Sacrifice

Vulnerable. Why was I so vulnerable. I stood in front of the mirror, staring bitterly at my reflection. Forty going on twenty eight. Or so people told me, envy writ large on their faces.  If only they knew. Envy was something that ruled my life. That and frustration. Resentment. Guilt. These were my companions. day in and day out.

The mirror showed a petite fair woman. Long straight silken hair pulled back tightly across the nape. The figure was immaculate,  unspoilt by child birth. For I have no children. Married since I was twenty eight. But living the life of a spinster.

When did I lose control of my life ? How insidous is the passage of time.

"Mehwash !" The voice was low, imperious nevertheless. Reverie broken, I was up instantly. Conditioned by years of subjugation. " You are a terrible person, " I told my reflection." That there, is your mum. The lady who after years of suffering endless medical treatments, bore you and your sister. Treatments that savaged her body and left her a chronic asthmatic, a severely overweight diabetic confined to a wheel chair. It wasn't her fault ! None of my wasted life could be her fault. For I, as a responsible adult had made my choices. Now I was living them.

Entering the dark room, I snapped on the lights. "Ma ! " I said, a trifle rebukingly," At least leave one light on. " Her voice, initially cold, snapped, " You have to remember and switch them on, right ?" Then, " You will have to call the servant, my pamper has to be changed. I tried ringing the bell, but she never hears it, does she ?"

Contrite, I bent by her bed. "Turn over Ma," I said gently. "I'll do it. "

"What do you pay her for, why cant she stay by my bed ? You know I hate for you to do these things." Her voice was angry, the frustration evident, as was the helplessness.

"I don't mind ma, you know that. " As I finished and rose, I could see the tears in her eyes. Bending over and hugging her close, I allowed a few of my own tears to fall unseen, before I composed myself. " Shh. Don't cry ma. I know you love me, I do too. We don't need anyone else, when we have each other, right ? Hey, you know what happened today ? Aisha mausi fell down while chasing the pigeons ! " Ma was aghast. "What ! Sit here and tell me all about it." So began our evening gossip session. Soon, she was laughing animatedly, while I sat beside her,  assembling her nebuliser. It was easy to distract ma. After all I had a decade of experience handling her.

 After she was asleep, I retreated to my room. Book in hand, I tried to read, but found myself drowning in reverie. It hadn't always been like this.  Growing up, with my sister for company, mum had been sickly. Multiple miscarriages, and infertility treatments left her bloated and overweight. But she managed to lavish all her care and attention on us. Our childhood had been near idyllic. Holidays abroad, a wonderful holiday home near the sea, where we holidayed almost every week end. Dad, who is a doctor himself, made sure we studied well. Shaheen was now a qualified orthodontist, I had a degree in chartered accountancy. Earned after dedicated backbreaking study. A colossal waste. Of studies, time, finance. For all I ever did with it .

Then came the proposal. He was a young chartered accountant. He had seen a photograph of me from a cousins marriage and he was taken by me. So was I when he came home with his mum to meet us. The marriage happened a year later. On my wedding night, I sat on the marital bed, a shy , coy, bride. For that night I had forgotten my sick mother. She had cried, had been crying from  many days. More at the thought that now she would be at the mercy of the servants, I sometimes thought cynically, immediatly feeling guilty and torn. For I was worrying about her too.

A year after, Akram dropped the bombshell. He had been offered a job in Dubai. A fantastic salary and all the perks of a job working for one of the biggest realtor in Dubai. He looked at my face as he announced his decision to take it up. My face lighted up. Away from the confines of family, I still spent a good part of the day at my mother's home. I would finally be able to set up my own home. Maybe even take up a job and have a fulfilling career ! Oh, I was happy, as we lay awake that night discussing our future. Both he and i loved travel. We would explore Europe, the world, before we had children. I slept that night blissed out with my dreams. The only cloud on my horizon was the thought of my mother.

Entering her room, I paused. Was she asleep ? I was just about to retreat quietly, when she spoke, "Come in, beta.  you are late today." I sat beside her, took her hand in mine. "Ma, I have great news ! Akram has got a job in Dubai ! " Full of my happiness, I lay down beside her, airing my dreams. So full of myself  was I that I didn't notice her lack of response. Suddenly I realised that she was still. Too still. Leaning over to see her face, I saw that it was ashen, The eyes closed. Yelling for the nurse, I cannoned out of the room, grabbed my cell phone, calling the emergency numbers. Soon the ambulance wailed into the lane, mother was taken to hospital. "The heart attack was  almost fatal. We managed to save her this time. Good you were with her, Mehwash. " The doctors voice was grim. The recovery was not easy. Ma turned even more fatalistic and cranky. I had to stay with her almost continuously, as she would not tolerate anyone else caring for her.

Akram was understanding. At first. We decided he would go alone. After he settled in, I would follow. As soon as Ma improved.  The day he left was the bleakest day of my life. Never had I been so torn. Ahead was a life full of promise. Behind was my sick mother.

The months turned into years. Each time I approached my dad or my sister, they would beg me to stay just that much longer. Busy with their flourishing careers, they balked at the thought that they would have to handle ma.

Akram meanwhile, grew more distant. The once a day phone calls turned into once a week, then once a month. Then came the letter seeking my consent. For him to take a second wife. I cried for weeks. My agitated family now decided that I should join him as soon as I could. Shock sank in when he refused to have me join him. He was in love and was willing to divorce me. Fearing the shock would be too great for my mother, the family decided to let things stay as they were.

Here I was then. "Main aur meri tanhaai, aksar ye baatein kartey hain...." Amitabh Bachhan's deep tenor resonated from the television. What would he know about this gut wrenching loneliness I carried in my heart..
   

Capsule of a Life..

She stood towering over me. When i dared to look up, i could see only her thick dark legs with the prominent varicose veins, before i lowered my gaze again. All of five, it was my first day at school. Twenty odd students, of which i was one. That day i discovered that drawing was not going to one of my skills. She was the drawing teacher and she had commanded us to draw a... a Chilly ! Which for the life of me i couldn't.. my hand was shaking so much. Thankfully the bell rang before my turn came to display the sorry squiggle that i had drawn, which i would have had to display to the class ! We were herded out to the water taps, where in this room milk was served to all the children. Big mugs which we had to down before we were allowed to file back to class.

Lunch hour. Nobody told me that it was that, and that school was not over. There i sat, weeping silent tears, on the bench, before i heard her sweet voice. My sister. whom i had presumed had left without me, and gone home. She sat down beside me, held my hand in hers and opened my tiffin box, assuring me all the while that she would never leave without me. Smiling broadly thru the tears, i made short work of the biscuits before happily bounding off to class when the bell rang.

The rickshaw ride back home was fun. Both of us climbed into the first available one and off we went. After having paid him the princely sum of fifteen paise, we embarked and rushed up to the home and mum.

Welland Gould Smith. My first school. Where the fees were something in the region of thirty odd rupees.

And so we studied. I until class seven, ben until ten. For some such paltry sum. Then first sis shifted then i did to Calcutta Girls High School. Nearer home and walking distance. Our Principal there was an American. A fine lady always accompanied by her fierce dog, Mesca. Not that she needed one, because all us girls were already in awe of and highly intimidated by her. A tall lady, sparkling eyes glinting behind her spectacles, who mwas queen of her domain, indeed of all that she surveyed. You never knew when you would meet her, around which corner of school. When first i went for admission with my dad, i was a shoo in.. "Oh, Tasneem's sister."  And admission was that easy. In those days. I was bad at maths, scraped thru with a woeful 45% in the boards, ICSE in class ten. Topped in English with 90, though. But then, we studied in candlelight most days, because of six and seven hour power cuts that lasted entire nights sometimes. I remember working on problems at twelve at night, with two candles on either side of my desk. I, who was normally in bed by eight p.m. No Television, and the government made sure our night vision was honed !
Taking tuitions was a big NO. An insult, because only very poor students took them, and that too was hushed and never spoken of publicly !

In spite of the pathetic marks, i ended up in class eleven, with maths and science as my subjects, the aim being to give the medical entrance exams, which dad had decided we both would give. My pathetic math scores put paid to those plans. But i greatly enjoyed my years at CGHS. I was one of about eighteen students! We were thick pals. Our group consisting of a punjabi, two sindhis, one bengali, a south indian, a christian, a marwari, and a muslim, myself ! Talk of national integration. We ate greedily from each others tiffins, organised parties and raffles, even a junk sale, and sold drinks, rasna, at break times, thanx to our enterprising President, and my best chum.

Winter was in the air when i casually strolled into school, wearing my black cardigan, as we called sweaters in those days. Early October. Until January. Climate change ? Whoever heard of it. The P word had not been sighted as yet. The ozone layer was very much intact and the world rotated along peacefully, as did ours. We were nor scared to walk the roads, and as children played happily and safely together, while our parents went about their work. Books were our sole companions. Pods meant peas, and pads meant periods! For music we tuned radios and fine tuned them to 'catch' our favorite stations. Hippies were the rebels, and only the beatles really made us go weak in the knees. Junk food ? Was ice creams on sundays, and if dad was feeling relly indulgent a coke, to which i always preferred a pineapple drink. Then we went home, dad climbing the stairs, with his two girls giggling atop his shoulders !  

