The Betrayal

I was busy saying the Gayatri mantra, when the phone rang. It's impatient persistance, urged my old bones to rise and pick it up. Rohit sounded angry which was usual for him as he demanded " Dadi when are you going to the hospital with dadaji ? " " But im not going, your papa is." i replied. " Damn. Bloody Buddhey. " was the reply as the receiver crashed in my ear.

"Have to speak to Rama, again. This boy will come to a bad end. Comes of spoiling the boy.Where did we all go wrong? He was such a sweet boy. "Its his hormones, sudhar jayega" was Rama's answer everytime. But im  going to speak to Sudhir today. At least my son listens to me" i thought with grim satisfaction.

An hour passed, i was still  trying to suppress my worries about Harish, my husband's health, and Rohits aggression. Just yesterday, even from my flat next door, i could hear the fight between father and son. Rohit's latest demand was a bike, and he couldn't see why he couldn't have it. Was he not the only child of his parents. Maybe that's where the trouble lay. Rama had always shielded him. From the world, from his family even.

Picking up the prayer book, I eased myself on the floor, when the doorbell rang. And rang. And rang. "Arrey, aa rahi hoon. Kaun hai ?" Muttering to myself, I looked thru the peephole and saw Rohit and his friend Manu outside. As i opened the door, they rushed in. "hato, move it, dadi," he said as he pushed me aside. "Jao, get us some tea," he demanded. Knowing better than to argue, i turned to go to the kitchen.

It was then that i felt fear. Swiftly i turned. All that my brain registered was that it was Rohit who was swinging a cricket bat, that was aimed at my head. As it made contact with my head, i fell.
" Nahi, beta" were the only words my lips were forming as i fell..

My head was lead, into my blurred vision came Rohit and Manu. Across the room, they stood. Manu's arms were full of something that glittered." My jewellery," screamed a voice in my head. Footsteps were coming towards me. I gripped the knife that was lying beside me. The face that came into my view was asking " Mar gai buddhi ?" "No! No! you are making a mistake, my heart cried. This maniac, this killer is not your grandson, your baby." Grimly my mind screamed, "It is! It is ! Raise that knife ! HIT HIM. Its your last chance. Do it !"

 His arm held mine now, " Pulse is still there. I cant take the risk," he said as his arm swung down, the knife poised, and in one clean sweep he cut her neck.

Afterwards, he thought he  had seen her eyes open as the knife swung down. Her arm, he felt had made as if to rise. In it was gripped a knife. The police wondered why she had'nt used it to defend herself, and concluded that the murderer must have been a known person. But even he, a veteran of twenty years, couldn't believe the culprit was her grandson,  a callow teen of fifteen.

The Yellow Crocs

It was the crocs that he wore that drew my attention to  him. Bright yellow and incongrous on him. Every morning he was there outside the barber shop. In his forties, stooped, wearing shorts and an oversized tee, he rushed around doing all the odd jobs that he was set to do. Whether it was brooms that he wielded deftly, or cars that he washed, his concentration on his job was fierce.

People around him indulged him. The barber shared his 'cutting chai' with him, the seth who emerged from the building and got  into his spick n span car, gave him a tip and a biscuit packet. The waiter from nearby gave him a paan or two. Some pulled his leg, laughing at him, at which he would glare and aim a mock punch at them. The bai's giggled or smiled at him  in passing. The kids around would hold his hand and cross the busy street.

He must have been intent on one of his chores that morning and so missed seeing the passing bike. One moment he was standing, the next he lay prostrate and bloodied on the street. As if one, everyone rushed to his side. The barber, was already dialling the ambulance, the hotel waiter ripping of his shirt to  tie a tourniquet, with a bai helping him. The rest had grabbed hold of the biker, while the traffic policeman took charge of the situation.

He disappeared for some time. Then one day, he was there again, sitting wrapped up in an old shawl, under the watchful eye of the barber. "Kaisa hai, " i couldn't help exclaiming ! "Thik hai" answered the waiter hovering close by.

He just sat there beaming  at me,as the waiter, in sign language explained what i  was saying.. 'gunga behra hai, ma'am, deaf and dumb,' he said. "Oh," i asked, " koi nahi iska ? " (Dosen't he have anyone ) "Hum hain na, ma'am, Iski family. or ye ? Hamari." (We are there no ma'am. His family. As he is ours. )

Kolaveri di..? Don't !

