Boomerang

It was a calm, cold night. The stars were out in all their splendour, endowing the night with a glow, which lit up the camp. The camp fire was warm and welcoming, more so  because the forest beyond was eerie. A dark thick impenetrable denseness of trees, forbidding in itself. What had seemed a welcoming green haven, during the day time, had at night, transformed into a sinister  cavernous depth.

The children huddled around the camp fire. As much for the warmth, as to avoid being alone in the Guide huts. This was a regular feature of their training in the guides, this annual visit to Bordi, on the outskirts of Maharashtra. The veterans, seniors were used to this nightly transformation of the forests, but were none the less, uncomfortable, waiting to retire to their own huts.

It was then that an intrepid soul,suggested that they have a story telling competition. The scariest story would win a prize. What is it about the human mind that fascinates and magnetically draws it towards the very thing that it fears ? Each child stayed glued to his, her seat, as the stories became scarier, impossibly bizarre.

Of all the children assembled there, he was the biggest. The biggest and the one scared to death. He sat their shivering, his arms wrapt around himself, trying hard to contain both his bladder and his fears. The butt of jokes, even otherwise because of his weight, his friends now sensed, almost saw him shivering.

The next storyteller drew himself up to his full height to relate his story. "A family of four were travelling to a remote village in Gujrat. The little boy, about six years of age, seated at the back, was very irritable. "I have to go to a bathroom, NOW. or else.." he threatened. Dusk was close. they were near a vast field, in the middle of which was a tree. The father parked at the side of the road, let the child out, and waved a hand towards the tree. "Go do your thing, and hurry. We are waiting here for you." The child hurried towards the tree, and looking at his sniggering sister, went behind it, so that he couldn't be seen from the road.

Five minutes passed, then two more. "Come on, hurry up !" the father called, looking at his watch, then the swiftly gathering night. After a minute or so more, he hurried over. To his astonishment, there was no one there. His boy had seemingly disappeared ! Stunned, and scared out of their wits, they hunted. The mother and daughter fanned out in one direction, the father in another. The perplexing thing was that apart from the one tree, there was no foliage, nothing except a bare vista stretching as far as the eye could see. Had the boy left the tree, he would immediatly have been seen by them. No one was around for miles either. Frantically calling and searching, the mother almost fainting  and supported by her daughter, they wandered for almost two hours. Finally they got into the car, and after driving for ten minutes, reached a small nearby village. The head man listened somberly to their tale, then took them to a nearby dargah, which had been there destination anyway. 

The man sitting over there was the presiding priest. Listening to their story, he took them quickly inside, locked the door and asked them to sit there the night and pray, while he stood guard outside. It was midnight, by the time they fell into an exhausted stupor. The mad, maniacal shriek resounded all over the dargah. Clutching at each other, they huddled in a corner. From outside came the strong voice of the priest intoning prayers. The screeches kept coming from different directions, each one more shrill than the last. Until finally, there was silence once again. After a while the crickets resumed their chirruping. At dawn the priest entered. Helping the traumatised family up, he bid them go with him. Beneath the tree lay a few bones. That was all that was left of their son. The priest told them that had they not sought refuge at the dargah, they would have been killed too, by the angry vampires whose home they had desecrated, when the boy urinated beneath the tree."

As the boys' story tailed off, the children got shakily to their feet and in a group returned to their huts. The boy's friends however had different plans. One of them had caught a frog, from the lake that morning, which they decided to put under his bed sheets. The poor boy, too shaken to do anything but, was soon fast asleep, curling up under his sheets. His friends too followed suit.

The screams of the boy, startled them at first, but realising that the frog had finally emerged, they sat back in their beds doubling up in laughter, as he fought the bedsheets, trying to emerge from within them. He did fight them off, and rushed towards them. The trail of blood following him, froze their blood. For it wasn't him. But another boy. The one who had thought up the prank. As one their screams rang out, as the boys raced out the door, falling over each other in their hurry to get out of the room. Petrified, they stood outside the scout masters' door, as he dressed, then strode out. After making sense of their incoherent explanations, he went to their room. Over turning the bedsheets, he shook them out. From the recesses of the sheet,. fell the culprit. A huge spider, which had bit the poor victim, drawing blood. It was a relief that it was not venomenous.

But for the shaken boys, the prank had boomeranged. Much to their discomfiture,the hunters had become the hunted.

