Destined

Does reel life imitate real life ? or vice versa..

She was so vibrant. So full of life. Not that she hadn't had a fair share of the knocks life doles out to  some few of  us. Her son was the elder of her two children. A bright child, if born differantly abled. Deaf and dumb. Her young daughter,a veritable live wire. They went to the best of schools, and caring parents always make a world of difference to  the lives of their young.

I met her when she inaugurated her beauty parlour, within the premises of her building. In partnership with her good friend, it was a roaring success right from the first day. Each time I went to her parlour, I found her aglow with her new found success. Animatedly she would attend to her clients, winning them over with her own charm and beauty. Oh yes. Destiny was indeed kind to her. But maybe it is a crime to be so happy.

A good two months elapsed before I was able to visit the parlour. She was nowhere to be seen. New faces greeted me, and on asking I was told that she was in 'Iddat', the four month long confinement for a muslim widow on the death of her husband. Shocked I went to see her. Her world lay in shreds around her. The ebullient young woman I had known had gone. In her place, sat a small figure, her poise broken, her wide, usually sparkling eyes, full of despair, a world of pain in them. She told me that not only had her husband died suddenly, her daughter had been expelled from school. The child had slowly become so engrossed with the makeovers happening in the parlour, she had lost interest in her studies and failed the year. What with her dad's death, she was shattered and was adamant that she didn't want to go back to school.

This turn of fate, how could it be so cruel. So young, too young for all the burdens she would now have to shoulder, I brooded. When I, an outsider, was so devastated for her, how would she cope, I wondered.

 Time flew, I spoke to her occasionally on the phone, helpless and angry that no one could do more.

Busy with my chores, I was startled when my neighbour, a young girl, burst in thru my door. "Did you hear what happened," she demanded to know. Sweating profusely, in a state of panic, she bliurted out, "She's dead. Murdered ! The lady at the parlour," Sinking on to the nearest chair, hoping that there was some mistake, some horrendous mistake, I heard her out.

She had gone that morning to the parlour, a little early. What greeted her was the sight of blood. Blood that had blazed a red trail, down the stairs. Policemen swarmed all over the place. Later I came to know that indeed she had been murdered. Alone in the morning, she had opened the door, to let in her husband's friend and business partner, someone she trusted. He had been trying to negotiate the sale of a piece of land that she refused to sell. In a frenzied spell of madness, he had hacked her, thirty five times, with a kitchen knife, in the presence of her daughter. She had managed with a last herculean dying effort, to sweep her child out of the door. By the time the benumbed child could fetch help, she was dead.  Coming back to his senses over her inanimate lifeless body, her murderer, knowing he would pay for his crime, had cut his own neck.

With shell shocked grief I heard the sordid saga. Worried about the children, specially her daughter, I learnt that she had been sent to England to her aunts' home. A new life would help, but would her little soul ever heal ? I wondered. How had her destiny run amok like this.

The Picnic

The dark clouds in the sky heralded the coming monsoon. Mumbai's maddening rains. But ah! The first whiff of the rains, bring a song to most hearts, the winds whipping you around, the heady perfume of a parched earth celebrating the oncoming rains, wafting in the air.

The perfect day to go for a picnic I thought, before the onslaught of perpetual rains, and the resulting crazy traffic snarls. Gathering a few eatables and my highly excited four year old daughter, we set off to the verdant zoo. It wasn't as much of a zoo as a botanical garden. How we loved strolling through the winding paths, lined by tall trees, until we reached a small knoll. There we spread the blanket and sat. Locked in our own small world we revelled in our surroundings, the trilling of the birds on the trees and each other. There was no one around to hear the poems and songs we sung loudly together. Too soon it was time for us to leave. My daughter helped gather up our belongings, the small sheet we sat on, the picnic basket, with a few left over biscuits and sandwiches.

Getting out of the gates, I carried my little one as she slept, juggling her weight with everything. Hailing a cab, I got into it . Halfway home, we stopped at a traffic signal. My daughters eyes opened as the driver braked. "Look mummy," she said excitedly. "That boy is having a picnic too." Surprised I looked to see where she was pointing.

There besides the curb, sat a little boy about her age. Sitting on a small piece of cloth, he tugged his meagre belongings towards him, trying to protect them from the crowds rushing by to cross. Beside him was a cradle into which he peered ocassionally, rocking it gently. "Quick mamma," shouted my child. "Give him the basket. " So saying she leaned out, and gave him the biscuits and sandwiches. "Happy picnic," she wished him, as the traffic lights changed, and the taxi moved on.

I hugged her close to me and sat. How could I explain to her that life is never a picnic for these little discards of an inhuman society. 

IF

He stood in front of the mirror, beads of perspiration forming around his head as he concentrated on doing the buttons of his shirt. All the tendons of his one hand strained to accomplish this, the most mundane of things. A soft hand closed around his. Gently taking his hand in hers, she eased it away, and swiftly did the buttons up. Looking into her eyes, looking at the pain in his, they drew together, he lowering his head onto her delicate shoulder as they hugged, the tears in his eyes, hidden from her view.

"Why me, God ?" came the anguished cry from his soul. "Why me?"

Just a week ago, a lifetime ago it seemed to him, he had been his own hyper active self. Short, but dapper, most of the girls he met were charmed by him. But he had eyes only for his beloved, his girlfriend since college, since the first day that they had met. Energised by her presence in his life, he worked hard, long hours, his ambitions soaring as his business prospered, the life he envisaged ahead of him one of happy domesticity with his beloved.

Driving down to Lonavla for breakfast, had been exhilarating. More so, since the previous day, he had met the other man who loved her most in the world: her father. Declaring his intentions towards her, had needed courage, but her genial father had put him at ease immediatly.  "Nothing but the best will do for my daughter, young man," he said. After they had talked for long , he had admitted that she had chosen well.  Carrying the ring with him, he had proffered it to her, her father beaming in the background as she accepted it.

"It's obscene to be this happy," he thought, as the car climbed uphill towards the hill station. Lost in his thoughts, he misjudged the distance between his car and the truck that was attempting to overtake him. He wondered at the sickening crunch, as he swerved and just managed to scrape thru the side of the truck. Braking at the side of the road, the gravel crunching under his tyres, he looked down at his hand, a bloodied stump greeting his terror stricken eyes, "God, " he heard his hoarse voice scream, before he collapsed.