The Intrigue

He lay on the floor. His body arranged neatly. His shirt straightened as if by a loving hand. His brown locks falling on his forehead, covering up the wound inflicted by the gun. He must have been a handsome man when alive, in his early forties. His eyes looked unseeingly at the ceiling, his face frozen in an expression of surprise. A woman knelt beside him, weeping uncontrollably.

"Cut ! " The director's voice restored the normal chaos to the sets as everyone started to prepare for the next shot. The actress got up, dusted her knees, looking at the director enquiringly, " Mr. Suresh, was the shot good ? " Then, after noting his absent minded nod, she turned to her co star. " C'mon, Vij, get up." As she extended a helping hand, something stopped her in her tracks. The hole that covered his hair, was not visible, but a small dark red trickle, still oozing ominously, was spreading on the floor. As she bent to peer closely, she looked at his face, ashen now, then screamed and scrambled to her feet. Within seconds, the entire disbelieving set was crowded around the actor. For he was not play acting anymore. Never would. He was dead.

 Inside his dressing room, the wife sat, staring blankly at the walls. Simone appeared bewildered, in shock. Having been married just three months ago to the man of her dreams, she was the object of great sympathy. Her face though swollen with tears, was still unbelievably pretty. Black curls framed a small heart shaped face. Great luminous eyes, sparkled like champagne, her small upturned nose crinkled when she smiled. Love at first sight. He had been the handsome hero. She, the famed, powerful, directors daughter. A match made in heaven.

Hysteria having finally subsided, Richa, the main female lead sat in her dressing room. Her face was streaked with mascara, sweat and tears having wreaked their havoc on her face.
"The shot required me to race into his room after i hear a gunshot. When i run onto the stage, i see him lying on the ground dead," (here she paused and broke into sobs ). Recovering again, after a sip of water, she continued. "I sink to my knees in disbelief, then weep long and loud in shock. I did just that. I heard the sound of a shot and after counting fifty, I was supposed to run up to the bedroom from the hall below,  i ran onto the stage. Seeing him lying on the floor, i was concentrating on my part, and rushed forward to complete the scene as i had been told to do. I.. I did not realise that he.. he was actually dead. It was only after the director cut the scene, that i realised that there was something very still, unnatural in the way that he lay on the floor... That he was not getting up, or moving.." With this she dissolved into tears again. Patting her shoulder consolingly, the detective moved away from the room, into the corridor, where the wife sat. Towering over her stood her father, a giant of a man, belligerantly barking orders into his cell phone...

Dear readers,
 Here i leave you. Tantalised i hope. Enough to complete the story ? Just give me the killer and the motive. Or else i will . But only after i receive a few solutions to this christiesque mystery. Go on. The cleverer the answer, the more votes you get.. Clue ? It has to be one of the characters already introduced.


And now for the solution.

The detective, Binod, sat back with a sigh. Why couldn't the murder be as simple as my dear reader suggests, simple . Straight out of CID. For the simple reason that there was no proof of the motive.

Recreating the events of those crucial hours had been difficult. The man had seemingly been absolutely alone when he had shot himself. Then the obvious conclusion was to be a clear cut case of suicide. If only the hole where the bullet had entered had been on the right sight. It wasn't. The man was right handed, as vouched by hundreds of ardent fans who had his autographs. So the hole should have been to the right . How would a right handed man put a gun to the left temple to take his life ? So maybe it was not as clear cut as the murderer wanted it to be. The problem lay in unearthing the witnesses. For the present suffice it that  all everyone knew was that he had committed suicide.


"Can I come in sir," the quiet voice belonged to the man who was responsible for the stage lights. "Ah yes, " Binod looked up to see a small neat looking man, fortyish, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, standing at the door. "Sit down, Satish. " He sat looking a trifle nervously at the detective. "According to your statement here, you were sitting on a small platform above the stage, from where you had a birds' eye view of the stage." Leaning forward, Binod looked into his eyes. Was it his imagination or did he see a slightly alarmed look in them, before he looked quickly away. "Tell me what you saw."

"Sir, I...I already told your detective, I was taking a toilet break, after I had finished my end of the work. It was only a rehearsal after all. I... I left soon after Vijay entered the stage. I.. I am diabetic you see. I need to er.. go often."

"What did he look like, any signs of nervousness, desperation ? "

The technician shifted uneasily on his chair. "No, sir. Not that  I saw. He was concentrating on the script that he held in his hand. Absorbed in reading it.

"What about the pistol ? "

"I thought I saw it in his hands. He seemed to be twirling it around in his hand."

The detective sat back in his chair, making a few notes. "Anything else that you might have noticed ? Who else was on the stage apart from him ? "
"I didn't see anyone else, sir."

"That's it then. You may go. " This time the relief on his face was palpable. He rose hurriedly to leave.

"Just a moment. You said you saw nothing. Perhaps you heard something ?" The tension on his face was back. He sank down onto the chair. " N... Nothing , sir. Nothing !"

"Then why are you so nervous ? Why did you sit down again ? " The detective's voice grew stern. Loud.

"Tell me what it was that you heard. A conversation, a noise ? Tell me !"

"I...It..It was maybe my imagination.." Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. " as I was leaving the stage, I heard someone  climbing the stairs to the stage.  It's made of wood and there are loose boards from years of wear and tear. I remember being surprised, only Vij was supposed to be on the stage. Then I heard a small thud, and a soft curse. As if someone had dropped something. Unfortunately I was in too much of a hurry to think too much of it. I left." He looked down embarrassedly.
   
"Who do you think it was, did you hear the voice ?"

He paused at the door, turned and replied slowly, " It sounded like a female voice. I thought it was probably Richa since she was due on stage next. " Having said that, he realised the enormity of the implication and swabbing at the copious amounts of sweat on his face, he stammered," i...i.. don't mean it THAT way, of course, just just a guess sir. No, no it cant have been her, just my imagination." Still shaking his head, he quickly retreated thru the half open door.

Binod sighed. Getting up from his chair, he paced the room, brow furrowed in concentration as he reflected on what he had heard. A knock on the door had him sink back into his chair.

The Authority Figure

Crash !

The noise reverberated in the stillness of the afternoon. Awoken from her siesta, she bounded towards the kitchen, from where the noise had come. As she burst thru the door, her eyes widened in disbelief, no! shock! The chicken curry she had laboured over all morning lay strewn over the floor. As she swung around to berate the maid, she saw instead Ammaji, her mother in law, eyes dilated in horror, palm held over mouth as if to stifle a scream, cowering in the corner. Taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart and boiling mind, she took a wash cloth, bent over the mess and started mopping up. Once there was space enough to walk out, and her urge to shout had subsided a little, she stood up. "Koi nahi, maaji. Chaliye aap kamre main under." As she took the old ladies hand, she could feel her it trembling within hers. She herself was feeling angry, then sorry in turns for both of them. "What happened, Maji.?" she couldn't resist asking, keeping her voice low, her initial fury abating at the old lady's distress. "I...I thought..I ought to help you.. You.. you have guests for dinner, and all that cooking to do.. I make those curries.. always.. so.." she trailed off apologetically. "I'll manage, ma. You relax. Just lie down for a while. " so saying she helped the old lady to her bed, helped her lie down. As she turned to leave, maji caught her hand, the look in her eyes made her cringe with sorrow, sympathy, hell.. pity. "I'm of no use now no, beta. What will you do now that i spilled all of it. I so wanted to help, you know.." she tailed off, a tiny tear spilling from her eyes, and trickling down the wrinkled cheek.....

The marriage rituals had just gotten over. The young bride, looked a trifle warily, at the imposing figure standing at the threshold, surveying her almost critically, waiting to welcome her into her new home. Tall and statusque, she stood. Clad in a blood red saree, Durgaesque, huge bindi over big kohl lined eyes, she was easily the most authoritative figure in the room. The most striking too. The archtypal Mother-in -law. As the young bride met her mother in laws eyes, she swallowed. How on earth would she fit in. But as the mother in law helped her cross the threshold, she saw her eyes mist, and somehow she was reasssured.

Life had not been easy. Easily the authority figure, nothing happened in the home, that was not approved by her. From the everyday menu, and the household accounts, to the naming of her grandchildren, and the welcoming of guests, she was second in command. Always the 'bahu raani ', she thought bitterly. Young and educated she strained at the leash. Many a conflict arose because her husband would not hear of separating from his parents. After one such row, she was summoned into the presence of her father-in-law. A mild, gentle man, she never heard him raise his voice with anybody. He had long ago relenquished the house to his efficient wife, acting as mediator or judge only in rare circumstances.

"Beti, are you happy here ?" was his first question. She looked up, shocked. "Yes, baba, why wouldn't I be?" "Are you sure you wouldn't like to live in a separate household," The question came from the shadows. The voice was that of Maaji. She looked up stricken. "No ma. It's just that.." She paused. "No one ever asks my opinion or lets me make even small decisions. I feel i am of no use, I exist in name alone...She stopped, thinking she had gone too far, her outburst would be misconstrued as rebellion. "I see. Would you like to come to work at the office ?" The question took her by surprise. "Yes, oh yes baba ! " Her face lighted up as she looked at them. "From tomorrow. Would you like to work in liasion ? Or some other department of your choice ? So it was agreed and so life took a new turn for the 'bahurani '...