The Postman and the dog.

He was not even a postman. Well, Not in the true sense of the word. He was a courier person. No dowdy uniform for him. He wore a crisp white shirt, midnight blue pants, and a snazzy baseball cap. His bag was a smart backpack. In fact, he was sometimes given the once over by young girls.

But apparently, dogs have an ingrained primitive urge which makes them strip the veneer, and just chase postmen or greet them with the entire repertoire of barks at their disposal. Thus it was that this poor courier boy dreaded having to go to that particular locality where this dog lived. He was not very big, a mixed breed, but big enough to be intimidating. Seeking the advice of his mates, he had been given the usual cliches, 'barking dogs seldom bite' and ' His bark is probably worse than his bite,' to which he had snorted, " Im not willing to put that to the test,"

So the days passed. The courier would try to rev up his bike in retaliation to the dogs barks, while passersby smiled benevolently, or smirked, depending on their age. He was told to go  meet the owner, but lacked the courage, to get off his bike and face the dog. Thankfully, he hadn't had  a delivery for the owner of the dog, so far.

That day he was a little nervous. In his bag was a considerable sum of money that had to be delivered to a firm in the dog's vicinity. The thought of having to get off his bike with the dog circling him, was making him sweat. Parking his bike a little distance away, he started walking briskly towards the address he had been given, praying all the while that the dog would not pay him any attention without the bike announcing his appearance.

Head tucked in, cap pulled over his face, he was hurrying along, when they struck. The cold steel of the knife pressing deep into his neck stunned him. The blood rushing to his head had him feeling faint. Swiftly the men relieved him of his bag, one of them slashed at his body, as the two of them ran fast towards their bike parked a little away. He slumped against the wall, tears clouding his vision, blood flowing from his arm where the knife had hit him.

Suddenly, a streak of lightening shot past him. Barking loudly, the dog chased the thieves. As they leapt on to the bike, he jumped on to the man carrying the bag, and bit him. With a shriek of rage, the man clutched on to his arm, the bag falling to the ground with a thud. Viciously he slashed at the dog before his petrified partner revved the bike as they raced off.

His own gash forgotten the courier rushed to the dog. An on looker handed him his bag, which he flung onto his bike. Carefully, gently, oblivious to his own pain, he lifted up the now whimpering dog, and placed him on the bike.

Thus it was that i saw him driving like a maniac thru the narrow streets, the dog placed in front of him, his head nestled against the boy's shoulder, his fur flying in the wind. The blood of the two mingled, staining his crisp white shirt, his cap flew off as he rushed to the nearest veterinarian.

The dog still greeted the boy everyday with barks, joyous ones, for now his bag usually hid a juicy bone or some other treat  for his new found best friend.    

Nothing Much

The alarm rang at 6.15 a.m. Before it could ring a second time, a swift hand shot out from the coverlets and slammed it shut. Unfortunately, in her hurry to prevent her husband from getting disturbed she did the opposite. It came crashing down on his head. A rude awakening, she cringed, patted her bewildered partner, who had shot up from his bed, expecting an earthquake and relieved that it was only his wife.  Her day had just begun.

This was Mumbai, circa 2012. The day had just begun. Breakfast was ready by 7.30. The eggs today had had a mind of their own. From the frying pan, they had landed into the fire. Hastily rescued, they were none the worse for the wear, if slightly singed. As was she. Clucking over her, her kid fished out a band aid, and applied it, soothing her with a kiss, and a "Great eggs, Ma, Smoked?" her words of greeting a balm for her ego.

 By the time 8.30 rolled around, fortified by a hearty breakfast inside her, and the presence of the maid in the kitchen, she was her usual calm, organised self. With a cheery wave, and an intimate look, the husband was sent off.  The kid was a different proposition. Brunch served on the run as , as the time for college drew alarmingly near. Wardrobes were dived into, and clothes strewn around like confetti, before the look of the day was decided. To her credit, her room which resembled a battlefield one moment, with bodies strewn all around was aspick and span the next. Of course, to open her cupboard, thereafter you had to be very brave or foolhardy. Or both.

The washing machine having deferred its monotonous beeps, till after they left, she sprung into action. The clothes were dutifully hung, quartered and er, dried. The maid, waiting with her foot tapping, was next. Chased off by her to swab and clean the kitchen, she then sallied forth to the grocers. After much verbal duelling, the days groceries nestling in her bag, she returned.