"Come on, darling" her gentle voice brought him back into the present. "We have to go the Doctors'."

"Thank God, for her," he thought. "What would I do without her ?"


The knock on his door was gentle, then why the sense of foreboding, he wondered, as her father walked in. " How are you now ?" was his strained greeting. Without waiting for a reply, he spoke. For a good length of time. Ashen faced, he listened, as his world collapsed around his ears.

"Don't you love her enough to want the best for her,?"

Only after he had left, did he ask the empty walls around him, "What if it had been her, instead of me. ?"   

In The End

He sat stricken. On the floor. With her head in his lap. The woman he loved most in the world ,lay lifeless in his lap, his whole world lay in tatters around him. He had to go call someone, but inside him he knew it was no use. He wanted those precious last moments with her, before the hordes descended.

She was dressed in tennis whites, her brief skirt revealing her shapely legs. Many a young man sighed and lay in wait for her darshan,  as she sailed past, racket swinging from her hands, in the crowded gullies. No less than a prince would woo her, and carry her off to the land of her dreams.

He was so goodlooking, he took her breath away, this suitor. When he sat holding her hand in his and promising her the world, she knew he was the one for her. He was the ultimate. The ultimate Lothario, or so she was to discover after marriage. He believed in total control, and when she resisted him, he hit her into submission. Two children in two years of marriage, couldn't induce her to stay, and so she left, returning to doting, parents, who detested him for ruining her life.

The rest of her life she spent discovering her independance. Teaching became her vocation. Her kids became her world. The years flew, having lost her parents, she now lived with her son, a young man so handsome, most of the girls in college, swooned over him. Her daughter, a shy introvert, married her cousin and moved away.  Fate was not done with her however, her daughter expecting her first child, contracted jaundice. She died, taking her child with her, leaving her heart broken, grieving mother behind. Now she lived only for her son.

The only feeling he had for his father was one of rage and disgust. Never forgiving him for what he had done to his mother, he refused to marry himself. Now thirty, and working with a vengeance, the only happiness in his life was his work.

The room was dimly lit, The cake crumbs, waiting to be dusted off. It was her fiftieth birthday. He had arranged a surprise birthday party for her, but the best surprise had been when he had walked in, having flown many miles across the Pacific to be with her. They sat talking late into the night. She told him how proud she was of him, what a perfect son he had been. In the end, she told him, it had all been worth it. He was all she had ever wanted. He was her hero. Allah had taken a lot from her, but in return had given her a son like him.

The attack struck at midnight. Hearing a faint thud from her room, he awoke and burst into her room. She lay on the floor, where she had collapsed, even in death her hand stretched out to her son. Hewas there for her, until the end.

Who knew from his countenance, the devastation within him, as fiulilling the duty of a son, he buried her. Spent, havoc still raging within him he returned home, as empty as he felt inside. The door bell rang. His buddy, strode in carrying his back pack. "Im here," he said. "Until you throw me out."  

My Closet Friend

Thunderstruck I stared inside the closet. Someone moaned. I realised that, it was me! Hurriedly, I banged the door shut, Taking a deep breath, fortified by a glass of water, I slunk towards the closet again.. Surely, it was a nightmare, and I would wake up.. A vain hope. For there it lay in the closet, a perfectly preserved skeleton.

So, soooo. my luck, I thought bitterly. Curled up on the couch, biting my nails bare, I tried to gather my thoughts.

 Grandmas' home far away from the madding crowds, was what I had inherited, while my siblings got her jewellery and money. With my sisters' encouragement, I had landed in this godforsaken place, planning to tidy it up, and use it as a retreat, from my hectic life back in the city. After having spent the night in mortal fright of spiders, rats, and such like, I had got  up early, determined to clean up.

The first place I attacked was the hall. A huge closet clung to one side of the otherwise bare hall. Dying with curiosity, I had opened it. Readers may now please reread the first paragraph.

 The sound of the bell jangled almost as loudly as my nerves, thru the house. Leaping up in fright, glancing at the cupboard to make sure it was closed, I hurried to the door. Opening the door, I peered out cautiously. "Hi, there" said the ethereal looking creature standing outside, before me. In my entire life I had never been so pleased to see her as I was now. "Can I come in" demanded to know my scatter brained, but extremely street smart , childhood friend, Zara. Seeing my still dazed expression, she pushed me aside and strode in. "Whats' up, " said she. "You look like you've seen a ghost." " Not a ghost.I've a..a skeleton in my closet," I said, wringing my fingers, nervously. "Go on," she said. Without a word I turned towards the closet and flung open the door. The skeleton, having decided it had had enough of being cooped up, tumbled out and fell  on me, I leapt back, and landed on Zara.

Our combined screams must've echoed in the entire hamlet, but then they dont call it sleepy for nothing. No heavy footsteps raced towards my home. The world still slept. I laid the still figure of my friend gently on the couch, and waited, chewing the aforementioned nails to tinier bits. When she came to, we sat staring at each other. "I thought you meant that figuratively, that skeleton in the closet bit.," she said defensively."Let me think" was her command, after she ascertained that I hadn't really murdered anyone. "We'll have to get rid of it." All I could manage was a weak "D..UH.." Now there were two of us on the couch, its creaks ignored, as we thought.

"Forbes," She snapped her fingers. "Eureka, you mean, " I said, laughing drily. "No! No! she exclaimed. "I meant Mr. Forbes, the Science teacher in the school." Seeing my eyebrows shoot up, she explained, " He is your typical  nerd, and very gullible." and then peremptorily " Leave it to me."

We sat in the afternoon, alternating between incredulity and relief, she testing the poor couch to its limits as she rolled about laughing on it. Me ? I was counting the money and still in a trance over the day's happenings.

The skeleton now occupies a place of honor in the science lab, in the village school, admired by a horde of kids. The proud Mr. Forbes stood happily beside it, telling anyone who would listen, how he had always wanted a skeleton for the school lab. That it was a dream come true.