Life became easier. She easily took over her role as business woman, earning the respect of the men folk in the house. Her mother inn law however remained just that. Home was her territory plainly, as she continued to be the ultimate authority consulted for all things big and small.. Sometimes there was a stand off between them, subtle, simmering differences. For the sake of peace, the younger always retreated, by doing so relinquishing whatever little authority she did have.

The death of babuji, came as a great shock. Having come to know him well over the years, she had grown to love him for the gentle, understanding, father who always sought her opinion and consent on all business matters that she dealt with. Greater than her shock was that of her mother in law's. She went into a deep mourning from which she emerged after the mandatory four months. Having come to terms with her loss, she was now determined to transfer her affections to her son. Hawk like she oversaw his meals, his clothes, even berating the children if they ate what had been left for him.. This led to friction between the two women, the younger resenting the older still more, now that she was encroaching on her territory.. At the slightest hint of a dispute, the older woman's eyes glimmered with unshed tears, hurriedly causing the younger to retreat. Emotional blackmail was not something she could handle.

The heart attack when it came was sudden. The hospitalisation and the ensuing rest period affected the house drastically. She had to leave the office, and take over household duties, which caused her great anguish, for by now, her office was her refuge, her second home. Mundane duties of the home had her frustrated. The dowager, even though sick, tried to enforce her own opinions and methods of working, which irked the bahu even more. Each was frustrated and cried great tears, alone in their rooms. The former at having to leave her bastion, her home. The latter at having to juggle home and mother in laws tantrums and dictates. Even the servants, kept reverting to the elder lady not wanting to get into her bad books.

Slowly, the wheels of time rolled along. The old lady got back onto her feet. Admit it or not, her authority helped greatly to restore some semblance of normalcy. She took over the supervising of the kitchen, which freed the younger woman to work from the home, for which she was grateful, but still unwilling to let go of all authority. There was a compromise of sorts, a slow reversal of roles. Perceiving her as as the paymaster, the household now looked upon the younger as the ultimate authority. Slowly the older lady backed off, retreating into her prayers, only sometimes battling the winds of change. Her relationship with her bahu was cordial but distant. The finely etched line of formality always keeping her at arms length..

With a sigh, she bent over the stove. Having restored the old lady to her room and wiping her tears, for the first time in her life she had hugged her. They cried together, then having reassured her she could substitute the curry with a daal, she had hurried back to the kitchen. As she worked feverishly to restore order, she couldn't help but reflect.. Hadn't she always sub consciously battled to win the old lady's affections, her respect. To be regarded and treated as an equal. Maybe she had never truly appreciated her. Maybe the spilt curry was a small price to pay..

Twist Of Faith

I stood on the periphery. Of life. Thus it had been. Thus it would always be. With acceptance, came a resigned serenity. For I was different. Differently abled. One armed in a world of two armed people. When you are destined to be different, you become very adjusting, accomodating. You are always relegated to the background. Someone to be pitied, scorned or worse, to be helped by every Tom, Dick and Susan who comes along.

As a child, I was seated in the first row. For heavens sake, I remember telling my mum, I'm not blind !
But I took advantage of my situation, sometimes. Like when the girls fussed over me, and yelled at the other resentful fellows for taunting me.

Youth brought a different set of problems. I  no longer wanted or liked being pitied. I wanted to be loved, admired for myself. After all I was good looking. Had worked long hours at the gym to have a sculpted body. Alas, there were no takers. I watched admiration turn to pity, concern as the girls checked me out. Every time I turned away. The unshed tears burning up my heart. I turned bitter, cynical.

That was until she came into my life.

That day had been a sad day for me. I had been invited to my best friends marriage. To be the best man, observing at close quarters, the girl I was enthralled with getting married to my bestie. Getting out of the car, I was about to cross the road, when I saw a biker hurtling down the road. Talking into her cell, the girl crossing the road was directly in his way. Reacting instinctively, I leapt across, sweeping her aside with my one good arm, both of us ending up in a heap by the side of the road. Stunned we sat there. That is until she got up, brushed herself and started yelling at me. I looked up at her in astonishment. For God's sake, I had just saved her life ! As people started to mill around us, she extended a hand, pulling me up. As if she had saved me, not the other way around ! Then after a brusque, " You ok ? " she ran off in the opposite direction leaving me in the midst of a crowd. The type of attention I dreaded most. Seething, I strode off, having to head back home to change my clothes.

The next day, as I entered college, I heard a voice calling out my name. Turning, I saw it was her. Scowling I turned back, when a small hand tucked itself into mine. "Hey. I never did thank you for saving my life, " said she. Then she stood on tiptoe, to land a kiss on my cheek. Time stood still. As did most people who knew me on campus. Here was a pretty girl kissing me!  Me ! The background guy. Always the best man never the groom ! The smile stayed on my face for the rest of the day.

So the friendship bloomed between us. Every day I would wait by the college gates for her. She would come in, take my hand in hers and we would stroll in. I had no idea why she did that. I had no illusions regarding her either for she was already betrothed. In a long distance relationship. With a childhood sweetheart. I loved her but as one would a buddy. Because she was a girl, there did exist a what if ? between us. But only on my part, I guess. I confided in her. Things even I didn't know were bottled up within me, I found myself telling her. We went to cricket matches and discs, coffee shops and restaurants. She pined for him, I could see. I pined for just such a girl and companionship.

Alas the day came when I stood looking on at her reunion with her fiance. She had insisted I go with her to the air port to receive him. I was even more chagrined to find I actually liked the man. From there on, I stepped back. I assuaged my aching heart that she had never been destined for me. In the hopes of a romance, I was not willing to lose the best friend I had ever had.

We kept in touch. She emailed or called almost every other day from distant Canada.  Four years went by. Years in which she strangely made no mention of husband or child. For now she was both a wife and a mother. Her parents had moved to Canada, too, I heard, to be with their only child.

The job offer came like a ray of sunshine. I found myself coming alive again after many years. I was headed for Canada, Toronto, where she lived. I would work there, I promised myself I would see her only very occasionally. Also it would be a surprise. My visit to her home. The flight landed and I stepped out into a freezing, blustery winter morning. A strange feeling flooded my heart. I was soaring higher than the planes around me, so happy I was.    

The week went by in a flash. I had received her mails, but of late she had been sounding depressed. I waited anxiously for the weekend to come, settling down into my new job in the interim.

Her house was beautiful. Just as she had described it . A small neat garden surrounded the red stuccoed roofed house. I stood outside taking deep breaths. Who was I kidding. She would always be my true, my only love. Heart pounding, I rang the bell, holding the flowers i'd brought up to hide my face. The door opened. A beloved, beloved face shone in front of my eyes. Then I dropped to my feet. Holding that beloved body in a tight hug, even as the flowers dropped to the floor. I looked at her face, for what seemed like hours. The delicate lines that etched the beautiful sparkly eyes I had known. The unruly curls escaping from the tight knot behind, framing her pixie face. Oh. How I had missed her. But why was she sitting. Why did she not stand up to greet me ? Hug me ? Then It hit me. Stunned I reeled back. She was sitting on a wheel chair.

The story was painful. Tearfully told. She hugged me, and I held her close even as a deep wail of pain rose from within her. A car accident had taken not only her mobility, but also her loving husband from her. She had'nt told me because she had to fight her battles to regain her life and that of her little daughter. With the help of her parents she ran a creche and lived in the hope that life would reclaim her enough for her to provide for her child.

We got married in the next month. Life was cruel. To reward me, it had caused her great deprivation. But i was there. I would always be there for her.           

Cupid

The cell phone. That ubiquitous piece of metal. Such a small thing, capable of so much mischief has not been invented since.. since Dennis the Menace. Read on.. read on, dear reader..and judge: Friend or foe ?

It seemed to Ravi, that he had been waiting for hours. But then, he was waiting for the college hottie on campus and he had managed to land a date with her. So wait he would. The cell, of course had played cupid to this strange love story. For he was the campus nerd, the one no girl spared a second glance to.

Scene 1
A bustling college canteen. A worker scrubbing the floors, pauses pats his pant feverishly, as if he has a case of poison ivy, then leaving the bucket and mop dashes off outside to coo lovingly into the errant cell.
In walks the college hottie also absorbed in a cell conversation, a high pitched monologue actually, ticking off a long suffering boyfriend, then after a series of shrill "hello.. Hello.. HELLO..'s" she stomps a delicate foot.. straight into the bucket, which skids.. and not unlike insy winsy spider, she slithers and falls with a thump on the floor, landing almost at the feet of the nerd.