Operation Food was then set into motion. Lunch, dinner and maid simmering, she turned her attention to the home. Dust is to Mumbai, as snow is to the arctic, sand to the Sahara. With a sniffly nose and a wheezy maid dogging her, they kicked up a storm, a dust storm, between them. Surveying the now clean kitchen, she sallied off to her daily ritual of bath and prayer, while the maid made a discreet exit, the loud banging of the door announcing her escape.

The increasing heat brought in lunch time and the better half in need of sustenance. Greeted with a warm smile and hot food, he retreated for a siesta, having first carefully placed the clock in the hall. Siesta for her meant catching up with the day's news.

Evening brought the teen home. Her day lightened, as they regaled each other with the billion things that  made them each others' best friend.

Dinner was a family affair, Hot food, hotter topics, laughter, brought warnth to the hearth and heart. As the television regaled afterwards, she cleaned up. "Sleeping soon ?" asked the better half as he prepared to retire. "In just a minute, she replied. Checking up on the kitchen,  making the beds, then laying out the money for the next day's milk, she did eventually drift into the bedroom. " What did you do today, honey," he asked. Snuggling into her covers, she sighed, "Nothing much " before drifting off to sleep.     

Vengeance.

She was the chirpiest amongst all her friends. Dusky, with long hair, falling gracefully down her back, she was also the prettiest amongst her friends. In the first flush of youth, their main pastime was ogling the young boys who made their way back home in the evening from work. 

This was the mid nineties, girls were coquettish, and only the very brave, eyed the boys and fluttered their eyelashes at them. The minute the boys, raised their eyes to eye them back, they would dissolve in a fit of giggles beneath the windows. The handsome among the boys were sighed over, and eyed longingly, the flirtatious ones hooted at. But there was this one boy who had caught her fancy.


He was tall, wide shouldered and quiet. All he ever did was pass from near her home every morning on his way to school. How it had happened no one knew. Maybe he had paused once to look up at her as she stood regally in her window and their eyes had met. Maybe his crime was that he had dared to smile at her. Flushing with rage, she turned away. Why is it that some small boys, will catch a butterfly, then slowly rip out its wings ? It's vulnerability ? Or the inflated sense of power that a bully feels when he torures someone weaker than himself ? Maybe that would explain why she toook to taunting him, everytime she saw him. "Oi. Bhuriya !" she would call in her tinkly voice, then dive beneath her window, smirking all the while. Because he was albino.

Her friends, ashamed of her behaviour, chastised her, then washed their hands of her. Some even tried to tell her it was a sin to taunt him so, some got angry, but whatever they said had no effect on her, as she continued to torment him, until she got busy with her own engagement. Rich, good looking, he was the perfect match, and she was ecstatic at having ensnared him. The best match from amongst all her friends was hers, and she never let anyone forget it.

Soon enough she was married and moved off to far off Calcutta, with her husband.  Within the year she had conceived and came back to her native home for her delivery as was the custom in those days. Most of her friends were married too, but a few were still around. She was one of the few lucky women who enjoy their pregnancy to the hilt. Having grown even more beautiful, her body in full bloom, she couldn't help wondering who the child would look like. That he would be big and beautiful, she had no doubt, both she and her husband made such a striking pair. "Some people have all the luck in the world." said her friends amongst themselves.

Her pains started in the middle of the night. Rushed to the hospital by her mother, her labor lasted for quite a long time. "The child is big, but she'll be fine," the midwife reassured her mother. "Please wait outside."

The last scream from within the room was the loudest. As her mother rushed in, she saw her daughter, collapsed on the bed, weeping copiously. The midwife soundlessly held out the child. A girl. Perfect in every way. Except that she was albino.


"Vengeance of the Gods" whispered her friends, as they patted the sweet little child she abandoned to her mother. To her relief her three other children were normal, ones she could take home proudly to her husband.

   

Out sourced

"I'll break your arm, first, and then your leg. Just tell your mum okay ?" So saying, he sauntered off with the little fellows'  break, his tiffin, leaving him with tears in his eyes, and a gnawing hunger in his belly. No matter where he tried to hide, the bully always managed to find him. His mother packed the best tiffins ever, and eating it was the high point of the day in school for him. But the past week, since he had first found him relishing it, he had grabbed it from his hand and thereafter had pursued him, nay laid in wait for him, ambushing him  as soon as he emerged from class. All of ten, he lacked the courage, and the height, to stand up to him. His mum had tried to inveigle  the reason for his sudden reluctance to go to school, from him, but had failed.