Just goes to show that one woman's nightmare can be another man's dream.
  

    

The Intruder

Kashmir. how exotic the name itself ! This was our first visit, and I stood enchanted looking at the Dal Lake in all its glory. The setting sun had set the waters aflame, yet the aura was one of serenity. The glinting waters, absorbed the rays of the sun, and shone like liquid gold. The wooden houseboat, anchored on the waters bobbed gently as we got on to it. The intricately carved interiors, warmly inviting, glowed with the light of antique lamps. Surely this was fairyland, surely we'd entered a picture postcard !

Soon it was pitch dark, because of Kashmirs troubled politics, a hint of  menace had crept into the chill night. The soft swish of the paddle boats, registered in my sleep fogged mind, how else would the locals get around, I reasoned.

Day dawned, bringing with it gentle sunshine. The chill air on the skin was envigorating. Our host was a suave, handsome man, in his thirties, I reckoned. The perfect host, he plied us with a sumptous breakfast. Loathe to leave my pristine surroundings, I bid the others good bye, and settled down with a book. The day passed pleasantly enough. The master of the boat, courteously seeing to my comforts, plying me with kashmiri chai, even buying me flowers from a vendor passing by with a boatload of flowers. Captivated by the beauty of my surroundings, and the genteel lovely people around me, I couldn't help reflect on the troubles these people faced the year around. How could this land be the domain of the mujahedeen, the terrorists ? How could they inflict torture, kidnap and murder on their own people ?

Rasul, my host found me lost in thought and striking up a conversation about these feelings with him was easy. Beneath that cool exterior, I discovered he seethed with bitterness for his homeland. Passionately he extolled their troubles, faltering business's, being caught in a cleft stick, where two countries fought for dominance over their lands.  Their battle for survival was indeed grim.

Over the next few days, we explored this land of the Gods. It was easy to see why two countries would fight for dominance over this beautiful valley. After all hadn't men coveted beauteous women from time immemorial. Hadn't great wars been fought over the sensous Cleopatra, the exotic Helen of Troy. Kashmir was both. Sensously beautiful and mesmerisingly exotic.

Drifting down the Nagin lake in a shikara, I pondered over these questions. The Nagin lake glittered black, the sky above  shone vermillion, its hues, the bewildering array of beauty around me, had me in its grip. The soothing lap lapping of the oars on the still waters created a vivid son et lumiere in my head. Somewhere a boatman played a flute, the sweet sound, balm to my ears, when we heard it. A flock of birds rising as one, flew instantly towards the sky. The gun shot reverberated across the lake, the magical trance in which the river held us captive  lay shattered.  My first reaction was of outrage. In a moment of madness, I leapt up, shouting at the man holding the blonde girl, in the shikara ahead, by the hair. "Stop that," I found myself screaming.  Startled the man, let her go and nimbly leaping into our shikara, confronted me. Petrified, I stood rooted to the spot as he thrust his face close to mine. "Kyun, maut se khelne ka shauk hai, " he mocked.( You like to play with death) " Jawab do" he demanded. " she's an outsider, in my land. I can do what I like to her. " The madness must've still been upon me, for I replied, " Yes, she is. But you are an intruder, in your own land, your motherland. Else why  would you violate her and her people !"

For a moment he looked as if he would shoot me. His eyes blazed into mine. "Brave ho. Isliye jaan baksh deta hun, " he said. Then he was gone, swallowed by the fast approaching darkness.  

A Feline Story

Without a doubt, she was the diva of the campus, Queen of all she surveyed. God help anyone who poached on her territory. She was the campus cat of the college. Rich black, was her body, and wickedly green shone her startling eyes. Most days she was to be found sunning herself right in the middle of the stairs leading to the college. Students had to deferentially wend there way around her or else..! Once a fresher made the mistake of stepping over her supposedly sleeping form. In a trice she was up and snarling, the fresher retreated, but she refused to forgive, or forget. For the next two  days, she would snarl and chase him round and round the various groups clustered there, much to his mortification, and to the merriment of  his friends. When hungry, she would stalk to the canteen, and fixing a hapless student with her eyes, she would lithely jump up to the table, and tail in air, stalk back to the stairs, taking his meal with her.

Why was she tolerated I wondered. The security man enlightened me, when I enquired of him.

It had been raining heavily that day. The school clerk saw her huddled outside the college, wet and bedraggled. An animal lover, he carried the damsel in distress to the canteen, fed her with warm milk,  and left her in the care of the cook. Later on, during the day, the clerk emerged once again carrying a parcel of money to  be deposited in the bank. Unfortunately, lying in wait for him had been two thieves. As he juggled his umbrella with the parcel, they  mugged him,grabbed the money and turned to flee, when a black ball  of  fury landed on them. Putting her claws to  good use, so went the story, she had them writhing in pain on the ground in moments. The security man did the rest, the cat was proclaimed a heroine, and fame had since gone to  her head.

Sufficiently awed, I went to  confirm the story with the clerk. He guffawed and said" All true, that story, except that the thieves tripped over her as they fled, and that enraged her. You've seen what happens when someone dares to  tread over her." Indeed I had.

An Awesome Experience.

One of the mantras of the Now Generation is 'Awesome'. Like when my teen avidly watching 'The Crib', a programme where a sixteen year old american leads the viewers over her plush home, exclaims 'Awesome', in mouthopen awe. Like when the better half views the underwear I inadvertantly colored pink in the wash exlaims sarcastically 'Awesome'. Like when I rush to answer the phone, and tripping over the Bai's carelessly dumped handbag, land on her double bent form, and groan in anger 'Awesome.' You name the situation, we have a suitable awesome for it. Behold that fateful day.

It was the last sunday of the month, and we had tickets for the  latest highly awaited 'Harry Potter'movie. Just then, her grandfather announced that, as a special treat, we were going for his friends' Eightieth Birthday party, at the Land's End Taj, Bandra. Loath to break his heart and refuse, the kid muttered 'awesome' under her breath as we found ourselves wending our way thru heavy traffic to the other end of town. At short intervals one heard the muttered under-her-breath bitter 'awesome'.