Like a modern day Mumtaz she lies hapless, wet and bedraggled on the floor, one hand fumbling for her skirt, the other for her cell. The nerd stoops to help her up, then winces as a banshee yell resounds in his ears. The girl has just realised that her cell has landed in the bucket and drowned. Hurling his hand aside, she leaps up to rescue her cell, then realises its dead. As she bursts into tears, the nerd flips open the cell exposes its innards, then strolls to the air conditioner vents exposing it to the hot exhaust. After five minutes of having the entire campus eyeing him and the girl, he nonchalantly rubs it against his sleeve, then profers it to the girl who squeals in admiration then, plants a kiss on his virginal cheek. Grabbing the moment, he asks her for a coffee. Unable to refuse the modern day Gallahad, she nods absentmindedly as he very cleverly dials his own number from her cell, thus saving her number in his for posterity.

Scene 2
A spiffy Ravi is hanging on to the street pole for dear life, adopting different poses, eyes and ears on the alert for her appearance. An hour later, a Ravi, shoulders sagging is desperately making calls that go unanswered. As he attempts to move, body drooping, feet dragging, he hears a voice from behind, hailing him. He turns to  see Ishita, his competitor and fellow nerd holding out his cell. He must have dropped it after that last desperate call, he realises.  He holds out his hand to take it, then accidently touches hers. A sudden shaft of lightening seems to run through him. He looks pleadingly at her, "Coffee ?"

Why hadn't he noticed her smile before he wonders, and her luminiscent eyes as he sits across her enjoying the debate of Cassius versus Brutus with her. A loud crash resounds from the opposite corner of the room. A girls raised voice heaps insults on the hapless boy sitting across her. She stomps out of the coffee shop in a huff. His phone starts to ring, even as he cowers behind his table, cringing as his truant date marches past him. Ishita looks at him. He holds her gaze and disconnects the phone. All he ever needed, he realises is sitting beside him.

An Alien World

The girl was pretty. Or rather she had very pretty eyes. Luminous, dark orbs glinting curiously at the passers by. The rest of her was covered by the hijaab, the head to toe black robes of the Moslem women. What was she doing in Singapore I wondered..

The Mercedes was wending its way smoothly along the coppery gold streets. It glided slowly to a stop at the traffic lights. Excited, unable to contain myself, I leaned out to get a better look. Where I come from that was surely banned. But besides the car was a young couple. I leaned out of the car, shocked, apalled ! The girl was wearing unbelievably short shorts ! Her slick halter top revealed a generous cleavage. and most of her back was exposed, shining white! Allah ! Surely she would be arrested ? Or worse, some man would swoop upon her and carry her off ! She turned to sneak a look at her husband. But he was absorbed in a phone call, seeing with unseeing eyes. As she watched, the girl turned to her companion and bestowed a loving kiss on his lips. The smile they shared, the spontaneous holding of each others' hands as they crossed the road, stayed with her for a long time.

Strange country this.  Looking around her as the lights changed and the car purred ahead, she realised that she was the only one staring! People all around were self absorbed, busy with cells or simply intent on crossing the road. Indignation, anger almost, flowed through her. Why was the girl not being accosted, dragged away to the police station ? How heinous, shameful was her behaviour ! She stole a glance at her husband. An imposing looking man. He was handsome, if much older than her. After all she was his second wife. This trip was a honeymoon, of sorts. A working holiday for him. He had indulged his wife and allowed her to accompany him. The mullah had recommended he go to Malaysia. Prayers at a particular masjid and the powerful herbs sold by a hakim there always guaranteed the birth of a son. Singapore was the business end of the trip.

He turned to see his wife, bristling with indignation as she pointed at a model displaying a bikini in a passing lingerie shop. He laughed and said something in Arabic, which had her blush a beetroot red and pull the mask attached to her burqa over her eyes. Indeed they were in a country of infidels. Surely on the day of Qayamat, they would burn in hell, she thought.

I stood looking out of the window. The luxurious suite of the hotel was a gilded cage. My husband had left at ten in the morning, before I had barely awakened. Awake I was though and restless. As I paced past the windows, I looked down to see the blue glistening waters of the swimming pool. What I saw had me thunder struck ! Women lay on the beach chairs, wearing almost next to nothing. Their upper bodies were naked, just a nonchalant towel thrown over their chests. The lower extremities were just covered with the tiniest of cloths, not big enough to be even called underwear. As I stood aghast, I saw men swimming in the pool too. One emerged from it, and making his way past the sleeping women, settled down beside a woman, who leaned over to say something to him. They both sat up and taking a bottle of lotion the man began to rub it all over her back. The sheer brazeness of it all had me standing their mouth agape.

The knock on the door startled me. Reaching for my hijaab, I put the chain over the door before opening it a tiny fraction. The girl standing outside wore housekeeping uniform : pants and a short top. Her face, though was unmistakable. She was the same woman I had seen at the traffic lights. As I looked inquiringly at her, she spoke, first in English, then seeing the incomprehension on my face, in Arabic. Smiling hesitatingly I let her in. Then, unable to stop myself, I told her that I had seen her yesterday at the signals. Eager to know more about her, I struck up a conversation, asking her how she came to know Arabic. She told me that it was one of the languages she had learnt in school.

Time flew. As she set about cleaning the room, we talked. She told me about Singapore schools, how women as well as men, studied together, underwent compulsory military training together after university. The woman standing before me was indeed a confident, smart young woman. She apoke five languages, earned her own living and was going to marry her boyfriend after a month. When I pointed at the pool, she smiled, then told me that was the way women dressed while swimming. What I saw before me was a world, that was free. Free to live, dress, move, earn, marry even, as they wished ! By the time she was gone, I had glimpsed a world so alien to mine, it was almost like another planet.

Alone for the entire day, I had lots to think about. Within me raced mixed emotions. I was superior to her where my station in life was concerned, or was i ? Determined to find out more, I called her back.

The next day, I was up as soon as my husband had left. Actually I was so excited I had hardly slept the whole night. Having dressed in a hurry, I waited anxiously for the clock to strike ten. Five minutes before, I walked out of the room. My mouth felt dry, my hands shook as I hurried to the elevators. For the first time in my life, I was going out unaccompanied ! That too, in a foreign country. An alien, alien land. As I walked towards the doors and out of the hotel, I broke into a sweat, wondering if she would be there. Praise be to Allah, she was. Hijaab firmly in place, I walked with her towards the car I thought she had brought with her. Alas, to my horror ahe was pointing towards a small motor cycle ! Before I could refuse, she had hustled me onto the back seat, carefully arranged my hijaab around my legs and we were off.. !

I asked her anxiously, " Are you sure we won't be discovered ?" Not only would it be catastrophy for me, she would lose her job as well. "Ah, she replied, "Don't worry. I'll have you back in good time."
As we zipped thru the streets, a strange exhilaration rose within me. Eagerly I took in all that she was trying to tell me, show me. Wide eyed, I took in the sights, smells and sounds of this lovely city. The bird park was an amazing place. I watched as the fabulously colored birds flew about, sometimes at will, sometimes in obedience to commands. How free were they, how magnificent their surroundings, how loved were they ! For lunch she took me to a Macdonalds outlet, letting me stand in line and ask in broken English for a burger, fries and a coke. The best meal of my life ! Next stop was the beach. We walked together, I took her hand in mine, as we waded thru the shallows. As I walked, a strange kind of happiness bubbled through mu entire being. For this day, this moment I was Me. Not a daughter, not a wife, not one in a sea of black, but in a multihued, serene, liberated world. Just being Me. Just being.

As we rounded a rock, Maria, for that was her name, asked me to stop. Before I knew what was happening she had pulled off my hijaab ! Stunned I looked at her at first, the protests, the fury I ought to have felt dying within me, as I slowly stepped out of it. I raised my hands, then my face up to the skies. Was I alive, still ? Hadn't I died and gone to heaven ? I must have ! The spray from the sea stung my face, my black tresses flowing freely around my body, as if aping the hijaab. Time stood still. I walked, I sat, arms wrapped tightly around my knees. I stretched, even ran a bit on the sands. I picked up shells, even a starfish that had washed ashore. I waded into the waters, up to my waist. Maria just sat and watched me.


I didn't know what  time my husband came to the room that night. Even he must have been surprised to see me fast asleep as early as ten, when I had been pacing the room upto twelve the previous night, exhorting that  I could not sleep, after having been cooped up the entire day.

We left Singapore the next day. Maria, came to the room before I left. I slipped her a card along with my diamond ring. A marriage ring I had no use for. For it shackled me. But was a symbol of liberation for her. My ties were of compulsion, I was the caged bird. Hers were of love, and so she flew. High up into the azure skies of Singapore.

Haunted Minds

It was love at first sight. The single storied house, stood alone. Red slated roof, in contrast with the green ivy trailing down its length beckoned the passerby cheerily. Just the way i had envisaged my new house would look. Getting off from the car, i  walked down the driveway, admiring the small lawn, the feeling one got of being in the countryside, though one stood just a lane away from the main road. That was Banglore for you. Lovely homes, together but a discreet distance apart from each other. Coming from Mumbai, and its chawls, i was taken with the thought of having my own little bungalow, private, serene, above all quiet.