That day i must have got out off the wrong side of my bed. That or just the hot, humid day and my creaky fan. The ceiling one. Breakfast passed off so so. The husband wisely keeping his counsel after seeing the burnt toast, when he raised his head from the papers and saw my grumpy face.

It was the milk that set me off. Simmering on the gas ring, after having boilt over. Unfortunately for her the maid was lounging by it smiling foolishly over a message on her cell. She fled for her life towards the community  tap to wash the utensils, my raging voice following her all the way.

That was the final straw for my teen who struggled out of her bed , poked her face out from the door and seeing me simmering was going to retreat hurriedly in when we all heard the crash.

The entire floor heard it. In fact i was told later that the security thinking that we'd been robbed, came charging up, brandishing his staff, assistant in tow. What had happened was that my maid in a bizzarre transferance of rage, had picked up a fight of her own. At which stage a pitched battle erupted between all the maids outside. In the midst of it all had labored up the stairs, the local milkman with his canister of milk. The maids intent on their warfare startled the cat, who fleeing for her life, got entangled in the doodhwala's legs. The crash that ensued was his milk can crashing to the floor, as gravity did its bit and the poor fellow fell too, can and all, to the ground.

I looked down to see my teen, on the floor where she had collapsed laughing, in between paroxyms, she exclaimed, " Look, what you did now, Ma!"

As for the cat, it was never seen in the vicinity of the building ever again.

Karma

In an age of easily forged friendships, she had only a friend or two. What rankled was that she refused to mingle with the others, girls whom she had known from childhood. Even on picnics she would stay aloof, walking by herself or sitting on her own, content to be by herself. Aside from the perfunctory greeting, she hardly talked with them. 'Touch me not', Ms. hoity toity, were the snide allegations hurled at her by her contemporaries.

Childhood raced by, youth brought into limelight all the eligible  for marriage girls. One at a time they were all spoken for. Then one day, a youth came into her life. It was said that she had rejected a few suitors, or had they rejected her? But this one was different. 'Full of life, confident, ruggedly good looking, he was the antithesis of all that she was. She seemed to join the world, as he took her out and about, enthusiastically showing her off to his friends. The butterfly, it seemed had emerged from the chrysallis. She smiled a lot more, laughed aloud in company. Her eyes shone with happiness finally, and those whom she had ostracised were stunned at the change, but happy for her.

That picnic was so different from the others she had been to in her childhood. They played games with the group , a gang of three young couples ,soon to be married. They took a long walk along the riverside, holding hands. When they returned to the others, he still held on to her hand while she blushed and gazed adoringly at him. If only that day had not ended, night hadden't signalled a return back to home and hearth.

They got into the train, the group still energised enough to joke and laugh. The dour faced men sitting inside either glared or ignored them. As the train rattled along, one man got up. As if on cue so did the others. By now, most of the couples were half asleep, the girls reclining against the manly shoulders of their companions. A creepy feeling, a chill running up her spine made her sit up straight. The men stood towering manacingly over her friend sitting, no sleeping beside her. She screamed and all of them scrambled up to see the girl pulled up  by a man. Thunderstruck the three young boys found themselves facing knife wielding dacoits, one of whom threatened them while the others dragged the screaming girl  towards the door of the now slowing train.

They probably had not expected any resistance from their soft targets, So were unprepared for the ferocity with which the young boy lunged at them. Grabbing hold of the girl's hand he pulled her in with all his might, fending off the dacoits blows, his high on adrenaline body oblivious to pain. In the ensuing din, the dacoits jumped off the train into the darkness beyond, leaving the girl behind. The boys retreated inside hurriedly, locking the door as fast as they could.

We heard about it the next morning. The funeral of the hero, was the most crowded one ever. She sat their, amongst the women, a zombie. He went, and she closed the doors of her world again. The mask that had been her face was back in place, the only difference now was that people understood , and left her alone.

