i left, my head turned to watch the Home as it slowly retreated away from my sight.

Landing at the station, it was the noise that assailed me first. The sheer din of people rushing headlong into their lives. The rains were heavy here too. The stench of the wet  garbage overpowering. Kerchief to nose i fled int o the confines of the cab, that took me back home.

 Home? Home is supposed to be where the heart is. Mine was left behind somewhere in the remote village of my ancestors.

The "Miss Take"

It landed on my doorstep with a thud. Curled up on my sofa, Agatha Christie in hand, half asleep over the possibilities of 'who dun it,' I fell off, with a stifled curse. Nursing my sore head, dark threats raging inside me, i stalked to the door. Flung it open. Fell back ! For standing bang, splat in  my door, obscuring all else, stood a huge Piano. Gobsmacked, i tried peering around it. Hearing many faint squeaks from somewhere below it, i located a small dark head struggling desperately below it.

No, innocent reader, no!  Before you tell yourself, 'Hah! she's lost it! and denounce my imagination, listen, do.

The monstrous piano, did not lie flat as pianos' are wont to lie.No! This one stood on its side and projected straight up, as if someone had tilted it towards the ceiling. From below it, came the squeaks and the aforementioned, dark head with a face attached, from the mouth of which emanated the said squeaks, accompanied by several exortations and implorations of help. Frantic, i looked left, i looked right, i circled the thing like a demented Atlas, and shot off questions like, "Kiska hai ? Kyun idhar laya ?" Even a frantic, "Kaun bheja ?" ( Whose is it? Why did you bring it here? Who sent it ?) The head listened mournfully, fingers tapping on the ground, before it indignantly erupted into another series of squeaks, much like a highly affronted squirrel. Listening intently, i could make out something that sounded like, " tuzhatuzha, malakaimalakaimaite." Followed by a series of imploring squeaks, followed by something that sounded strangely like, "love kar, love kar."

Now, i had shifted to Mumbai, just lately, and was not very versed in the local dialect, but i know a cheesy line when i hear one. Doing an about turn, i veered off  kitchenwards, and grabbing a large saucepan, a la 'Tangled', started back towards the 'wailing wall, ' when the phone rang. Backing again to answer it, i slipped.


All hell was let lose as gravitating towards the head, i joined it with a loud clang, saucepan and all. The squeaks changed to a peculiar anguished snort, that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a shriek of pain. By now, the neighbours had joined the fray. Unable to get in, they formed the phalanx of the army. The nosiest of them, a not-so-old-aunty tried to peer below 'headless Nick's ' body. Finding herself very close to his privates, she retreated with an affronted snort. Having brushed off my behind, and dignity back in place, i explained my predicament as best as i could. But no one was listening. The security man had been summoned, and heaving with their collective mights, they managed to right the piano. Triumphantly the 'head ' reconciled with the rest of the 'body', and sat down fanning itself vigorously. Just then, a fiery being erupted into our midst. Volley after volley of  'parsi ' gujrati was fired off, with lots of "Akkal vagarno"s (brainless fool)  flying around the place, before it dawned on us that he was the errant, highly indignant owner, whose precious piano had landed at the wrong address.

As the poor 'head ' prepared to go back under the piano, with generous help from the security, i mopped my brow, then asked my neighbour, 'Whats the meaning of 'Love kar,' ?" She grinned at the saucepan and replied, " Marathi for 'hurry up'. Why, what did you think? " Smirking she went on her way, smiling, i went  mine. 

Hat's Off

The little girl dogged my footsteps. On a morning walk, i was pounding along, oblivious to the world, when i felt a gentle tug. It was her. The first thing that struck me were her eyes. Beguiling, blue and beseeching. She must've been about five, clad in a thin slip, her ribs clearly visible, the hungry look on her face, stopped me in my tracks. Her palm was stretched out in front of me, in expectation of a coin. I looked around, but at the early hour, most shops were closed, except a small multipurpose one. Heading there, with her still tailing me, i made to buy a packet of  chocolate cream biscuits. Reaching out to take it, she changed her mind and pointed to a coconut crunchy instead. While i was paying for it, she took it and by the time i turned around, she was gone, running away as fast as her little legs could go. "Oi, " I yelled after her, wanting to proffer the first packet too, but she was gone. So i followed her this time. There she sat a little distance away, a little boy on her lap, feeding him the biscuits. So intent was she that when i did reach them, she jumped, when i called out. Holding out the second packet to her, i was surprised to see her shake her head, refusing it. " Why," i asked. "He's hungry, i wanted it for him." Putting it in her lap, i retorted, "To yeh tum kha lo."