"What happened ? Why did you give him your break ?" asked the sweet little voice. Fear in his heart, turned to relief when he saw that it belonged to the pert little girl, his neighbour in the classs. Relieved to be able to tell her the whole sad story, he blurted the whole sorry tale to her. Her forehead creased, finger on her cheek, she listened patiently. "Let me see, will you share just a little of your tiffin with me, if  I get rid of him for you, " she asked, her eyes twinkling at the promise of a tasty treat everyday. "Can you do that, ?" He asked incredulously. "I will tomorrow," she replied. "Just exchange your tiffin with mine in the morning."  Seeing the wary look on his face, she laughed and added, "Arrey, baba, just for a day. Okay?" So saying she ran off to play with her friends.

The next day, his mother packed his favorite, noodles with honey sauce, and a bonus walnut brownie, to cheer him up. He hurried to school, eagerly almost. Searching for his champion, he found her sitting serenely in class, her tiffin on her desk. "Here," he said. "Its my favorite: noodles, so please try to save it from that fatso," he pleaded. "Dont worry, "She smiled. "I love them too."

The lunch time bell rang. Trepedition in his heart, he was the last to emerge from the class room, which was then locked up by the class moniter. He was joined quickly by her, "Hurry up," she hissed. "He's coming. Don't talk to me. Just sit beside me." A little girl, of about six stood beside her. His heart thumping, the blood rushing to his head, he saw from the corner of his eyes, the bully loping towards him. Reaching them, he grabbed the boy's tiffin. As he did so, all hell broke loose. It seemed to him as if he was surrounded by little girls, all of them wailing and screaming as loudly as they could, all the while pointing fingers at him. Before he could react or run, they were surrounded by a crowd. "What happened, girlie, " someone asked. "He stole my tiffin, " wailed the six year old. Her banshee voice which would have done a tenor in the philharmonic, proud rang out in the compound. "See, my name is on it. " The bully paled as at least twenty pairs of accusing eyes turned towards him. "Shame, Shame ! TiFFin thief.. TIFFF IN thief" shouted the twenty voices in unison. Egged on by the girl, the voices continued to taunt him as he fled, the voices following him to his classroom, where his class mates stood listening avidly to the uproar. "Stealing tiffins from babies, eh motu ?" Said the  head boy, "If i hear or see you do it once again, im going to report you, you hear ?"

Head hanging in shame, he stood. The next few days, he was absent from school, but when he did turn up, he was forced to eat his tiffin in the school gym, because public memory was always refreshed by some one or other, who would chant "TifFFin Thief, TiFFin Thief " behind his back.

"Girls !" Thought the happy little avenged victim, as he sat relishing his tiffin, "I love them."     

The Fan

Impatiently he sat. Each time the door swung open, he would look up, then look at his watch and scowl. "For heavens' sake, how much longer is he going to take ?" he fretted. His wife, looking up from her magazine, made to hold his hand, which he impatiently shook off. With a shrug, she went back to her reading. Unable to sit any longer, he got to his feet and paced down the corridor."You can go in now sir, but first you'll have to change, " the nurse was holding out overalls. Frowning he took them from her hands, and hurried into the changing room. Emerging, he hurried into the CT scan chamber.

The machine was imposing in itself, and when he was asked to  lie down on the tourney, he almost ran from the room. Extremely claustrophobic, he knew he'd need nerves of steel to undergo the test.  "Try meditation," said his anxious wife.

As the tourney moved, he fought back waves of nausea, feeling as though he was trapped in a tiny tunnel. With a mammoth effort, he calmed himself, closed his eyes and lay still. In the quiet of the room, his thoughts flew back to his office where yesterday, in the midst of a vital meeting, he had collapsed. "This can't be happening to me", he thought. "I'v always been a tough guy." Broad shouldered, stocky, he prided himself on his fit physique, even though he was on the wrong side of sixty. His best friend and running mate, his physician was someone he met everyday at the track, where they ran together, before each went his way. No stranger to the gym, he had been careful with his diet, too. Never had he worried about his health, which was why, the collapse was something inexplicable. He had lain awake the entire night, fear and rage at this disruption of his life, raging inside him. He realised with a sinking heart, that the control he had over his life had just been taken away from him. The life he had so  taken for granted, the immense love he had for his profession, the desire he had to see his grandchildren grow and flourish, was all in jeopardy. "I don't want to die, I love everything about my life, please God, dont take it all away from me !" he beseeched.