The age of the youngest person at the party  according to her was seventy. She sat gloomily staring in space, while the birthday 'boy' cut his cake which was in the true sense of the word awesome. Rich chocolate, with strawberry mousse inside. 'Salman khan's dad is here, ' announced my husband. About to say the highly loaded 'a' word, she felt my glare, and changed it to  'great'. Dinner had started, the food was not awesome, which added to the kid's gloom. 'Salman Khan' just walked in, came from my husbands' end. The bolt of electricity had the entire room well, electrified as people abandoned dinner to  greet the star, have their pictures taken with him or just plain ogled at him.

A hushed "Awesommme" from behind reminded me of my kids' presence. Dying for a closer look, we joined the clustered guests around him. Urging her to talk to him, my shy one raced away, too awed to do so. His mum, the graceful 'Helen' seeing her reaction called upon Salman, who turned and beckoned her near. Enveloping him in a hug, the pix, captured for posterity, the kid was beaming for the rest of the evening, grandpa turned into a hero, and she was a hit in school the next day.

My poor wearied ears sorely tried, the 'A' word was banned in my house for the next few days.  

The loner

Destiny's child. Nope. That was  not him. He was short, dark and hardly spoke. When he did he stuttered and lisped. Ridiculed, he had learnt to blend with the background. To add to his woes, he was the elder son of his father, a man of modest means,who had died soon after he completed school. The only things brilliant about him were his smile and his mind.

He was, now at the age of nineteen, the man of the house, with an old mother, two younger sisters and a brother, looking to him for support, financial and emotional. The only thing in his favor, was that he worked hard, very hard. Maybe if he had the means, he would have had a college education, and a good job. But alas, those dreams were buried with his father.

Thrust into the world of hardnosed businessmen, his acumen lay in accounts. There too, however, because of his diffident persona, the only employment he got was with the city miser, who worked him hard and long for the mere subsistence pay he gave him. Still he toiled on. Most of his pay, took care of his family's needs. It was not in his nature to complain over his lot. He didn't have the time for it.

Then he fell in love. The girl was his sister's best friend. A sensitive, good looking girl, she came from a well to do home. Her reluctant father took convincing, but they were soon married. Their home, in the poorest section of town, was on the third floor. But they lived on cloud nine. Their belief in each other hardy.

He took up double the amount of work than before. Nights, they would work at accounts, and come morning, he would help her fill  water from the municipal tap on the street. Then they would cook together their meal for the day. Growing in stature, and confidence, he prospered slowly. No work was too menial. Together they made cards, and scandalised the community by selling them outside the local masjid, during the holy month of Ramzan. His smile and gentle mien, endeared him  to many. Shaking off the yoke of the miser, he started off on his own. Selling hardware by day, and writing accounts by night.

There joy knew no bounds, as they welcomed first one, then another son into the world. Soon they left the city, for greener pastures in the fast developing city of Banglore.

They had now entered the city of their dreams. One heard that  they had built a palatial home and sent their children abroad for studies. The connection between us, his cousins in law, became distant as he scaled the heights of his dreams and ambitions.

I went to meet him after a gap of twenty years. Sitting in the ornate sitting room, I was reflecting on life when he walked in. Greying at the temples now, dressed in a suit, a lot had changed about him. The humility had given way to arrogance. His discussions on business in Kolkata were high handed. His denouement of that city vociferous. His wife, my cousin, sat silent, occasionally, he would issue commands of the domestic kind, ( ' I want my laptop, its in the bedroom.') A weariness in her demeanour left me nonplussed. Cutting short my visit, I left his home.

He had colonised the seventh heavens. He now resided in the Ivory Tower which he had made for himself.. Destiny's child had lost his destination.  

The Ghost Writer

His worst nightmare was coming true. The only craft he knew, he was losing. Writing to him was like food and water. His being depended on the fact that he wrote. Justifiably, his books sold. Though he did not limit himself to one genre, mystery thrillers, were his forte.

The day had begun like any other. Impatiently, he went thru the morning chores and rituals, as if sharpening a pencil before drawing a sketch, his mind caught up in different directions his writing would take that morning. Soon enough he was seated at his desk, as was his wont, waiting for the inspiration to strike, the flow of adrenaline already building up, as he sat on the computer, his fingers flying over thee keyboard, trying to  keep up with the dictates of his  mind.

He had been seven when he had started writing, the passions within him finding expression as he wrote over the years. Poems, journals, historical fiction, his ouvre grew formidable over the years. Now he was seventy, living alone, his life peopled with his characters. Until now.

Teeming with ideas, his character etched deeply in his mind, he wrote. The book was almost complete, the murderer sorted out, when his hands stopped typing. Impatiently, he pulled away from the computer, his thoughts racing in myriad directions. Drawing close again, he wrote feverishly, paused and erased the entire paragraph. Again he agonised over the ending, changed a few words, in his head, then typed unseeingly, almost. Then erased again. Morning stretched into  noon, then night.

Entering the cottage, his housekeeper paused. There was no sign of him . usually he would be seated at the breakfast table impatiently awaiting her. She found him hunched over the computer in his study, head held in his hands.

The doctor led him  away forcibly, disregarding his protests, and pronounced that he needed rest or else he would  collapse. Sedated, he slept a deep disturbed sleep. When he was better, he ventured near the computer, but found himself staring blankly at the screen. Writer's block. His entire life he had never faced the agony which he did now. Days passed as he avoided the room itself, the computer anathema to his sickened mind.

"Hello, Clark, how are you. How's the book coming along." his publisher walked in to his bedroom, bemused at the sight of one of the most prolific writers of his times, lying inert on his bed, his eyes closed. Sitting up, Clark pointed one weary finger at the computer that had now been shifted to his room. "There it is. I cant seem to complete it. Take it away. I can't bear to see it anymore. Im losing my mind." The alarmed publisher sat down, picking up the proofs and reading them as he sank on to the chair.

Absorbed in the book, he read, until he came to the very end. "The best yet, unbelievable ending. They are going to love it," he exclaimed. "What the hell do you mean ? It's incomplete" Clark was  shocked. " Read it," commanded his friend. And indeed it was. "But..But I haven't been able to.."

Just then his housekeeper entered. Admonishing him she said, " You know you have to  rest. I heard you typing all thru the night, it just isn't good for you."