Idyllic times

The children were intent on play. It was 1970, kolkata. The sardar siblings and the bohra kids. Jumping off the steps, clad in the lightest of frocks, the girls often ganged up against the one boy, giggling over his efforts at girlie games. Hide and seek, endless games of hopscotch, skipping ropes whirling in myriad patterns as they competed against each other, who could forget the 'sent a letter to my mother ditties' the mock moharram battles waged against each other with paper swords and bows and arrows ? The parsi neighbours' dogs whose barks added to the general din in the evenings, petting them added thrill to their visits to these almost reclusive people's homes.

The weekend was welcomed heartily, dad would hurry home to be with his family. Sunday evening treats consisted of a visit to the Ghats, after which we would head for a sumptous dinner to a doting grandfathers home. The aroma of fat, succulent kebabs, the famous Allauddin halwas and laddus to die for.

The vacations were spent in Sidhpur, in the welcoming home of grandmother. No queen felt grander than we did in our new frocks as we sallied out amongst the hoi polloi of the mohalla which clustered together and looked on in awe at us as we sallied forth in all our finery, speaking in english amongst ourselves. Some days lonely alleys were sought, as surreptious fires were lit, and mango kernels roasted on them yielded the golden seed which was devoured as a delicacy. Mid afternoons, the roofs beckoned as, armed with books, and the odd  foolhardy, chipmunk creeping up on us, we lay reading, obvlivious to the world around us. Then come nightfall, we would have a hurried dinner and run out to mingle with the same people playing night games of hide and seek. The cold winter nights, the eerily quiet mohallas, each night was an adventure, a thrill, as we darted around leaping nimbly from the stone steps of the houses alongside ours. In the mornings we would go with our grandfather to his clubhouse where we splashed around in the artificial pond  and picked flowers and fruits. The treat unfailingly, was the ice lolly, 'Baraf golas' shich we shlurped down every evening. In the rains, the heady smell of the wet earth filling the senses, miles were walked, chasing the small  red velvetty spiders that emerged. Wether wanderer or ragamuffins every role was played to the hilt and enjoyed.

Back in kolkata, school had to be attended. At 5 plus, the admission was  secured for d nursery. No birth certs or vaccine schedules were neccessary. The students were chinese, christians, muslims, a mixed batch, with whom friendships were forged. We shot back home, the faithful Rickshaw walas waiting patiently to ferry us home. Basketball, throwball, badminton, were games played with gusto. For fun. Glorious were the holidays when one could drown in books, passionately reading every book one could lay ones hands on, begged borrowed,bought. Stamps were collected  and exchanged with ardour.

Board exams were a cinch, our schools readmitting us for the pre university classes.

Looking back, the one thing lacking was the S word. Stress free is the word which can be used to describe that idyllic world.  "No computers, refrigerators, malls, telephones even,  no music systems except the radio, and idyllic? " asks my incredulous teen. " Yes, " i answer. " because there was no fear only a joie de ver, about our existence, an innocence in our worlds which got lost somewhere along the line, as the world strode into the computer age."

  

The Diva

Tall, statusque, elegant. These oft repeated words by a fawning press, best described her. Diva that she was, if She graced a party, it meant that the host was to be counted amongst the elite of society. Her industrialist husband mostly basked in the glory of her aura, an indulgent loving man who recognised her intellect, and the sway She had over people. Besides ? Her image was good for his business too. Stylish She was, but individualistic in her tastes, the trend setter even if She was in her early sixties and a grandmother.

Amongst her close friends She counted the glitterati of the world. Cricketeers, Playboys, playwrites, authors, Hollywood and bollywood greats, often jetted into her home. She espoused many a charity, and with her name backing them, many a fashion house prospered too.

The biggest fahion house in Mumbai was showing their winter collection that night. All eyes turned to the door, as She strode in, husband in her wake, and was shown to the front row reserved entirely for her. Visibly excited, the young model strutting on stage was wearing a creation that was flimsy, but billowed behind her. Turning to acknowledge the doyen of society was not part of her walk, but who could help her instinctive reaction, the tripping of her heels as she careened across the stage, her dress  slipping down her front, exposing far more than was desired. The model lay on the stage transfixed, her predicament bringing on a flood of tears to her eyes as she faced the crowd and the cause of her humiliation.

Swiftly She got up  from her seat. The mesmerised audience let out a collective gasp, as striding up the stage, She whipped off her stole and bending over the hapless girl put it around her shoulders, helping her to her feet and waving her on towards the dressing rooms, in one fluid motion.