As i walked away, i shook my head. Indian girls are amazing. Even a five year old had it in her to feed first the male member of the family, before she even thought of herself.

She was the best sweeper we had had so far. Middle aged, sari clad, buxom, her motherly face always lit up, when my kid greeted her with a "Hi Aunty, kem chho, (How are you) ?" every morning. Her job was to keep the entire building clean, including the communal toilets. She also collected the garbage.

It was my maid's habit to carelessly throw her slippers near the garbage bin every morning. That day, sunday, the maid was wearing new ones, which couldn't be found when she was ready to leave. After hunting high and low, she accosted the sweeper who had just come into the building. That day her husband had done her duties, so they went to ask him. A shifty fellow he denied it. Not convinced the sweeper went and rummaged amongst his belongings, found the slippers and returned them to the maid. There was hell to pay for her, as her husband beat her up when he found out she'd returned them, thus depriving him of the few bucks that would fetch him his day's drink. Bearing up stoically, she came to me and apologised for his wrong doing. Another Bharatiya Naari. The sacrificial goat.

Bringing up two kids alone is a big deal in life. Doing it while keeping the in laws' happy, serving them hand and foot is a mind boggling task. That she was brave enough to smile through it all.......... ! An accident on a highway, led to his death. Her two daughters were all she had left in the world. One was five, the other seven. What went through her mind i wondered when she found out, that she alone was responsible for two small lives, and two elderly ones ? Shifting base from a spacious flat in Aurangabad to a small dingy room in Mumbai was traumatic enough, without searching for schools, a job. Her dimpled smile never flagged, except when she was sometimes overwhelmed with the enormity of it all. Time went by, her daughters, now young, stood on the threshold of their own lives. Their mothers' strength and support, they were encouraging her to look for a groom for herself, rather than for them..

Indian Women. Hats' Off.

The Faux pa

Kids say the darndest things. Like for instance, my five year old, a very observant child, took one look at my mother in law, and declared " Grannys' got half an eyebrow." She had just tried out the latest depilatory cream and had accidentally lopped off the other half. Her thickest glasses of course, couldn't hide it from the kid.

Or take the time when we were in the midst of a tear jerker film in a cinema hall. The lady beside me was weeping great copious tears discreetly into her hanky, and my child peered into her face and announced to the world in general, in her loudest voice, "She's crying." The poor lady, didn't know where to look, as everyone else around her started to giggle.


The most challenging moment of my life came in the midst of a friends birthday party. She had twin boys one of whom was mad at the other for some reason. At eight, he was toilet trained since many years, while the other still struggled with his bladder. Pointing accusingly at his bro, just before they cut the cake and the attention of the entire room was on them, he said, " My brother wears pampers." As the sniggers started and the brother made to cut him with the knife instead of the cake, my little one stepped into the fray. From her vantage point on a high table, she announced, " So does my mum." She meant sanitary napkins of course, and this time the room erupted into loud laughter, one of my vague uncles rolling on the floor as the joke was explained to him by one of his more savvy contemporaries.

Then there was the time when in the midst of a reception my sisters' grand daughter, very pleased to meet her favorite great grandma went around announcing to whomsoever would listen, " I have two two Nanies !" (maternal grandmother) much to my sisters' mortification.

But the day she stole the thunder, and bolts of lightning shot thru the room, was at a family get together. One of my aunts, a rather buxom lady had a middle and first name starting with T. God alone knows, where my kid heard it, but in a lull in the conversation, she climbed into her lap, and asked in her most friendly voice, "Why does  Bittu Uncle  call you T T,  aunty." The TT was said in one breath, and the said uncle had to avoid er, T T aunty, for many years to come.