Thru her eyes.

Sunshine. Sunshiny smiles and happiness were the things we associated with her. At her age she was an oddity. Where other grandma's were a mass of aches, pains and unsolicited advice, she was the child amidst us. Like if  we were carrying heavy bags, she would offer to carry them for us! Like if we were bunking college to go see a movie, she would cover our backsides for us,telling the parents that she had sent us on an errand! She thoroughly approved daring necklines ( 'think how they'd look on us. I wish i was forty years younger.') She thought low waist jeans were cool, and tatoos hot.

Surprisingly, she was the one to whom everyone turned if they had problems of the emtional kind. With her positive and contemporary outlook, youngsters loved and trusted her more than they did their own parents. Very independant, she lived alone in our small hometown, visiting us sometimes in Mumbai.

On one such visit,  I took her for a walk to Marine lines and the promenade there. But first we had to travel by train. Getting on was not a problem, getting off, the crowd had built up. Keeping her ahead of me, I managed to push us both off the train, in the face of the oncoming crowd. Turning around, I saw gran trying to help a woman, hanging precariously, up thru the overcrowded door. Holding her by her backside, gran pushed ! The woman landed inside, and then only did gran accompany me.

 On the promenade, as we were walking along, there appeared a scooterist negotiating traffic with three children and his buxom wife perched on the seat and clinging on for dear life to her children. Before I could stop her gran charged ahead shouting," Taxi !" The man, gave her a dirty look, from above the head of the youngest kid and sailed on. Gran remarked merely that maybe we needed scooter taxis in Mumbai, since they could carry more that the mandatory four people in four wheeler cabs.

On our way back, I was leading her across the road, when she stopped in her tracks, went back, and returned, leading a young blind man by his cane. "Thank you ma'am. I would've missed my train, if you hadnt helped."  said the man.Ashamed to be part of the impatient teeming hoards rushing by, I mulled over the paradox. An old woman had helped a young man cross the road.


That was my gran. The one who lighted up lives wherever she went.

The Renunciation

The mother knelt. Clad in white from head to toe. She looked down upon her son, lying in her arms. A youth in full bloom, his handsome face reflected a strange serenity, that belied the trickle of blood that flowed from his head to his chin.

The life may have ebbed from his body, that handsome body that had borne so much pain, such anguish with so much grace and strength, but he looked as if at any time he would rise and gather his suffering mother in his arms, wiping the grief from her face with his hands, as only a son can.

I stood there as if turned to stone myself. The tears running down my face were witness to the fact, that there can be no  greater calamity a mother fears, than the death of a young son. That helpless, hapless mother, so vulnerable, yet strong enough to hold his loin cloth clad body in her arms. That son, a prophet by destiny, born for greatness, great sacrifice.. But all that mattered at that point of time was that he was a son. Her son. And that she held his dead body in her arms, his limbs stretched out across her knees as she crouched over him. And to portray this heart rending scenario in stone, with so much clarity, was a monumental thing in itself. Only Michael Angelo could bring out the grace in grief that shone on Mary's face, as she held the crucified Jesus in her arms. Only the Pieta, housed in the precincts of the Vatican, where now i  stood rapt and transfixed, could evoke the adulation of the many pilgrims clustered around it.

There she sat, the mother, I remembered. In her arms was her young son. The grief within her was like a dam waiting to burst, and burst it did. The wail that arose from some deep recess of the heart, froze my blood, as I heard it. She mourned not only his death, but his life. All the things that normal children did before their  mother's eyes, which his disabled body wouldn't allow him to do. She had shielded and loved him all her life. The mother and child complete in themselves. Even as his body grew his mind was still at the stage where he needed her for everything, from food to bodily functions, to security and love.

Now, he was no more. The serene innocence of his face shone through the white shroud that covered him.  Beside him sat his mother, alone, freed, but carrying the burden of her grief..

The Pieta, enacted in front of my eyes.

The Irony

The hospital bed was hard. The hospital in which she had been admitted, in emergency, a far cry from the upscale one into which she had been registered by her gynoecologist.  As if any of that mattered.

All that did matter was the baby she had just lost. The third one. Like all her sisters before her, this infant too had succumbed. Along with her lay shattered all the happy dreams, all the hopes that her parents had woven around her. Not that the mother was alone. Her own grief was heightened when she saw the hurriedly wiped tears glistening in the eyes of all her loved ones who were trying to console her. The haze of pain around her lay like a deep fog enveloping her. Physical, mental, emotional. Her traumas were many and lying exposed, even the hospital sisters around her, formed a protective barrier,unwilling to let visitors see so vulnerable a woman, it broke their hearts.

The day passed. Night was perhaps more merciful. It allowed her caretakers to ply her with medicines, drugs that would close her unseeing eyes and put her to sleep. Mask her pain from their eyes, obleviate her despair. The nurse on duty gave a sigh of relief as her pain filled eyes closed and she fell into slumber.

The cry awoke her. She was instantly awake. Surely it was a dream. But no. The persistant cries of the infant seemed never ending. The nurse beside her lay asleep, as she struggled to her feet. Painfully, an arm clutched to her stomach, her stitches raw, she went, pulled magnetically towards the direction of the sound emanating from next door.

The infant lay in its crib. The mother oblivious to its cries, with her back to the baby, slept the deep sleep of a mother who had been relieved of her burden after nine months. Nestled in the intruders arms, held safely against her breasts, instantly the baby was quiet. She stood their savouring the feel of it. That tiny, helpless bundle of humanity, trembling in her eager arms. And so they stood. the hurting, bereaved mother, the infant of the uncaring one, each balm for the other's soul.

" I heard about you, you are next door right ?" said the voice from the darkness. "I wish you could keep her. I have four more at home. All girls. My husband wont relent until he has a boy. But it is against his ego to surrender this poor little thing, for whom I have neither the time nor the love." She laughed cynically." Allah's human too, do you think? Instead of your room, this baby came to mine."

Till death do us part

My earliest memory was that of a wetness, spreading across my side of the bed. It was my sister again. Her incontinence had me up that and almost every other night. Why ? Oh why?! had Allah burdened me with a twin. I hated her as much as I loved her, but I couldn't for the life of me, tolerate her.