After the agent, going in for the kill, had shown me around the spacious hall, the small but cosy bedrooms on the first floor, i was ready to buy. The first person i called was Dad, in far away Kolkata. I may have earned my money, but my financial advisor was definitely my dad. " Be cautious, beta. " was his advise."Go check out your neighbours. If it is such a good buy, why is it on the market in the first place ? Is it the only vacant property around ?"

"Ah, dad. Must i go talk to total strangers ? I dont even know Kannada, at all."
"So what ? People know English, no ?!"

So, having got rid of the most- reluctant- to- leave, broker, i set off to the house next door. Standing outside, i realised that it had very high walls, which was strange, considering that most homes here had small fences merely around their periphery. As I rang the bell, a huge clang reverberated inside, accompanied by the furious barking of dogs. I started to retreat when a voice boomed from inside, " WHO is it ?" Startled, I replied, trying to get myself heard above the din the dogs were making, " Just a neighbour. "
"Wait !" commanded the voice. I could hear the sounds of bolts being dragged open. The door finally opened. Before me, eyeing me suspiciously, stood a small man. Dressed in pyjamas, though it was almost evening. Almost bald, a small ring of  mostly grey hair around his head, he must have been in his late sixties, at least.

"Well ?" He demanded in a surprisingly strong voice. "What do you want, young man ? "
" I was interested in the house next door, and just wanted some information, sir."
He eyed me for a minute or two. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. Literally on my face. I leapt back just in time, or my foot would have caught in the door.

Shaken, i turned to leave. "Don't buy it. If you value your life." The voice, much quieter now, came from within. The windows, I noticed were barricaded. In fact, every window in the houses nearby was barricaded, I noticed as I walked, slowly back to my car. It was back to my father again.

Most parents are paranoid about their children's safety. So was dad. But having been a policeman all his life, he never gave up on things without reasoning them out. I heard him out, then driving back to my hotel, I had a plan of action ready for the next day.

The broker stood trembling before me. He tried to speak bravely, but his voice quavered as he pleaded, "Sir, you get one of your friends, how can I...No! No! i cant, i won't ..."

" Look, Pandey. These are my terms. Take it and i'll up your commission by  one percent. Leave it and your house stays unsold. Come on, man ! " I urged him." Why don't you want to spend one night that too with me, in this house." Then I added slyly, " how do you expect me to stay here alone for the rest of my life then? Is it haunted or something ?"

Those were the magic words it seemed. Suddenly the man was a blubbering mass, clinging onto my feet, pleading with me to reconsider my decision. "I will show you other homes, much better than this one, sahab. I swear on my mother, I heard about it today only, or I wouldn't have brought you here. This house is haunted. Someone screams and cries from inside, so the neighbours say. A woman died. Murdered by her own son. That is why no one is ready to buy it. "

"Your mother is dead, right ? " I retorted. "No. your punishment then for lying to me, is that you will spend a night with me in this house, if I have to tie you up and drag you there. I am a policeman's son, you see. I  never give up  without investigating.

Maybe the words "Police" had something to do with it for he turned up at my hotel that evening. I took one look at him, then burst out laughing. He was dressed in a white dhoti, with a saffron shirt. Numerous   rudraksh, sundry other malas and threads were tied around his neck and wrists. "Arrey, Pandey you look like a pandit. Any ghost will be able to see you from far away, then what will happen to you. " As he turned white, I put a reassuring arm around him, "Come on then, don't be such a coward. Main hoon na ?"

Soon we were at the gates, Pandey with his eyes shut had to be led inside. Muttering various mantras under his breath, he led me into the hall. " Sir ji. We will sleep here only.  Look I have sleeping bags." I frowned then, agreed. The last thing I wanted was him running out on me.

The house was quite. From the garden, we could hear the sound of crickets. An aura of peace surrounded us. The disquiet lay within us. Every sound we heard had us alert. His eyes would immediatly dart to mine. He had slowly shifted his bedding so that we lay almost side by side. The watch I wore showed the time as eleven forty five. Slowly the conversation had run out between us. We lay, cold and shivering on the floor. Was this the craziest thing i had ever done ? You bet !

Surprisingly, he was the first to fall asleep. I tossed and turned. Then I started thinking about how I would do up the house if I lived in it. The ceilings would be pristine white. The walls an electric blue offset with white. "No. It used to be green. The ceiling was off white." Had I imagined it ? Or had I actually heard someone say it ? Nah. I was keyed up. That's what it was. Time to sleep. " No. Time for the yagna to begin." There it was again. Then it started. At first softly. Then slowly it started to reverberate in my mind.. "Om Namash Shivai....Om Namash Shivai...." My eyes snapped open. I reached out a hand, for the first time it was actually trembling, and grabbed Pandey. Only my hand touched thin air. Pandey, still sound asleep, and snoring was suspended. On the very same ceiling. I opened my mouth to scream. All that emerged was a strangled croak, " Pandey !" His eyes shot open, then arms and legs flailing wildly, he turned, and landed on the floor with a thump. Petrified, he scrambled to run. But discovered he couldn't move. "Join the yagna, Mantra padho ! " The voice rang and echoed all around us, growing in frenzy, until we both had our ears covered. While Pandey clutched me in a death grip, i took a hold on myself. " Meditate !" I could hear my dad's  voice commanding me. "Block it out, you can do it." Closing my eyes with a super human effort, i started retreating into the abscesses of my mind. I was a zen master. I had the strength. Soon there was nothing around me, but the vistas of my mind. Wave upon wave of serenity.

I must have been thus for a long time. When my eyes  opened, i could hear the chirping of the birds heralding dawn. Pandey must have fled a long time ago. What had happened with him, I would never know. I checked the ceiling just to make sure. With a heavy heart i made my way out, and home to the hotel. I knew what I needed to do. Pandey, when I located him, had his bags packed. He was going to his desh, he said, his haunted demeanour spoke loudly then his words. Nothing I could say convinced him to stay.

The Puja was held in the house early on Sunday. My dad and I were the sole participants. Even as the mantras were recited by him, we could feel a wave around us. One that exuded joy, exalted relief. As it was coming to an end. I heard a voice in my head. "Thank you. " It said. " Now I am free, Now! I can rejoin my mother, I owed this to her, her last wish on earth, before she died. Killed by me, when I had one of my fits.Killed by these cursed hands of mine. " I was now free too. To live in peace in this beautiful home. Pandey, visits me now and then, but never stays the night. I wonder why.

The Second Side.

She paced the room and fumed. "How dare she ! The bitch. Who the hell does she think she is, this.. this Katy Murthy !" Her blue grey eyes glinting dangerously, she glared at her publicist, who was bearing the brunt of her anger. " I recieve the Style Icon of the Year award, and she dares to criticise  my dress at that very function ! I, Karuna Kejriwal, look uncomfortable holding the trophy, I look dowdy ! How the hell did she get into that hall ! " She raged on, while the publicist mentally rolled her eyes, and stood fidgeting.. When she had finished she threw the offending newspaper on the chair, and subsided onto the sofa, still muttering the choicest epithets she could think of. No one had the right to criticise the topmost heroine of Bollywood after all, the leader of the pack, Queen of all she surveyed. Master, rather mistress of all she surveyed. Men droooled over her pictures, women copied her hairstyles, her clothes, even her body type for heaven's sake. The newbie journo had probably commited harakiri, by writing the article. "And burn that dress ! I never want to wear anything by that gay Roseus, ever again ! "

 The knock on the door distracted her from her tirade. Still seething she shouted, " Get lost whoever it is." The dooor opened , her beloved husband came in eyebrows raised. " Who is the unlucky person, who has offended my sweetheart ?" He asked in soothing tones. Seeing him, her eyes lit up. However angry she was, just his very presence was enough to calm her down. "Darling.. Just see the temerity of this... this bitch.." She regaled him with what had been written about her. He listened indulgently, then sat quiet. "Well ?" She demanded. "don't you have anything to say ?"  He sat on the sofa and gently pulled her onto his lap. " She was not wrong you know." Before she could react, he turned her face to his. "You are the prettiest woman i have ever met, I'm the luckiest guy on earth, but darling, that dress did not do you justice. I told you so, too before you left, but you were in such a tearing hurry, you hardly heard me !"

She sat silent mulling over what he had said. Then turning around she kissed him, and turned to leave the room. At the door she paused, turned, one regal eyebrow arched as she looked into his eyes," That may be so, but no one else is allowed to tell me so."

"Madam ! Madam !" The voice addressing her belonged to the security guard. " There is a woman at the gates. She says she is your fan, and won't leave until you meet her for a few minutes." She whirled around and retorted, " Kya, Bahadur ! Bhagao usey ! Aisey to kitne fans hain, sub ko milun, to shooting pe na jaun, kya?"

Before he could say much else she was gone. He turned to see the stricken face of the girl behind him. A steely glint replaced the angst as she looked at him, then hoisted her back pack in front and lowered it onto the floor. From it she took a blanket. "Bahar hi hoon. Kitne din tak nahi milengi. Raastey pe sona koi gunah to nahi na ?! " No matter what the security person said, she refused to budge from near the gates. Even threats of the police didn't work. Truth to say, Bahadur's efforts were also a little half hearted. She so reminded him of his daughter, he didn't have the heart to get her into trouble. That night he didn't sleep much as he sat guarding her.