"Roy, I've just seen your scans, " the doctor looked him in the eyes.  Stricken he waited for the verdict. This time he didn't push away the hand his wife held out to him. "You have a tumour, which we have to have out as soon as possible." The doctor looked at his white face, and answered the question uppermost on his mind : "Only after we have it out, can I tell you if its benign or not."

"I want a second opinion. Does this place have the neccessary expertise to handle my case. I can go abroad if needed. " he demanded to know. The doctor sighed, and looked at him. "As you wish, but you'd better hurry. It would be best if you get it out soonest."

"Roy, you have to let the doctor do his job. He's the best in his field, in India. Trust me. I would trust him with my life." Roy was talking to his jogger friend, the physician. "Well, I don't !" Roy snapped back. "You have to." said his wife, entering the room. "You've little choice. And time." Collapsing on the sofa, he looked mutely at them. "This is my life, dammit ! " he shouted. "And you are all that I have, " said his wife softly. "You're going for surgery as soon as possible, I insist,"said his friend. "That's decided, then."

'Superstar undergoes brain surgery', screamed the headlines, the next day. Outside the hospital, his fans laid a vigil, night and day. The outpouring of love for him astounded all of the fim industry, social networks were full of the latest news, bouquets of flowers so overwhelmed his staff, they had to be redirected to his home. Steadfastly thru it all, sat his wife by his bedside. His son and grandsons were the only people allowed to see him.

He lay on the hospital bed, oblivious to the fuss being made over him.The operation had been touch and go, and only after a few days would doctors be able to predict the outcome. Meanwhile, he lay listlessly on the bed, his strength and will sapped from the ordeal he had undergone.

The weeks merged into a month, then two. Slowly he emerged from the vegetative state he was in. Doctors started him on physiotherapy, but he had lost his will and would not cooperate. The best efforts of his family were in vain.

The fan climbed in thru the window. He was young and agile, and had shimmied up the pipe outside the window. The two of them stared at each other, one in awe, the other indifferently. Going closer to him, he dropped down on one knee before his idol. "Sir," he said, his voice trembling. "I worship you, you are my God." As he continued to stare at the youngster, the boy reached inside his shirt and withdrew a roll of paper. This is my homage to you. " So saying he unrolled it, to display a collage of pictures, cut from newspapers, dating back to about fifty years, From his first film as a young dashing hero to his latest powerful portrayal of a grandfather. "I inherited this from my father, your second biggest fan, and have continued his work. " Daringly seizing his hand from beneath the blanket, he said, "I'm outside sir, and i will remain there until you go home." As guards streamed in and started dragging him away, his words resonated in the room, "I will give up my life in exchange for yours, sir, please come back ! Please get well !"

From deep within the recesses of his fogged mind, the star heard him. From deep within him, the blood started to surge, thru his body, like it had when his first film had released and catapulted him to stardom. He struggled to his feet, and from there on never looked back. After all, he had promises to keep, and miles to go before he could sleep..  

The Anniversary

The celebration for their tenth marriage anniversary had been meticulously planned. Nothing but the Taj would do. " It's going to be a night you'll never forget," said his best friend, when he called to invite him that evening. "We've got it all planned, you just be there. Six thirty, at the Taj. It's our gift to you."

His wife spent most of the day at the parlour. By the time evening came around, they were ready. "Heady evening,"she exclaimed happily, as they stood outside the hotel. Stopping for a moment to survey the imposing facade of the Grand Old Lady, as the Taj was called, he remembered that it was here that they had come for their first date.His marriage reception and the grand room where they had consummated their marriage, were part of his memories. Here, it was that he had celebrated first the birth of his son, then daughter. Yes indeed! the Taj and he, went back a long long way. Every thing joyous in his life had started with the Taj. With his die hard set of friends, most of whom also had fond memories of this iconic place. Inhaling deeply, he took her hand in his as they entered the restaurant, to raucous cheers from his friends.