Like they say, : Dont be scared of what the kids speak, be scared of what they hear.  Kids. To add to our woes, they hear the darndest things too.    

Lost

The barbers' shop was just across the road. "I'll just go  for a shave," he said.

And then he was gone.

He was her father. She was his only child. In his eighties, he was retired and was staying with her for a few months before returning to his home in Gujrat. Everyone who knew him, loved him. The most mildest of men, his was a quiet presence in the house. Quiet but valued. If we kids needed money, he was the one who would willingly slip us some. If dad needed to discuss work, he lent a ear. If the women grumbled about domestic issues, he would listen patiently, sometimes even nodding off, which would leave the lady flustered and a little upset.

He had spent his life in Kolkata and knew the lanes like the back of his hand. When we were babies, every sunday morning would have us waiting eagerly for his weekly visit and the small paper bag of sweets that would emerge from his pockets. The most remarkable thing about him was that we had never heard him raise his voice, never seen hin angry. Nor had we ever heard him speak ill of others. A man who spent his life diligently saying his prayers, the embodiment of a devout muslim, grandfather was extraordinary, in that he lived in a world of contentment.

Now in his eighties, mum grew increasingly protective of him, as his memory started fading. Roles were reversed, as she gently took over his routines. Grandma helped by keeping an eye on him too. He still continued to pray, but would ask to be prompted. Still as sweet natured as ever, he seldom asked for anything else.

The day had been a busy one for her. The servant had played truant and guests were expected the next day. Lunch had to be planned and organised. It was then that grandfather suggested that he go by himself for his shave. Seeing my harried mum, grandmother agreed.

After a couple of hours, feeling uneasy, grandma suggested that someone go check on grandfahter. Stunned, mum asked when he had gone, even as she prepared to go to the  barbers'. The shop was empty. Heart sinking, mum asked him when grandfather had left. "Saheb left an hour or so ago," said the barber. Scouring the surrounding area, dizzy with panic, mum called father.

Soon, the entire household, plus a few neighbours' were looking for him. In vain. As afternoon led to evening, the police were informed, a missing persons report filed. Mum was beside herself with grief. Grandma constantly fuming at her decision to let him go, kept having hysterics. Lunch was forgotten, as mum and father roamed the streets, asking passers by if they had seen him. Finally on the brink of exhaustion, dad insisted she return home.

She sat agonised in the hall. "I failed him, he was my responsibility, and i failed him," she kept crying. "Where must he be ? He must be hungry, thirsty. He wasn't carrying any money with him. Allah, help us, let him be all right, Please find him, " she beseeched.

The door bell rang. Mum rushed to open it, as she had every time it rang. Only this time there he was, dishevelled, his clothes dirty, his eyes blank with exhaustion, he stood at the doorway, supported by the sardar, our neighbour. " Papa," she screamed, almost collapsing with relief. Collecting herself, she led him in. Almost as soon as he was changed into clean clothes, and given a glass of milk that he drank hungrily, he was asleep as soundly as a baby.

The sardar, whom grandma and mum couldn't thank enough sat bemused himself. " I was at Park Circus," he said, "I was returning home after a meeting there, when the car stopped at a signal. Looking out, i saw him seated below the lampost. At first, i looked away, then my eyes returned to him, as there seemed something familiar about him. Shocked i realised it was nanaji. He didnt say anything as i led him into the car. He seemed exhausted, so i didn't ask him much, just brought him home."

The next day, he told his tale. Having left the barber's shop, he had turned right, instead of going left. He kept walking in the hope that he would soon reach home. Tired, hungry and exhausted, he finally sat down. That was when the sardar had found him. "Why didn't you hail a cab, papa?" asked mum gently. "I wish it had occurred to me, " he said, regretfully.

Miracles are something that we hear about from others. That day one had been wrought in my mum's life. In a city of teeming millions, far away from home, a sardar found a lost neighbour, one he had hardly seen twice, thrice, one who he hadn't even known was lost.