Don't get me wrong, she was the sweetest of sisters, willing to share and easy to boss. But she was a shadow I could'nt get rid of. Babyhood went in getting used to having her with me constantly. You name it ? We shared it ! From crib to clothes, from baths to boyfriend, on facebook only, since we were moslems, and not really allowed to  mingle, we shared it all. Bitterly Iwould say out aloud, "till death do us part," and she would repeat it like a vow after me.

A typical day for me, started with the feeling of being weighed down. Yes, again, she had rolled onto my side of the bed. Pushing her off, I would turn off to sleep some more. But no. She wanted us up  and off, or we'd be late for school. Mornings were when she made life miserable for me, nagging me until everything, ablutions, baths, uniforms, breakfasts et all, were done, and we reached school.

Because we were twins and in the same class, she would still be behind my back. Shared benches, tiffin boxes, lessons, friends! Oof, I was sick and tired of her, before we had even reached puberty. And then we got our periods. The parents went thru hell as they put up with my daily tantrums. Sigh, yes. I was the nightmare teen, and I hurt everyone and fought with everyone on a daily basis. This was until the day my long suffering sister, was admitted to hospital with severe tonsilitis.

Seeing her so sick shocked me into docility. The rebel in me was finally reined in. Life, however continued to be difficult. But I had realised, that it was my fate to be her twin, and that the more I made life miserable for both of us, the more difficult life was for everyone. The shrew had finally been tamed.

College was better, because I was studying my favorite subject History, and I discovered the world of books. From studying Shakespeare, the world of drama opened up to me. I longed to be an actress, my encouraging, loving audience, my sister also  got enthralled and carried away with me and my dreams and fantasising. The best period of our lives, we lived,ate and slept theatre.

For our seventeenth birthday, our parents threw us a surprise birthday party, a come-as-your-favorite-shakespearean-character. That day was the happiest as also the saddest day of our lives. After the guests had left, my sweet Laila, my sister, collapsed.

As we rushed to  hospital, Doctors, insisted that we be hospitalised immediatly. It couldn't be put off anymore, they insisted. WE ? Yes, we. You see we were conjoined from the head from birth. Now the do or die moment was upon us. Either we separated and died or didn't and died too.

As we were being rushed into the theatre, the operation theatre, we reached across the tourneys and held hands, her trusting, childlike eyes looked into mine,"Till death do us part, darling" I whispered. Her faint reply, "Till death do us part" was the last thing I heard before my eyes closed.  Forever.

The Miracle

He was defeated. Of that he was sure.

On the wrong side of thirty, the man was lean, short and wiry,like the rest of his ilk. Clad in shorts and a torn tee, his 'working' clothes, he was a 'paati', as daily wage labourers are so realistically called, in Mumbai. The paati was the outsized cane basket, he carried on his head. His work place were the markets of Mumbai, where he stood waiting for hire. The paltry ten and twenty Rs. that he earned for each time he was hired amounted to two hundred when he was very lucky, which most days he was not. Ironic that those who could afford to buy sack fulls of grain and produce, could not carry them, and vice versa.

He was an illegal migrant, from Bangladesh, uprooted by massive floods, who had wended his way to Mumbai with his son, the only surviving member of his family. The twelve year old, wide eyed and scared, tagged along with his father on his daily grind. They survived like countless others, abandoned by humanity, living from day to day, bereft of  basic neccessties, dignity even. Until...

The rains in Mumbai are merciless. Undiscriminating and relentless, they sweep before them every vestige of life, specially of those who are homeless. Holding plastic sheets above his head to protect the goods he carried, while being soaked to the skin himself, the 'paati' still persevered.

 That day his son had woken up burning with fever. Someone suggested he should take him to the public hospital. Carrying the inert child in his arms, he waited his turn as the teeming Que before him inched ahead in the OPD. Anguished, he tended to him until finally the overworked doctor examined him and pronounced " Malaria". The next week had rushed by in a haze, as he exhausted his reserves, the child hardly showing signs of improvement. The doctor gave him a list of medicines which the hospital would not  provide. But after working night and day, and surviving on tea he  only reached the point of exhaustion, still unable to earn the sum of two thousand he needed for the child. The resident cynic suggested he take him to the Dargah at Haji Ali. Maybe Allah would do what Doctors couldn't. Maybe a miracle would save him.

 It rained hard and heavy that night. The gloom in his heavy heart was matched in full measure by the weather outside. The father and his child lay outside the Dargah, in the sheltering confines of the bus stop. It was dawn before, his tormented heart allowed him to sleep. The hand on his  shoulder shook him awake. Bounding up in fright, he saw before him a  brawny youth, who was holding out a wad of notes. Disbelieving, he stared, as three others emerged from behind, waking up all the others who lay around him, handing each one the same amounts. " Bhai ka birthday, hai. Dua dena " the polished voice commanded. They turned around to see the heart throb star of many films, sitting in his Jeep smiling at them.

The star with a heart.  The miracl had been wrought. Jis ka koi nahi, uska Khuda hai yaaro, he had sung in a film. Those who have no one have God on their side. Indeed.   

The Mixed Breed

There were all sorts congregated there. The women chattered away, in groups, while the children played raucously on the grounds. The society was fortunate enough to have  a park, which the members put to good use, by installing swings, slides, a sand pit for the very small. The only singular thing that distinguished it was that all the residents were muslim, bohra muslim at that.

That day, as was their wont, the children were busy playing. The twelve year olds were singing rhymes as they jumped rope. Suddenly a voice rang out loudly, grabbing everyones' attention, " Who are you ?" demanded the shrill voice of the chid. "You aren't allowed to play here!" Conversation came to a halt as the women turned to look at the invader. A child  of eleven about, stood  surrounded by a curious crowd of children. She was small, slender. Fair of skin with jet black  straight hair framing her face. She was very pretty and obviously chinese of origin, her narrow eyes betraying her genes." I am too", she answered bravely. "We live here too."

Sensing the awkwardness, one of the mothers stepped up to the children and urged them all to start a game together, shushing the belligerent one who  had challenged the new comer. As play resumed, there were two groups, one consisting of the chinese girl with her twin and their little sister, the other of the rest of the children, who studiously avoided them.