The celebration that night had an almost unreal feel to it. Now and then, he din't know why, he blanked out. His mind wandered as he reviewed his life. Allah had been so kind to him.  After ten years of marriage, he still woke up in love with his wife. Stylish, warm, deeply caring, she had brought a stability to his life. From his wardrobe, to the kids routines, and the well being of his now aging parents, she organised everything beautifully. He was in awe of her, her beauty still captivated him. His children were happy, little things, enriching his life beyond measure. His business was growing rapidly, as his hard work, translated to satisfying profits. He did deserve the best. Including this loyal set of friends and this wonderful night out at his favorite haunt. The sizzling of the fondue placed before him brought him back to the present. The aroma of the food in front of him sending a thrill of anticipated pleasure thru him.

The crash outside the door brought all conversation to a halt. Heads turned, forks arrested midair, as the commotion towards the door caught the attention of the diners. As if one, disbelief registered on all their faces, as they watched a short cocky fellow stride in. In his hands was a rifle which pointed randomly at them. Dressed in jeans and a black tee, the man looked at them detachedly. Behind him stood his mate, but brandishing his rifle in their direction.

His blood ran cold in his veins as he watched the man, whose gaze had now halted on his wife. Instinctively, he pulled at the table cloth, whisking it away in one swoop, the crockery landing as if in slow motion, with a deafening crash. In the mad melee that followed as everyone reacted, he pulled his wife with him and ran towards the back door, followed by most of his friends, and other diners whose reflexes were as quick as his. Dashing madly out, he found himself being hustled towards a service door which led into the kitchen.

Trembling, his limbs turning to water, he crouched below the counters. Empty ! Why was the place empty. Who were the men, what was happening ? His mind raced with unanswered questions. This was the Taj, for heavens sake, how did these people get in? He could feel his wife, almost on the verge of hysteria, looking up at him with eyes dilated with fear.Covering her body with his, he cowered, trying to organise his thoughts. He was afraid too! A slight movement behind one of the counters caught his eye. His body immediatly tensed, the adrenalin surging thru his body readying him for flight. The waiter beckoning him had a finger to his lips. The service door, swung open as a jean clad figure strode in. Hearts thudding in unison, eyes glued to him, they watched as he picked up a bottle of wine and took a long swig. Thumping it down on the counter, he strode towards the door, leaving behind him a door swinging as wildly as the hearts of those inside.

After what seemed like aeons, the waiter motioned them towards him. Crawling slowly, they reached him. In sign language he asked them if they had phones on them. Nodding, he reached inside his shirt pocket,and realised with horror that had it rung at the wrong time, he would have been in mortal peril. Switching it off, he put it back in his pocket. The waiter then led them thru a labyrinth of doors until they reached a kitchen which he deemed safe to stay in until morning. Looking at his watch he realised that it was one a.m. Exhausted, they sank to the ground. As the night wore on, they sat on the ground clining to one another. His thoughts were tortured as he realised that anything could have happened to his friends. For it seemed that it was a seige of the hotel, from which escape was impossible. The few cooks surrounding them, talked in hushed whispers, telling them of the horrors being perpetrated around them. One waiter had been brought in, his intestines spilling out of his stomach, shot by one of the terrorists as he attempted to rescue some guests.

Another spoke of fires started in the guest rooms to smoke out people hiding within. Some guests had been lined up against a landing and executed military style. This lovely, lovely hotel ! How his heart burnt at the thought of the lush interiors being ravaged so ruthlessly. He held on for dear life to his wife, his whole body shuddering as he realised that he could have lost her, or his own life this night. He still didnt dare to switch on his cell, his heart going out to his family, as news of the attack filtered out via television. Each time running footsteps passed outside, they froze, their bodies relaxing only when it became obvious that they had passed by. 

Sitting on the floor, his exausted wife in his arms, he watched the tears streaming endlessly down her face, her eyelids swollen with the trauma of the night. In his minds eye, he kept reliving the events of the night. This is how it must have been with the Jews, when hounded by the nazis. The fickleness of life, the fact that he could easily have been dead by now, or that he could have lost this most precious of lives that he held in his arms. What would have happened to his children had they both died? the thought chilled him all over again. If he lived, if he survived this night , he would never take life for granted again. He would become a better father, a more involved husband and son. "God . Please" ! he pleaded. In panicked desperation again and again he repeated"I want to live! Please let us both live."

Morning dawned,yet again a door creaked open. A man in military fatigues came in, softly closing it behind him. One at a time, they were led out of the hotel. His wife, went into hysterics, and so they left together, heads down, rushing towards the ambulance.