The showing that day got a prolonged applause. With a slight smile on her face and a graceful wave of her hand, She left the hall. She had always been the diva, from that day She also became the darling of the press.

The self made man, an ode to a beloved father.

All that he knew was that he was going to make a lot of money when he grew up. His mother told him so every night, when she gave him that one precious glass of milk, which she  wouldn't allow him to share with the others. He was going to be her hero. He was the son who understood her predicament. The predicament of raising four children, when all her husband had was a small sweet shop which just about allowed him to provide the bare neccessties of life. Bare. Everything in those days was bare. cupboards, clothes which were threadbare, stomachs which were bare, empty.

He was the eldest. The responsibilities of a house peopled with three younger siblings, ageing father and hapless mother, he had started shouldering from the age of seventeen, when having passed basic school he migrated to the Big City, Mumbai, in the mid nineties.

He was yet to fulfill his mother's dreams, but he looked every inch the hero. His charisma, the honesty that shone from his eyes, the vulnerability of demeanour, endeared him wherever he went. His half brother, who had meant to exploit him, found himself taking him under his wing. Wings. Thats what he thought he had when he went flying through the streets of Mumbai, delivering the cans and bags of imported eatables his brother dealt in.

The money that he earned, every paise of it, was faithfully sent to his mother and indeed with her prayers he prospered. His never say die attitude took him far. Far away to Ethiopia. Where the promise of more beckoned. However passport issuess saw him deported back to India . He learned along the way that life wasn't always fair, people weren't always unselfish. He bore the knocks that were meted out to him and went on.

He realised that thru him other people had prospered even more, his pretty wife bore him two daughters, no sons. And so he laboured on. The proudest day of his life was the day he sent his aged parents on the longed for pilgrimage of Haj. The saddest day of his life was the day when, in spite of all his efforts to save her, his mother died . the happiest day  of his life was when his beautiful wife gave birth to an angelic daughter after seven long, despairing years of life.He guided his siblings thru their life. They never forgot him in their adversities, always did in their joys, for he was the rock on whom they relied, but took for granted.

His children were the joy of his life. He treasured them all the more because they came to him late in life. The one so pretty she took your breath away, the other, so like him, he never missed the son he never had.

Yes. The journey had been long. Long with myriad hues of love and joy, pain and sadness. But he was happy at last. Happy in the final reckoning. Wasnt that was life is all about.

The Devout Muslim...s

The masjid was so convenient to go to. I mean why would a devout muslim want to pray at home when the masjid was in the mohalla itself ?

The holy month of ramzan was upon them. The days were racing by in a haze of hunger and sleep deprivation, one had to pray the one a.m.prayer, then get up for 'sehri', which was the meal consumed before sunrise.

She was a young bride, buxom and pretty, if simple. Not having attended school ( did it even exist in the early nineties  in rural India when she was a child and a girl at that) she only had a basic religious knowledge which enabled her to say her prayers and read the holy Koran. Prayers moreover, were all that one had, when the husband lived in far away Mumbai, while she and the children stayed back in the village.

Most of her neighbours slept in a tired stupor, or prayed in the comfort of their homes. specially the one a.m. prayers. Who would want to rise at one and go to the masjid, at the unearthly hour ? Specially when the masjid overlooked the graveyard. Only very few intrepid souls of whom she was one.

She awoke with a start. That night, one of her children had been unwell. So she had fallen asleep later than usual. Rising up quickly, she grabbed her prayer mat, undid the heavy doors and hurried off to the masjid. "Oh no!" she thought to herself. "Im so late, people have already finished. The doors are closed." Standing there, she hesitated, "Should i leave?" It was then that she became aware of the hustle and bustle inside. "Ah," she told herself triumphantly," they are still there." She climbed up the few steps, eased the doors open and entered.

She stood at the entrance, her eyes widening at the sight that met her eyes. Standing rooted at the spot, the feeling of gooseflesh on her arms, she stared at the hall in front of her. Dead of winter it was, but the chill spreading thru her limbs, brought tiny beads of sweat on her brow. For standing in the hall, the Empty Hall, she could feel people brushing past her, jostling her, the invisible crowds pushing her ahead, as if the masjid was full. Her ears could hear the sound of running water, the slow hum of prayers resonating within the area for Vuzu, the cleansing ritual before each prayer, the clank of the wooden clogs as if people were coming in. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck, her numbed mind registering twelve chimes.