The Perfectionist

Her earliest memory was one of school. The brightest, if not amongst the most well off, Clare had been chosen to play the part of Juliet. Romeo was the most coveted boy amongst the ten year olds. Never mind then, that she found him a perfect bore, who was always trying to corner her on stage so that he could make out with her. After she had tested the efficacy of a discreet karate move, that had left his manhood benumbed, he had kept a safe distance from her. He and his coterie of friends had however made her life miserable, chanting, "Prissy, prissy, " after her.  She ignored them, as she did those who cold shouldered her in class, because she was the one who knew all the answers. She was the one whom teachers found the most attentive, the most helpful. It is a well known fact though that even as little kids, we find it difficult to admire the winner, the one who strides ahead of the flock. Alas, the black sheep is not always the one who is bad or disobedient, it is the one who is different, who knows what it is she wants of life and goes out to get it.

Her parents had come up the hard way. A train driver married to a nurse, their parents had always wanted the best for this beautiful child of theirs. Slim and tall, her delicate face framed by lustrous blonde curls, her large blue eyes as promising as her full mouth, she was perfect model material. Indeed by the time she was sixteen, she had been approached by an agent who had offered her a place with a leading agency.

But her goals had been quite clearly etched in her mind. She would first complete the studies which would arm her for life ahead. Consistantly she was the best performer, both on stage and off. But her joys were few, as she managed to alienate her peers. In her quest for perfection, she had more rivals than friends. Envy, jealousy, even sheer hatred, she was used to, retreating to her world of books for the friends she craved. Her trouble was that she couldn't suffer fools gladly.

The hunt for 'The Supermodel of the year ' that year offered fabulous prizes. If she won the prize, she could apply to the university of her choice. That in itself was an incentive for her to throw herself into the ring with a host of equally ambitious, beautiful young women.

Cassy was the only child of a single mother, a waitress whose professional hazard was the men who befriended her, leaving her with little time for her child. Cassey was a loser if ever there was one. Constantly making excuses to get out of trouble and homework, she bungled her way thru everything. Smoking, a habit she picked up early in teenage, was her panacea for every rejection and hurt that failed relationships left behind. Copper colored hair, framing a lovely face, her luminous eyes, and curvy body enticed many a boyfriend, but her slothful, aimless existence soon had them running for cover. A school dropout, she was drifting thru life, when her irate mother entered her fot the 'Super Model' of the year contest.

So it was that they met. One perfection personified, the other anything but.

She was so whiny, the other girls were fed up with her within week of the competition. They ganged up against her and like a pack of hyenas preying on the weakest of the lot, they kept thrusting her into situations which would expose her in front of a national audience, for the show was a reality show aired alive on National television every day. During the fitness trials, it was Cassey, who they pointed out was huffing and puffing the most, while Clare was declared the fittest. After a stressful photo shoot it was she who they pointed out was smoking quietly, when they had specifically been asked to give it up. Clare was easily the best, the winner. It was Cassey, whose awkward walk had them in splits, which made her dissolve in tears. Clare was declared so natural, the judges were in awe of her. It was Cassey, who kept calling her mum to ask if she could drop out, because she couldn't take the stress anymore. Clare called her mum to tell her of the trophies already under her belt.

Both of them were hated equally by the rest. Clare because she was by far the strongest contender, Cassey because she was the weakest. Each week as the girls were eliminated one by one, the ones they resented were these two. Clare because she couldn't be defeated and Cassey, because she ought to have been. No one knew why, but Cassey kept inching ahead, in spite of all the excuses she gave for her weaknesses. Maybe it was because the judges saw her transform, once the camera was on her. She exuded a vulnerable sensousness that was as exciting as it was compelling. Clare on the other hand was the ice maiden, someone men would lust after, but never attain. She worked hard, listening intently to the judges, and coming up with shoot after perfect shoot that required little coaching. She nailed the brief so totally, a lady judge actually declared she scared  her, so perfect was she!

Week after week they were eliminated, until it came down to the last two. To everyones surprise Cassey had improved drastically, a fact illustrated by the fact that twice her favorite 'froggie,' that she slept with at night, found itself in the swimming pool, flung there by an enraged girl as she exited the competition.

The Finale was a sell out. People all over the country had rushed home to be on time to view this face off between the two rivals.