Most of his friends had there own tales to tell, one of them had even stood trembling behind a pillar while the terrorist made up his mind, whether he wanted to let him go or shoot him. That there group survived intact was a happy if sober thought, considering what they all went through.

"Told you," said his friend, "Its going to be a night you will never forget."

Old Love

She was all of twenty one. Vulnerable, her dreams still intact, she looked at the world with rose colored glasses. He was what the french would call a roue. A man about town, who loved girls, and of course, they loved him back. Her world consisted of books, her idea of romance drawn from the popular Mills & Boon novelletes that were the rage in those times.

When they met, he evinced no interest in her as such. Much too naive, such girls bored him. Something in her, perhaps her innocence, or the dignity of her bearing caught his eye. The conversation between them was in passing, but the sparks that flew surprised both of them.

In spite of himself, he found himself pursuing her, her witticisms and humour had him in thrall. Prettier girls than her, he had met, but none had fended him off so deftly as she did. Which made him pursue her even more. It seemed inevitable, the marriage between them. For in their minds, they couldn't think of anything else. The rest of their lives seemed on hold.

That day, she asked him to meet him at their usual haunt. Stars in her eyes, heart thudding against her ribs, she waited. For a man who never came. After an hour, every hour she called him. His phone rang, but no one picked up. Her imagination running riot, she returned home. And called a mutual friend, who confirmed that he was well, and asleep at home.

Her marriage soon after, took her to another city. Time and kids assuaged the raw wound inside her heart. There were other priorities, which made life beautiful, full once again, and so time the great healer, worked its magic. The years went by.

Approaching middle age, she was as she had always been. Simple but with a dignity about her that turned heads. The Old Girls Reunion, was not something she had intended to attend, but she went, when asked to by old friends, on facebook.

The school brought on waves of nostalgia. Her roots, and her friends, old and valued brought a glow to her heart. Her friends and their husbands, her own too, bonded instantly. Emerging from the wash room, a shadow fell across her path. The man standing, leaning against the wall, turned and their eyes met. Thunder struck, she looked at him, her eyes widening, disconcerted. A small smile played on his lips, as he realised the effect he still had on her. "Lets go. Thanks for waiting for me," said a voice behind her, as a woman, stylish, beautiful, emerged and drawing a hand thru his, led him away. As they reached the door, he turned, cocked an eyebrow at her stricken face, and went inside the room.

The next day, relaxing in her hotel room, she allowed herself the luxury to think about him. How much he had mattered to her then, what seeing him now meant.  The doorbell rang, "Come in," she called. Stunned she realised it was him standing in her doorway. " Coffee, perhaps ?" he asked.

They sat at the cafetaria. "How has life treated you," he asked. Defiantly looking at him, wanting to hurt him, she answered, "I gained far more than I lost, so fair enough, and you ? " A shadow of hurt, a strange longing, passed over his face as he replied, "Im happy for you. In a good space myself."

They met frequently after that always in a public place, many a thought was shared between them, many a barb exchanged. His email soon clarified what he couldnt tell her in person. That unable to have faith in himself, he had removed himself from her life. He couldn't give her the guarantee of a life long allegiance, so he'd backed out. Had he made a mistake, he couldn't say. But care for her he did, and what she had lost by way of a soulmate, she now had in whatever form she wanted. Friend, well wisher, to use her favorite phrase, 'whatever'.

Him up there....., God ? he must have a sadistic sense of humour, she thought.

    

Challenged.

I was a never say die, kind of person. I mean, very little fazed me, since the day I had first confronted a math problem that went something like : A train leaves spot A travelling at the rate of 140 miles\hour. Train B coming from the opposite direction is travelling at 180 miles \ hr. When would a bird flying at the rate of 80 m\hr, fly over train A and train B ? The sadistic second part of the sum, in case you got the first half right,  would go something like : When would the two trains meet ?! You get my point ?If that dosen't send a tender ten year old into hysterics what would?

Having encountered and skirted around sin, cos, tan, and after flirting with the Volume of cylinders and such like sums, I emerged from school, knowing how valiant little kids actually are. If you put your mind to it, I was sure, there would be a solution sooner or later. So one should concentrate and remember to pack a comic or two to bide the time until someone figured it out for me.

So, like I was saying math was good for me. It taught me resilience, strengthened my belief in literature in which I topped.