From her balcony above, the chinese lady watched the scene below. Anguished she turned to her  Bohra husband, behind her, and said," Must they pay the price for being different all their lives?"

A month passed. The noise of happy laughter resonated from below, as the chinese lady looked out of the balcony. The children were playing Blind Man's Buff, and her litttle ones were amongst them, their shouts resounding around the playground, as they ran around with gusto. They were the most sought after and popular, these days, the others waiting outside their door for them to finish their homework and join them. Maybe, she thought, it helped that they were different.It made them go the extra mile, sharing willingly their toys and food, being kind and helping the others with their homework..

The Master

The old man stood, a little behind the shoulder of his beautiful daughter, the countess. Clad in regal red robes with a gold border, he was the count, aged now but obviously a man to the manor born. His usually stern face, the deep blue eyes shining thru, now wore a wondrous expression, as from behind her, he looked on at the face of the infant cradled in its mother's arms. The more discerning, saw the tiny tear that had escaped from his eyes and now lay nestled in the groove of his aristocratic nose and his lined cheeks.

Hurriedly, he turned away, towards the windows, brushing his cheeks with his sleeves. His thoughts went to the day his daughter, his only child had married her childhood sweetheart, a common soldier,a good ten years ago. Love for her had won over his opposition to the match, his wish to keep her happy, over riding all the opposition that he had faced.

The sadness that had lay in his heart when year after year passed and she stayed barren, his yearning to hold her child in his ageing arms,he had hidden from her. The grateful couple's love bordering on reverance for him, helped him to bid patience to his bleeding heart as he had stood  at the same winndows surveying his lands stretching out as far as the eye could see.Who, he wondered would eventually defeat his formidable army and usurp his lands ? Today, he was a happy man. the vigil of many years had borne fruit, his grandchild lay in his mothers arms, a robust healthy child, crying lustily.

"Hey mum! Come on." shouted my daughter as she raced past, " You have to  see the Mona Lisa." Snapped out of  my reverie, i went, pulled along by my excited child.. My only child, born after twelve years of married life. But my eyes stayed glued to the Botticelli, the majestic painting that had drawn me to it magnetically, even amongst all the treasured paintings, housed in The Louvre. This was a painting that captured the imagination, swept you away with its ethos, forced you to stand before it and wonder at the angst on the protagonists face.

Mona Lisa's smile i remember, but what was real for me, what persists in my mind's eye is the tear on the old man's cheek.

The Initiation

It was my first time. Since I'd come to Mumai city, i'd heard a lot of tales , mostly horror, about the subarban trains. So there i was a novice, huddled on the subarban platform, awaiting the train to CST main. What had I been thinking, I told myself. From the chatter of the Mob of women clustered around me, I gathered that one had to be nimble to get aboard. Like a goat readying to jump off a cliff, like a person readying to walk , no pushed ! off the plank into shark infested waters, I tensed as the train drew near. Whoosh! the breath left my body, as I was carried aboard with the wave of humanity climbing in, even as i was at the last minute changing my mind about getting aboard.

Too late! Like a fish caught in a waterfall, I found myself caught up and pushed into the nothingness yonder. I plunged ! I lunged! N when i opened my eyes, there I was, standing among the sabre tooth tigers, I mean daily commuters. Standing ? If  a plank  nailed onto a wall stands, if a sardine clings onto the tin its canned in, stands, then yes, I stood. Making myself as small as possible, carefully avoiding my neighbours elbow, which was strategically jammed in to pierce my eye if I budged so much as an inch.

Suddenly there was a lot of space around me. Bewildered, happy I stretched my cramped limbs, and ducked ! as two tigers settled a territorial battle, verbally clawing each other to shreds, fangs bared. The rest had hastily moved aside as the threat of fisticuffs became all too real. There I was, like the afore mentioned goat, only now I stood petrified like the bait, between  the tiger and the hunter.

A kindly hand reached out, just as an ill timed push threatened to propel me straight outside the door, of the faast moving train, and plucked me away from the fracas. "Where get off," asked a kindly old lady, my saviour ! "M...M..Masjid," I stuttered. "Next station then," she replied. Her eyes locked with a woman in front, an unspoken command passed, and I found myself being passed forward, the pillow in passing the parcel, was my thought as I neared the door and the train the station. Whoosh! There we go again, I thought, as Mount Vesuvias erupted, and like the smooth flowing hot lava, I was deposited on the platform.

Yes! i had travelled by subarban rail at peak hours ! and lived to tell the tail, turn tail ? No! Tale. 

The Witness

It was a pious day in the arabic calender. A young muslim bride, she was fasting that day. Those were trying, testing times. The Babri Masjid had been destroyed by Hindu fanatics, egged on by the greatest villians of our times, politicians ! In the aftermath, riots had erupted all over India.

Mumbai, that most cosmopolitan of cities, had shown its ugly side. The deprived and seething slums had seized the oppurtunity, to raid and loot the vulnerable middleclass, enriching themselves with the spoils of the riots. Where people of all classes and states had existed together, albeit in uneasy harmony, there was hatred and murder as hindus and muslims bayed for each others blood.  Life as they knew it, calm and peace as they knew it, lay shattered as people imprisoned themselves in their homes, venturing out only when provisions and food forced them to.

She stood on her prayer mat, saying the afternoon prayers, in her room overlooking the usually bustling cacaphonic streets, that now had the eerie calm of a graveyard. The silence without was in deep contrast to the turmoil that lay over peoples' hearts, these days. Her husband was asleep in the bedroom within.

 Immersed in her prayers she nevertheless heard it: that strange gurgle. Hackles rising, goosebumps springing on her arms, she rushed to the window, as a bloodcurdling moan from the streets below, permeated every pore of her being. Grabbing her from  behind, clamping his hand on her mouth, her husband  managed ,just in time, to stifle the anguished, strangled cry that rose from deep within her.