"Please madamji, aaj to aap kuch karen, she is not willing to leave from here without meeting you." Bahadur was pleading which was very rare for him, because he had handled many such depraved fans before. She looked at him bemusedly. Then nodded her head. Try as she did she couldn't erase the insult from her head. Maybe this was just what she needed. A doting fan's adoration to restore her equilibrium. "All right, bring her up. She's got ten minutes, please make that clear." When she looked up next, she saw a small petite girl standing before her. The ecstacy in her eyes, the trembling of her voice with sheer joy, made Karuna look indulgently at her as the fan tried to express how much she loved her. "Arrey, we are human too, you know. You are the one who makes me out to be superhuman. I'm just a girl. Just like you, said Karuna finally " As the ten minutes drew to a close, Karuna got up, obliged the fan with a photograph. On an impulse, she drew out a bag from her closet, signed it with a flourish, and handed it to her. The girl took it then retreated, almost as if from the presence of a goddess. "Thank you ma'am from the bottom of my heart. I love you and always will."

The next day, the page three papers had a huge caption : " Encounters of the third kind ! The day i met the  Icon of my heart Karuna ! By Katy Murthy.  What followed was a glowing description of the actor. How beautiful she really was indeed, how kind, modest and generous in real life. " Happy, darling ?" asked her amused husband as he saw her reading the papers. She turned, a beatific smile lighting up her beautiful face, making him catch his breath. "There are two sides to every person, yes ?" he said smiling back at her.

All For One, One for All.

The leopard crouched on the tree. His beautiful, tawny coat glistened as it caught the rays of the sun. The sleek cat lay on the branch, its sleek body stretched taut on the upper most branch of the sturdy neem. It's ears bristled, the stance became watchful, wary as it heard the faint voices in the distance. Patiently it waited.

" Bhaiya, lets not go further inside the forest. Baba warned us not to. I'll not look i promise. You go near that tree. No one is looking. " The scared ten year old, pulled at his elder brothers' hand. " Arrey, you are one big   scaredy cat. The only one around. Don't you want to be big and strong and bold like me ?" said the elder brother, all of sixteen himself, as he tugged at the little ones' hand. The bully of the mohalla, the elder was strongly built. A street fighter, he was not easily frightened. He was used to getting into scraps, often rescuing the younger from many a fight. But today, truth to say,  he was just a little scared himself. There had been sighting of a leopard, the bane of the slum dwellers, who lived on the periphery of the National Park. However he couldn't risk the pretty Kajal, from next door, seeing him as he squatted with the earthen 'lota' in his hand. Which was why he was pulling a reluctant Ramu, his brother with him. Even though he was the biggest coward of the slum. For who knew what lurked inside the forest. Their had been two instances of children being dragged away by leopards and he certainly didn't want to leave his back unprotected. Specially since it was getting on to sunset. "Chal Chhotu, " he cajoled. "I'll buy you one kurkure if you come just a little further in. "Kurkure !" The little fellow licked his lips. His all time favorite treat. But... He just wasn't sure, What if a leopard was hiding somewhere near ? He looked around him. Then picked up a thick branch that was lying nearby. "There. That's better. Let's go now."

The two brothers ventured deeper into the undergrowth. Both wary, yet as is the human wont, quite convinced of their invincibility. "Bus. This is enough." said the elder, after they had pushed their way in a bit further. I'm doing my work, you turn around. " So saying the boy went in a little more and squatted with relief beneath a big neem tree.

Thoughts of the promised snack swirling around in his head, Ramu whirled the branch around. "Hah. Haaah" he yelled, pretending he was the ninja warrior, he had seen on the neighbours' television. "Shut up ! Can't you be quiet " Hissed Shyamu. "You want the leopard, to attack us ?" That quietened him for a while. Suddenly, instinctively, Shyamu looked up. Their eyes met. Even as his blood ran cold, he was up in a thrice. Leaping to grab his brother, he whirled. Too late. The big cat pounced. It would have landed on Chhotu, but savagely Shyamu pushed Ramu aside, and was thrown to the ground, as the cat went for his throat...

 The two brothers' staggered into their hut, followed by a crowd of people. They surrounded the boys, everyone talking at once. "Hato ! Hato !" screamed the father. " Kya Hua ? Koi doctor sahab ko bulao." The frantic father rushed to help his elder son to the bed. " Usko dekho pehle. Chhotu ko. Usne aaj meri jaan bachai hai. "

Later when both were bandaged and resting, the story was told. How the leopard had caught Shyamu by the throat. How the little ten year old, in a rush of adrenaline had been galvanised enough to scream his mightiest scream, and  pound the leopard with his branch, catching it in the eye. With a roar, the leopard had let go of Shyamu, and streaked back up the tree. Like a flash of lightening. Like it had never been there. Half dragging each other, half running they had made it back somehow to the boundary wall.

 Who was the bigger hero, who had saved whose life, were moot questions. For the two brothers, it was one for all, all for one.. It always had been.

The Child Of Destiny

"Bye Di.(short for didi ). Take care." My daughter turned around surprised. "Salma, that was good English." The short, stocky girl standing in front of her beamed, her face lighting up at the praise. All of fifteen, she worked alongside her mother, helping her to clean the house. We had  moved into the new home since the past few months, and the mother daughter duo had sought employment with us. A chirpy little thing, she looked wistfully at my daughter as she paced the home, studying for her exams. "Main bhi English tuition leti thi, aunty. Ab time nahi to chhor diya. Aap mere se English main hi baat karo. " My daughter immediatly offered to teach her and Salma jumped at the offer, gleefully appearing in the late afternoon, after finishing her chores in other homes she worked for. During the day, her eyes would follow my daughter as she read or studied. She would listen avidly to all our conversations, occassionall surprising us with her one liners.

Gradually i noticed that the first question she asked me every morning was " Di uth gai ?" At first, i mechanically answered "No." absorbed as i was in my chores. Then one day, irked with her constant chatter, i snapped back, "Arrey! koi aur sawaal hai ke nai, tere paas ? Ya fir tu jalti hai us par ? " As soon as i had retorted, i bit my tongue, specially when i turned to see her crestfallen look.  Had i touched a raw nerve ? I had. Later on in the day, i heard her mother ticking her off : " Tu der se uthti hai na, isliye tera kaam ho nahi pata. Jaldi uth subah. " The mumbled protest was " Main raat ko sub kaam kar ke barah baje soti hun, fir paanch baje kaise uthun ? Thand lagti hai na, mujhko." I sat wearily contemplating an unjust world. She was an only daughter in the midst of three sons. Her father was a paralytic, her mother was a housemaid, her grandmother was a cantankerous old woman. After seeing to all their ablutions and meals, she left home with her mum for work. Together they earned about ten thousand a month, most of which went towards the interest on a loan they had taken for the fathers' illness.

" Good Morning, aunty." her cheerful voice would greet me every morning when i opened the door to her. "Good morning Salma. " the words became a morning ritual. Paradoxically, i never knew when she was lying or when she spoke the truth. She sported a cell, and probably knew more about its features, then i did mine. Sometines she would come in and tinkle around the place showing off her payal. "Dekho, dekho, Aunty. Idd ke paise se kharida.. " she would simper hurriedly.

She took the longest time dusting my daughters' room. Often we would find her posturing in front of the mirror. sometimes she would rearrange all her trinkets on the dressing table, lovingly placing each in a different way. My teen was at first furious, then indulgent, shrugging her shoulders and retreating with a "Whatever, but jaldi kar !" She always worried about her mother's debt, coming up with grandiose schemes for paying it off. I tried to reason with her, " Tu kyun fikr karti hai ? Teri amma ke upar chhor de. Woh karegi bandobast." But my words fell on deaf ears.

 It was raining heavily, that fateful day. My doorbell rang. I opened it to find her mother outside. " Salma nahi aayi ?" I asked. " Nahi bhabhi. Uska kal shaadi ho gayi." she said with a downcast face. As I stared at her shell shocked, she refused  to look at me. Then with downcast face, a suspicion of a tear in her eyes, she said " Koi chara nahi, Bhabhi. Garib hai, hum log. Biyaah to kum se kum hua uska. thora umr zyada hai uska dulha ka, vidhur hai, (widower) par bachcha nahi hai. " The fact was that she was married to a widower, who had paid off their debt. I contemplated reporting her mother to the police. Surely they would rescue her. Before that her phone came. I insisted she come see me. The doorbell rang. I opened it to find her standing outside. Buxom body clothed in bridal finery, heartbreakingly young. A woman-child. I stood stunned, looking at her. She came in, and looking at my face, laughed. Was their a trace of bitterness in her voice ? No ! She was actually happy ! " Itna kyun udaas ho, aunty ? " The innocence in her voice, broke my heart. " Dekho. Usne mujhe, kitna gehna diya. Aur bolun ? Ab mujhe kaam bi nai karna parega. Picture dekhne le ke gaya woh. Barrey mall main. English aati hai na mujhko, " her voice was smug even. " Mera khud ka kamra bhi hai, aur aaina bhi. Bahut khush hun main, such aunty, aur kya chahiye mujhko ? " Indeed. Defeated i stared at her. Who was i to break her bubble of happiness, her ticket to freedom.

