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.