Her children alwys wondered why there  otherwise pious mother, would never ever go to the masjid for her prayers. They always wondered why she insisted it was too crowded. Specially when it was always near empty.

Mumbai Montage

The lady sat on the seat, eyes shut, leaning back against the headrest. As soon as the train started moving, she awoke. A hand dug deep into a bulbous bag and out came a vada pav. She relished it, totally absorbed in it as if it was a longed for treat.

Behind her a fight erupted between two beggar girls. Collectively heads shot up from all around as tired women, exausted from the days work, the tribulations of travel in the rush hour, turned to survey the scene. The elder of the girls, about thirteen, aimed a punch at the little one who ducked adroitly and darted between the seats evading the blows. A mistimed blow landed on the diner with the vada pav.it flew up into the air then landed between the seats. Mayhem erupted as the lady sprang to her feet, bellowing in rage, as she tried to retrieve the vadapav, then realising that it had fallen under the seat, she too joined in the melee hitting out at the beggar girl. The two suddenly ganging up against the common peril, leapt of the now slowing train, running away as fast as they could.

As the train moved off, i leaned out, just in time to see the two girls, sitting behind a station bench, sharing a sumptous meal of vada pav. Smiling to myself at the girls insouciance and resourcefulness, i turned to look at the angry commuter. Having subsided on her seat, still now and then peering under the seat, she put a hand in the afore mentioned bag, and digging out a bag of bhindi, and a knife started cutting them angrily prepping for the dinner to be cooked at home.

Maid for each other

They sat ahead of us at the local interstate bus stop.
He must have been at least ninety, she mustve been as much.
He was dressed in a white dhoti and kurta, she in a lime green sari.
They were the cynosure of all eyes as they walked in, he almost carried in, she walking slowly behind.
They sat together awaiting their bus, talking occasionally.Now and then she would lean forwards to adjust his clothing, or his legs on the seat. It almost was as if they were alone in the crowded station. Oblivious to all except themselves.

Looking at them my thoughts went to my old uncle and aunt.
She was almost a hundred years old, He had passed the century mark. Had they ever been separated from each other? No one had seen the one without the other.
He was stone deaf, we had to shout ourselves hoarse or write what we wanted to tell him.But when she leaned close and spoke in her soft melodious voice, he understood every word. Seventy five years of togetherness in the age of the seven year itch! She had nursed him  thru two major operations at the age of ninety plus. She would sit by his bedside, her hand unobtrusively in his, answering all the relatives who streamed in to ask after him.

I met him next on the day she died. In her sleep without waking or disturbing him.
Until the time her body was taken away, he sat by her side, his hand tenderly stroking the face beneath the sheet, covering her face.

A sharp noise startled me from my reverie. All eyes were once again turned to the old couple sitting at the stop.
To everyones disgust, the old man had just slapped his wife hard across her face. The old lady, staggerd up from her chair, and shuffled across to a corner, where she wiped a tear, which had escaped from her old eyes down her gnarled, weather beaten face..

Made for each other ? For him she was only a maid, always had been , always would be.  

The BF F.

The day itself had begun badly for her. She had been hauled up from her cosy bed by a mum gone hyper because her alarm hadn't rung. Before she could even protest that she was feeling sick, she was strictly admonished to "hurry up and get dressed "and in her school uniform.

Clutching her small schoolbag and water bottle, sniffling and crying, the tot was bundled off to the bus stop, an anxious mother cajoling and frowning in turn. With a wave of the hand and a hurried "bye sweety" the bus took off towards school.

Once in the class room, she sat morosely, her stomach still hurting, but too  scared of the teacher to say anything. A softly spoken "hi" made her turn to look at the child sitting beside her. A great big tear rolling down her cheek, she told her  about how sick she was, how she had almost missed the bus, everything that had befallen her since morning. Her new found friend listened to her woes and gave her a quick hug as they got up to say their prayers.