Child of destiny. Face of Poverty. 

The Messiah Of Life

He was not a stranger to death. Practically everyday, he stepped into the arena with it as the opponent. He grappled with it every time he stood in the O T, scalpel poised, looking down into the patient's chest, ready to do battle, to coax that vital organ to work, to restore the person in front of him to life. He had started with one, then two, going up to a maximum of three surgeries a day. At first, the rush of adrenaline was enough to keep him going. Then he realised that he was supremely in love with his profession. Almost like playing God. His progress was swift up the echelons. As a student, he had sat studying medical tomes, his head tied to a  taut rope which would snap it up if, out of sheer exhaustion his head drooped in sleep. Hid dedication had reaped rich dividends a s he topped the entrance exams and got easy admission into the prestigious surgical college of his choice. Then as a resident, his attention was unwavering. The thrill he experienced when his seniors cut open the human body in front of him, kept him going through the gruelling hours, when sleep again was at a premium. Blood shot eyes or not, he kept himself going. It had all been worth it.

His first surgery was a landmark in his life. He would never forget it. The frail woman, young, at only forty five years of age, was a challenge. The attack had come suddenly, and by the time she reached hospital, she was critical. It being Diwali, the senior doctors, were on leave. Someone had to take charge. As the only available surgeon, he did. As she swung between life and death, he worked like a man possessed. Seven hours later, he was done. The angioplasty turned bypass was successful. The grateful family, swarmed around him. Looking adoringly up at him was her daughter, who would become his future wife.

As he became experienced, expert in his field, his reputation grew. There were times when he lost a patient, but it was never for lack of trying.  Well into his forties, he was still working ten to twelve hours a day, whenever he had surgery, which was every two days. His understanding wife stood by him like a rock. But she had realised long back that his first priority was his profession. Their one child, a daughter, was a sweet docile child, who was married and settled abroad.

The day of his forty fifth birthday dawned bright. He was getting ready, albeit reluctantly, to attend the small party, his wife had insisted he attend. "Isn't it enough that i wear a  suit everyday, " he protested as she swung up his coat from behind him, waiting for him to slip his arms thru. " That's why you would be uncomfortable in anything else, " she grinned wryly at him. " I'm going down, don't take too long ," she admonished as she left the room.

What was it about his tie today, he wondered. Had she tied it too tight. 'The noose' he had nicknamed it, when he had started wearing one. He grimaced as he tried to loosen it. Disbelief mirrored in his eyes he stared at his reflection. It was so loose it was practically hanging around his chest. "What the...!" he told himself. "How can i be choking, when its so loose ?" Then it hit him. The pain was like a knife through his heart. As he sank to his knees he heard someone scream. "I'm damned if  i'm going like this." Just before he lost consciousness, he clutched on to his panic stricken wife, the words that he wanted to say, dying in his throat.

"Sorry, Ma'am. We tried everything we could. He is no more." His funeral was attended by so many, so many came to her with  condolences, each having a story of how they owed their own or a loved one's life to him. "Death showed him no mercy," she thought bitterly. Maybe because he had cheated it so often, for someone else.

"Ai Chashmish ! "

" Ai chashmish." The voice rang out across the school bus. The little girl with glasses looked up and frowned.  "Zara under chal. " The strident voice commanded. The five year old laboring under the too heavy school bag, shuffled forward, glaring at the giggling girls around her. At that age most children are cruel. The one who is perceived as different, smaller, becomes the butt of jokes.

"Ai Batke !" The voice that rang out from behind the little girl, belonged to an older child. The Sports Captain of the school. "Zara tameez se baat kar, samjha !" So saying she drew the little girl onto her lap, taking off the big bag and putting it on the lap of the simpering girl, sitting across. That shut them all up. The bus helper as well as the girls. It also earned her an admirer for life. The little girl whom she had stood up for.

That day, when she returned home and excitedly told me about the episode, I , her mother cringed. I didn't know whether i was sad or angry, or grateful. At the age of five, my daughter had been dianosed with weak eyesight, and prescribed spectacles. As we stood in the doctor's clinic, she was told to read the eye chart across the room. To my bewilderment, she couldn't, though she knew the alphabet like the back of her hand.Ironically, even at that tender age, books were the love of her life. I went home and wept the night thru. At the age of five, my daughter had been condemned to  wear spectacles all her life. It was so unfair that at the age of forty, i didn't even need glasses to read. Nor did my husband.

So prescription glasses entered our lives. I had been told that she may require a chain or thread worn around her neck to keep them in place. But she took to them like a duck to water. I still remember the delight on her face when she first, hesitatingly, then wonderingly, wore her glasses for the first time. Then her face lit up as she bent low over her picture book, squealing with delight, as she realised she could see much better with them on. After that there was no looking back, pun intended. Instead of glasses we called them "Mister C" short for see. She would wake up in the morning, her tousled curls framing her little face, her first question, "Where's Mr. C ?" My heart dived somewhere to my toes, as i hugged her close, Glasses and all.

At home we learnt to accept her glasses. School, which she had just joined was a different proposition, all together. The other girls, singled her out, ganging up against her. My mind raced as i wiped her tears. "Nearly twenty five percent of the kids with her will wear glasses before they reach class five," the paediatrician had said.. But class five was seven light years away. So I requested an audience with the class teacher. The next day onwards, she was given the task of minding the class when the teacher left the classroom at any time. Looked up to as the authority figure, they soon gave up their prejudice against her, afraid that she would report them for talking in class. Good in spoken English, she landed most parts in school plays and concerts. Well behaved and mannerly, she soon became very popular with the rest.

Were they a bane, or a boon : her glasses ? I often wondered. As she grew, sometimes, she resented the fact that she was burdened with them, her small face, her beautiful eyes, hidden behind them. But we lived with that. Then in the senior years, she was looked upon as a nerd, or a geek. Until i pointed out to her that all the people she admired wore glasses. Her favorite teachers, as well as the school captain, even I was wearing them by now.

 But we all agreed that "Mr. C." was a member of the family, when groggy with sleep, she protested my removing them from her eyes. " But mum ! How will i see my dreams without them?"    

Staked.

Transformed. What had previously been just a small balcony, high up on the thirtieth floor was now a sight to behold. Previously, if one stepped out gingerly and viewed with some trepidition, the sheer height at which one stood, one was overcome with giddiness, nausea almost, if one was me. The kid however, exulted and with whoops of joy enacted the classic Titanic pose arms outstretched, while the mum, read me, had hysterics within.

The day her friends came over, they gasped at the view, then firmly held and propelled a paranoid me out of the bedroom. (My bedroom!) "We are eighteen, aunty, " they benignly reassured me, " Not eight. We are not likely to leap out." Very gently they led me out to the hall, where in between half heartedly watching, 'Grey's Anatomy' I chipped away at my finger nails, a ear cocked for trouble within.

The scream, when it came, had me out of my seat, and like an arrow shot from Genghis Khan's bow, i was in the bedroom. The kids were doubled up with laughter. "You should see your face, Aunty," said her friend when she recovered. "Howlarious." I retorted before stomping off again. Later, my kid confessed that it hadn't been a joke. While attempting to step out to the balcony, one of her friends had tripped slightly and landed on my kid, who had then tilted onto her other friend. The three averted disaster, by clutching onto the railings. That did it.

A few phone calls later, the next day, I stood proudly surveying my newly installed garden. The Bougainvilla took to the railing like Romeo to Juliet, clinging on dizzily to the bemused railing. The Chilly tree stood tall, beside the Crotons that flirted gaily with the Poinsettia. The herbs formed there own band, the Aloe Vera spikily guarding the delicate Mint that stood under the benign shadow of the velvety Oregano, that flirted with the gently swaying Basil. The latent gardener within me awoke, and I laboured after the plants. From watering them assiduously, to chasing off the pigeons, who cooed and snuggled up to each other, playing hide and seek in between the pots, and scenting up  the place with their droppings. At any point of time I would hear them and charge in broom on the ready,  to do battle with them. A lone eagle came and perched above the herbs every morning, loftily surveying the green patch, before sweeping off in majestic flight, in front of my admiring eyes.