On the street below, lay a young man. Crouched over him, a butcher's knife poised over the throat that he had just slit, was the baker, that friendly youth who sold  her bread everyday. As if in slow motion, he rose, her terrified, dilated eyes saw him wipe the knife nonchalantly on his victims trousers. From the shadows behind, emerged a second figure. Systematically, they emptied his pockets, then holding the now dead young man by his legs, they dragged him a little distance away, leaving a trail  of blood behind him, onto the middle of the main road. Rooted to the spot she watched, as they flung a bucket full of water over the bloody trail, erasing most of it.

The memory of that day she would carry to her grave.

Hiding behind the curtains, she kept the vigil. The body lay inert. A young man, someone's son, husband, father had been lost. Brutally murdered for no fault of his own, except that he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

 Months later, when normalcy was restored, she often went to buy bread. The perplexed, vexed baker wondered why, his once regular customer, never once ventured near his shop ever again.

Dust thou art..

They stood outside her house. Two girls, about five and six years of age, and a boy of about three. Their mother who accompanied them, was a beggar who lived under that great umbrella, the J J flyover. She was the harridan of the building, a widow staying alone. The neighbours generally minded their own business, all except her. So when the kids came to live with her, there was disbelief, at first, followed by indignation that she was rearing not one or two, but three beggars in her one bedroomed home.

Eventually it was realised by all that the kids doubled as unpaid, underfed house help. Where the neighbours were constantly tormented by the vagaries of the 'bai', mumbai's notorious house helps, she lived like a queen, served hand and foot by the kids. They too had a roof above their heads and a place to call home.

The years passed. The girls grew from scraggy, emaciated kids to comely teens, who had started schooling, They would patiently do their homework sitting outside her home, when she was away. on festive occassions they would emerge dressed in their finery. She would sit and pore over their homework painstakingly.Even the neighbours would greet them occasionally. The scornful sneers gave way to benign looks. She told anyone who would listen that she had adopted them. That, more than her own family, they were her own.

It was early morning, that fateful sunday, when we awoke to a row. The neighbours all gathered as the kids wailed and beat their heads. She had suffered an attack early morning, and was no more. They came, all her prodigal kin, if only to assert their rights over her worldly belongings. The mother of the children stood shell shocked, holding her kids close, consoling them, looking bewildered and frightened at this sudden turn of events.

For sometime afterwards, all of them disappeared. Guiltily almost the neighbours asked each other about them, but no one knew their whereabouts.

It was raining heavily, when my car stopped at the intersection. Pitying the plight of the poor rabble huddled under the flyover, i thought isaw a familiar face. Peering into the gloom, I recognised them, the mother huddled with her kids, shrinking back into the plastic which protected them from the merciless rain.

A Thing of beauty

The lane was dingy.The shop small. But its beauteous display demanded attention and got it. Like a painting it hung. Majestic. Made of crushed silk, its muted pink offsetting its gold border, all five meters of it was sheer magic. One could stand and imagine it on a maiden statusque. The drape of it, giving her body a mesmerising allure akin to the beauty of a waterfall. Oh, that saree. On different days one could see different devotees, working women, students, young and old, even the odd beggar, stopping awestruck in admiration before it. Life with its myriad problems, came to a halt, as differnt women stood before it with stars in their eyes.

Why then, i wondered was it never sold ? Was its beauty so intimidating, modest clients didnt even dare to ask its price ? That day, I resolved to find out.

"Not for sale,ma'am," said the salesgirl, almost apologetically. When i persisted she told me to meet the owner of the shop the next day. Intrigued I left, certain that a poignant tale of tragedy awaited me. Maybe it was the rememberance of a sweetheart who was no more. But then why would it be hung in display ?

The next day, I was there at the appointed time. At the counter stood a woman of about fifty. Dressed in a saree herself, she was of a petite frame, dignified, and assessing me with her piercing eyes. "That saree is not for sale." she reiterated when i asked her about it. Sighing, she sat down and beckoned me to  sit. "It was made for my daughter. For her marriage ceremony." Seeing the questioning look in my eyes, she sighed once more. Opening her drawer, she took out a photograph. The young girl who looked out at me stood arms akimbo, staring defiantly at the camera. She stood tall, handsome, proud, an amazonian queen.

Seeing the curiosity on my face, she went on, "she lives in the states, with her American partner. We are Jains. My husband's family was ostracised by the community for many years, before they forgave us her sins. The price was excommunication for her, a lifetime of anguish for us. You see, she is our only child. "

"Now that saree hangs there, i cant bear to part with it. It is a memento of my child that i can officially keep with me."

A thing of beauty, a sorrow forever..

The Butterfly Garden.

The butterfly garden. Flowering shrubs attracting flocks of fluttery butterflies. The domain theirs. Hence fearless. Proudly displaying their colours. Disdainfully ignoring the visitors.

The beautiful young girl. Suitors aplenty. The world at her feet. Spoilt by rich doting parents, showing her off in her finery. Only the moneyed were allowed to woo her.


The Greenhouse in which it flourished. The eggs clinging to the underside of the leaves. The  translucent shimmery pupa from which emerged the young.


The Palace to which she arrived a radiant bride. The beauteous offspring she bore her doting husband. The world was her oyster as she went from strength to strength.


Secure within the walls of the lovely garden it flew, shielded from predators, surrounded by its own progeny. A sylvan serene existance. Storms or upheavals never darkened its doorstep. Cuccooned in its world, it lived and flied albeit within the walls.


The palace came alive as she flourished in it. Her world consisted and was defined by her loved ones. All that she wanted was within its walls, her existance sheltered, all who new her protected her fiercely. Her slightest wish  their command.


Time flew. Age dared to do what none else had. The butterfly flew but wearily. Mostly it rested on the underside of the leaves. Flew no more. Sacrilige it seemed that now it was displayed on the board within the museum, its wings stretched out, its vulnerability scrutinised by awestruck  visitors.


The dowager was  ailing. Still the darling of the occupants of the palace, but confided to her room. Her every need attended to by loving aides. The body was lifeless, but even in death her lustrous hair and fragile body brought tears to the eyes of her family. Her portrait on the walls of the landing would catch many an eye, bring many a sigh to admiring visitors.


The pleasure of pain, the agony of ecstasy, the journey of their lives a tapestry pretty, but unsoiled.
Life ? Had merely fluttered by.