They stood facing each other. Clare resplendant in  an electric blue off shoulder gown, that highlighted her blue eyes. Her blond hair cut short to frame her face, the lights glinting off it, shone and glistened. The challenge of the evening, and her conviction of winning it, brought a flush to her cheeks as she stood  there.

Cassey stood almost defiantly. Her gown, the colour of champagne, was cut dangerously low revealing more than it covered. Hands on hips, she faced the audience, her small smile revealing her crooked teeth. Her dark hair curling lovingly around her shoulders, giving her a vulnerability that took your breath away.

One stood serene, confident, sure that she would win . The other, diffident, defiant had nothing to lose.


Clare stood in tears, her face frozen, as the winners were announced. Cassey was in tears, too. Of disbelief. For she had won. Against all odds.
The results had been decided by viewers choice. Not so much that the world loves a loser, but that it hates perfection.

Reformed

They lay in the same room, diffferent beds, in the rehabilitation centre. Both victims of their addiction. One, the younger of the two, had overdosed on sleeping pills. He had been addicted to gambling, and overcome with shame at having lost most of his inheritance, had attempted suicide. The other had collapsed because of his addiction to tobacco. He was older, and had repeatedly tried to conquer his addictions but failed. Time and again. This was his fifth time at the hospice. His wife, having lost faith and interest in him had left him long since, taking his twin sons with her. The difference between them was that the younger boy had an ally, his devoted sister, who stayed unflinchingly by his side. The older man was alone.

From his bed, on the other side of the curtain, came the sounds of someone uttering a chant. Again and again, the soft, melodious voice intoned something, he couldn't quite catch. Straining to hear, he knocked the glass of its stand.  The curtain lifted, as a woman peered around to his side of the room. "Are you okay" she asked, bending to pick up and restore the glass to its place. Sitting up, he nodded yes, then, unable to restrain himself, he asked, "Were you singing ?" Blushing a little, she replied, "No i was  just...just chanting the mantra. Im sorry to have disturbed you." Shaking in his head in the negative, he smiled and said, "I'll forgive you if you tell me what that's all about."

She was a small, petite woman. Her eyes were the most compelling thing about her face. She must be in her mid twenties, he thought. "That is my attempt to wean him of his addiction," she sighed. "By teaching him a chant ? " he asked incredulously. She nodded, then explained. "When we were children, my father had this way of teaching us things. If we wanted to remember something, we were taught to chant it every now and then, so that it stayed in our memories. My brother tried to take his life. I'm hoping the chant will work in manifold ways. First, it will give him a goal, a differant one each day, then by thinking of our happy childhood together it will remind him of the great faith and love my dad had for him. Thirdly, i hope that it will restore his faith in himself.

 The mantra for today is " My life is a gift my parents gave me. I have to hand it down to my child."

 He nodded reflectively, seeing the wisdom in her words. The sentence was simple, but held a world of meaning in it. Continuity of life, the promise of a relationship with a woman and a child. The magic of having a family with one during life's crises. He was fascinated, and found himself thinking of the mantra now and then.

The next day he waited eagerly, for her to come. He had spoken to her brother at night. They had discussed the futility of all addictions. She came in with a smile, and wished him a good morning too, after tending to her brother. He asked what the mantra for the day was.

With a small laugh she replied, "If you can't pamper your body, at least don't destroy it."

That day the three of them discussed what they had done for their bodies that was good, how they had been blessed with health, and the havoc their addictions had wrought. How they had reached the brink of death, why they had done so. The older man was overwhelmed with his feelings for the siblings. He felt strangely protective towards them, as if they were warriors, on the same side, fighting a common enemy. She asked him before leaving to provide the mantra for the next day. Having wracked his brains, the whole night, he had a eureka moment just before she entered the ward.

 Eagerly he greeted her and said, "We are our own worst enemy. "

The next day, her brother offered the thought,"There is light at the end of every tunnel. Day always follows night."

She proferred, " Always look ahead, never behind", the next day.

And so they laboured on . Every day had something positive, something bright and brave about it. Together they held on to each other, and carried on with their lives. Strength was something they imbibed from each other. By being a crutch for someone else, they found they could walk again, live again, embrace and fulfill the promise of their lives.