Meanwhile, my balcony now became my boudoir. The green sight of the plants, my plants, first thing when i awoke, was a beautiful way to  begin my day. Every member of the house had their particular favorite. The ma in law was protective about the hibiscus, for the one day that it bloomed, sighing over its scarlet splendour and caressing its soft petals. The kid guarded the roses with her life, threatening the maid with dire consequences if she so much as touched a single one. ( "I'll cut off your hair, if you pluck even a single one of my roses!" when she wanted to pluck one to adorn her hair ) The hubby surreptiously counted the chillies when he thought no one was looking

So the days elapsed. Sailesh, the gardener was duly called after a month. The plants had to be given their dose of fertilisers. He was all admiration as he stepped out, scanning the plants with an expert eye, I was all ears trying to learn from him. As he pulled the pots towards him, a loud screech came from above. The huge expanse of wings swept dangerously above his head, while we got a too close for comfort glimpse of the wicked beak and malevolent eyes that glinted angrily at us. Stunned, we stood staring at it. As it swept on its way, Sailesh bent and ! There it was again, the loud screeches of the eagle rang in our ears, before it swooped again, almost taking Sailesh's hand with him this time. Hurriedly we both retreated into the room, closing shut the glass windows. The work on the pots was completed, thereafter, with Sailesh, hurriedly grabbing a pot at a time and working from within the bedrooom. Each time he grabbed a pot or restored it to its position, I stood guard anxiously. The eagle must have dived each time, at least eight fell swoops, before it was satisfied that we weren't taking the pots away. For the next few days, it even chased off the pigeons. The poor things would land between the plants and strut, and the eagle would arrive, scattering the petrified birds, leaving a trail of feathers in their wake as they dived off to  safer havens.

"Staked ! Ma , he's staked a claim over your garden," exulted my teen crowing over me. "Screeeeeeeeeee." she hovered over me, arms outstretched, flying in mock circles around my head. "The revenge of the Teen," she yelled delightedly, as she flew out of the room. 

Kismet Or...

She was small but vivacious. He was smaller, turbaned and about to become my best friend, but i didn't know that now. They were Baby and Bittu. Our new neighbours and our playmates. We had just shifted into our new home. I was all of five, my sister eight. Baby was my sister's age and Bittu was my height. So we settled down to being playmates, rivals, friends. Baby and her infectious giggle, Bittu and his scowl, entered our home almost every evening. Thereafter an hour of two of 'sent a letter', skipping, hide and seek followed.

They were Sardars and we were Muslims, but that hardly mattered to us. We were a mixed lot in the building, Parsis, Muslims, Sardars. But we were in every sense of the word 'mixed.' We kids played together, the Parsis were old, and either babysat for our mums or else tutored us whenever needed. For free.  India was truly liberal, and liberated in those days. As we grew up, we still kept together. Exchanged notes from school, helped each other, while still competing for ranks. As he grew older, Bittu was alienated, maybe because he was male, and we girls were busy with things feminine, like sewing classes and Mills and Boon. His antics were however forever etched in memory. How he entangled himself in the long turbans hung out to dry in the verandah. The time he got the hiding of his life, because he pretended for a long time that he had washed his long hair, but had not for about a month. They discovered his maggot filled hair one day, which had to be sheared from the scalp. For a Sardar that was the biggest sin ever. How he sailed high into the air on my swing only to bring it crashing down.

 They were five brothers and a sister to our two sisters. Their mother was step, their biological  mothers' much younger sister married off to her brother in law, after her sister died. She was young herself and resentful of her much older husbands' slow life. Bittu and Baby bore most of the brunt of her vicious anger.

Then came marriage. My sister's. Thereafter, Baby's escapades became increasingly wilder. One day, she eloped. Commited the cardinal sin of marrying a man not only much older, but also a Hindu. She was ostracised initially, then accepted when she got kids. Two boys. She seemed a little too flamboyant when she visited us. The loud make up and forced giggles, the daring blouses and sarees hid a desperation that ultimately drove her to suicide. Or attempted. She lived. But painfully, having contracted cancer. She died wasted. A Wasted life.

The happiest was Biir. The eldest. Married to a beautiful sardarni, they raised two beautiful daughters. If only he had lived to see them grow up. A heart attack claimed him when he was in his early fifties. Parminder, or Pummy, as we knew him was the suave elegant one. The joker of the family. He married a Sindhi, and then took to drink, as a duck takes to water. Sitting duck. He died of liver failure, after his wife divorced him, and left with the kids.

Raju was the shrewdest of the lot. The conniver, who controlled the finances and the two shops they owned. His family consisting of his wife and single son, moved to another home. Unfortunately, his death was sudden too. He foresaw his business, usurping the shops, while throwing out his youngest brother with a pittance,but not the heart attack that killed him.

Mohan, at number four was the womaniser. The roadside Romeo. He met his match in the plain looking, but clever Marwari girl, whose father made him marry her. He lives however to continue the lineage.

Bittu. Ah, Bittu. He too married a Marwari girl, but the curse followed him too, as he became a compulsive drinker. An alcoholic, who surrendered his life and his children's future to drink.

Finally, the father called it a day, too. The now old but still sprightly, mother lives on, fiercely protective of her grandchildren, Bittu's offspring and his wife. Strange that the nascent mother instinct should blossom so late in life. But then, she had been a child nearly herself, when she married. She didn't conceive any off spring of her own. Her husband didn't want any more." Kismet," she often said resignedly. A small sigh of regret escaping her. Kismet.   

A Lesson Learnt.

At the best of times, teaching is an emotional profession. Mothers who would kill someone, anyone who touched a hair of their precious babies' heads, personally deliver weeping, wailing tots into the care of their teachers. Teachers who draw them into the class, sit them down, wipe the copious tears, and then proceed to console the next new entrant. If you want to study human nature at its most nascent, there is no better place than a classroom.

She had huge eyes. The first thing that struck you about her. The eyelashes were long and curling, the eyes black, setting into relief her fair skin. When filled with tears, you instinctively lifted her up and consoled her, hugging her close. Her heart break would break the most hardened of hearts. The smile when it emerged from behind the tear streaked face lit it up. The laughter rose from deep inside her, the chuckle bringing an involuntary smile to your face. She was Marium, and i was so in love with her.

I was a reluctant teacher. A helper actually, biding the time between board exams and college. I was at the stage where i pitied the harried mothers, who parted with their tots and left, a paradoxical mix of reluctance and relief in their demeanour. Collectively miserable, the fright at being left, abandoned by otherwise doting mothers to the mercy of strange adults and weepy peers was palpable. Each child would steal a look at her/ his neighbour then set up their own wails. That was what was so different about Marium. She looked slight and vulnerable, but after a while, she sat holding her neighbours hand. Soon the boy was quiet too. There they sat amidst a mob of wailers, holding onto each other and sitting quietly.

The collective. Were children so different from adults ? There was the attention seeker. He was a small fellow, but the bravado was kingsize. He would tell tales or talk, jump up constantly, seeking attention from adults and kids alike. There was the Queen. She was tall and disdainful of the rest. The queen, who ordered the rest to do her bidding. Who ate from others tiffin boxes, and was the leader in all the games. There was the nerd who excelled at numbers, the artist who drew like a dream. There was the actor, who hammed and cartwheeled his way into his friends hearts. Then there were the ones who followed faithfully. They looked with awe at the Queeen and formed a loyal coterie. In return for which, she fought their battles and allowed them to tag after her. The bully of the class, was in a different class altogether. He was strong and wiley. He was the 'hero' types who made fun of the those weaker then him, and preened before the giggling girls. And then there was Marium.

Marium stayed aloof. She would play with the others, only when they let her. Mostly she would sit and draw or sing softly to herself.  She would not kowtow to anyone. The queen, specially, never missed an oppurtunity to push her away, or snatch her tiffin, backed by her coterie. The hurt on her face was obvious, but she would retreat rather than put up a fight. Was my Marium a coward ? I cringed at the thought, and had to repress strongly the urge to fight her battles for her.  If she didn't fight back, if she martyred herself time and again, how would she ever survive in this dog eat dog world, I worried. As a teacher, i couldn't play favorites, but i did anyway. I reprimanded the queen and retrieved her tiffin many a times. It was the pencil incident that rankled the most, however. Everyday the children were supposed to bring  three pencils to school. Everyday Marium would happily part with hers to the ones who had forgotten theirs, or those who borrowed them from her, then claimed ownership. Even when asked if the pencils were hers, she would study the glaring child in front of her, then shake her head and retreat. Teachers were not allowed to intervene. I hated seeing her defeated thus everyday. Surreptiously, i even took her aside and beseeched her to stand up for her rights. She looked at me with her liquid eyes, then nodded sweetly, before surrendering her pencils again the next day.

That day, the bully was sitting next to her. Invariably every day, he got to her pencils mostly, today was different. Today it was Marium's birthday. Her wise mother had sent pencils for the entire class as a gift. After they had been distributed, the children settled down to draw. Out came the pencils. I was keeping a vigil on hers out of sure habit. Marium put hers on her desk, then leaned down to pick up an eraser she had dropped. In a flash, an outstretched arm snatched her pencil, so that when she straightened it was gone. The bully sat smirking at her, defiantly juggling her pencil with his. Before anyone could react, Marium pounced on him. She must have caught him by surprise, because the next minute, they were both on the floor, Marium Sitting on top of him, her pencil back in her hand. As he raised a hand to hit her, the children on either side of her pounced on him too. Mayhem erupted. Marium and the entire class versus the bully. As we teachers waded into the melee and restored order, a slightly bedraggled Marium, sat back on her seat, the pencil clutched tightly in her hand. I couldn't help but grin broadly. I didn't have to worry about her anymore. She would do fine in the world. Just fine.

Meanwhile from the next day onwards, her pencils stayed with her, until, generous child that she was she shared it willingly with the ones who politely asked her for one.