An hour later, having had her 'break', her tiffin consisting of a jam sandwich and her favourite cake, she had recovered enough to play with the others, laughing and shouting in glee as she slid down the slide. Her friend a quieter child, had returned to the classroom, looking at the picture books kept there.

Soon enough it was time to leave school. The children stood in an orderly line waiting to board the bus. Suddenly realising that she didnt have her water bottle with her, she turned and ran back to the classroom. Once there she hunted frantically n finally seeing it kept on the cupboard, dragged a chair, climbed up and retrieved it. Dashing outside she ran to the gate, her eyes widening as she saw the bus halfway down the lane. Running after it a little way, she stopped, tears rolling down her face as she realised what had happened. The enormity of it all overwhelming her she sat down on the pavement. The small hand on her back, made her swing around. There standing before her was her neighbour and friend from class. " I waited for you," she explained simply. " Lets ask the watchman to call up my dad. He'll take us home."

Her BF F. Best friend for life. And that was how it started, that friendship for life.

Momzilla

Momzilla ? Godzilla is d famed one, who on earth is a Momzilla ?

Let me enlighten u. She is......

The small pixie-like face glared out at us. She was such a doll dat even the most weary amongst us mums waiting in d doctors' clinic couldnt help smiling at her. All of six months old, about, she was bundled up in a cheery yellow jumpsuit, one dat covered her from tiny toe to silky, spiky hair. An extra baby shawl made sure that she was all snug and warm. This in the middle of the most blistering  summer we'd been experiencing, the A C not withstanding !
A loud Piercing wail from her assured us that her vocal chords too, were very healthy. The wail lengthened into a lusty unending scream, one that had her harried , anxious looking mother on her feet, rocking her vigorously. While the others stared, the mum fussed and shouted at her various underlings, of which she had at least four, trying to quieten the child. Orders flew thick and fast, other little babies, dreading the impending vaccine, set up a copycat cacophony. A few mothers indicated that the baby could be hot, which only elicited a "She's got a severe cold" and a scowl.

The doctor emerged, frowning at the cacophony,d baby disappeared, coterie et all, into the innards of the clinic, and peace prevailed.

Twenty minutes of it, before there was a hustle n bustle from within. All eyes turned to the door as the baby emerged. A completely different one from the one that had gone in. A smiling, happy little thing, nappy and singlet clad, Beaming and gurgling she was led to the changing room..

A small wail which started from within the room, changed to a shrill cry, to a shriek, and all eyes rolled heavenwards as the baby emerged, swathed in all her previous finery, with her entourage and her momzilla, who glared defiantly at the room, bfore striding, mercifully, towards the exit.

Her Brothers Keeper

She stood shivering, the cold wind blowing around her,adding to her miseries. A small cold hand gripped hers tighter, making her realise she had to hurry and find him. Considering that she herself was only twelve, that the year was 1920, that she was standing on the railway station with her little sister and no adult with her, she was a very brave girl indeed.That or she was very desperate. Living in the small town like village where almost everyone knew everyone, coming from a highly respected family,her mind benumbed with the repercussions should someone recognise her, she stared at the waiting train. A whistle sounded somewhere, the sound of which galvanised her. She ran to the train and started hunting frantically. too small to reach thee windows , she shouted out his name. Over and over again. Running onwards and forwards, she called, the tears streaming down her faceFell on the other little face below hers. The little one crying softly herself, wiped them and added her voice to her sister's.

Then all of a sudden there he was standing shame facedly before her, stunned that she had actually come looking for him. Her face lighting up with joy, radiant with relief, she clutched him to her
protectively, the three siblings stood arms wrapped around each other, as the train thundered away, picking up momentum as it raced off into the dusk.

The ashen faced man standing near the entrance had seen it all, the tableux enacted in front of his eyes, as he entered the station:the scream of the little girl, the boy sitting in the window, looking up when he heard it, and leaping off the train at the last minute.

Back home, together they confronted the step mother, whose corporal punishment had driven the rebel to run. The sister in the absence of her father, had donned the mantle and knowing her brother, had raced after him, determined to either fetch him back or join him.

Two days had gone by, they were back at the station. This time it was the excitement that was palpable, bringing happy smiles to the little faces. They were headed for a new life to Mumbai.
Together.