As life went by, many challenges came my way. Everytime  I set out to master  something and couldn't ? I learnt something that I could. Take cycling. Easy as pie I told myself. Looking at the kids zooming by me in the park, I happily climbed aboard mine, and mastered it too. So long as the training wheels remained. As soon as I was able to legally therefore, I got my license and yesiree! I became  the proud owner of a car ! The youngest around too ! And all because I couldn't ride a bike.

My ultimate challenge came in a moment of madness, when caught in the first flush of love, I invited my rather formidable mother in law to be, over for dinner. Mind you, she was up there somewhere in the echelons of formidable cooks,  and had rejected many a girl for her beloved only son, because they had fallen short where culinary talents were concerned. Did I mention, that cooking was one more talent which had taught me the fine art of  being a culinary journo ? You see, I loved food, but to my chagrin I was a dyslexic cook. Everytime I girded my girdles and entered the kitchen, I ended up ordering out for food.

Love, however had me determined. Surely I could cook one single  meal, one simple meal, for the man I loved and was determined to marry.

Turning a deaf ear to his entreaties, banishing him from the house, I set upon my task. I sweated and toiled for the best part of the morning and believe me, I did it. Or almost. 

The crusted chicken pie was perfection itself. No mother holding her firstborn in her arms, must have been prouder than I, as I held it cradled in my arms. Happily I turned to put it back in the oven, when the door bell rang. Alas, I leapt back startled, the pie slipped from my hands, and in spite of last second pyrotechnics on my part, there it lay on the floor, looking more like an upside down pudding than a pie. Throwing the towel in the sink and the apron on my head, I collapsed wailing, much like the pie had.

"Need some help? " asked a benign voice. There, standing before me was my mother in law. "Perhaps never to be," my stunned mind rejoined.

So, I ended up happily married to the man of my dreams. "She loved you the minute she saw you," said my relieved beloved. "She was assured of her continued supremacy in the kitchen." By a long shot, I would never be a threat to her in her beloved domain, the kitchen. Which I was more than happy to surrender to her. We were great together. My mother in law and I. She held her sway over the kitchen, while I compiled a cook book of her amazing recipes, all the while happily munching into her equally awesome walnut brownies.  

When The Going Gets Tough

"The fault lies in your genes," said the Doctor. "When educated people marry their own cousins.."so saying the doctor shook his head. She looked down at her cherubic little son, who lay fast asleep in her arms. Who would look at him and even know that he would grow up to be a spastic child. Him and his older brother. Her husband standing beside her turned his face away. He had been waiting to hear the verdict from the doctor. Swinging on his heel, he left the room.

Her mother in law, her mothers' sister was someone she had never got along with. To put it mildly. Strongly put, both the women had an inherent dislike for each other. But to honor her dying sister's last wish, she had arranged her son's marriage with her niece.  That was how it was in the old days, girls gave in to family pressures and married men chosen for them by their parents.

Something vital had changed between  them. He was so traumatised at the sight of his two sons that he shifted to another part of the house. The first he had accepted in the hope that the second would be normal.  Someone he would be proud to show off as his son. Someone with whom he would have a great father son relationship. Deep within him, he was ashamed. How could this drooling, lifeless looking infant have been born of his sperm. His aversion only grew as the children grew. The wife he had adored once, now became the object of his frustrations. When he had to face his family, he did so with great reluctance, and usually stormed out within a few minutes of being with them.

She wiped her childrens' tears, as well as her own in the privacy of her quarters. She also devoted her entire being to their welfare.

Her aunt had as expected, sided with her beloved son, the only feelings she had towards them, a cold detachment, a bitterness. She had found one more reason to blame her daughter in law for all the unhappiness in their home. But all that was to change.

As she lay half asleep that morning, there was a thud outside her door. Heart in mouth, she opened the door, to find her elder grandson sprawled across her door. Rushing to help him up, lump in her throat, she hurried to his mothers room. She lay inert on her bed, her agitated sons trying to raise her. The tableux bringing a lump to her throat she screamed for her son.

The hospitalisation lasted for a week, her cardiac status restored with the help of stents, all she could think about were her kids.

No one from her home came to visit her, which only increased her anxiety levels. Her brother assured her they were in good hands, and kept asking for her to return.

Return she did. As the doors opened, an alien sight met her eyes. Eyes wide, bewildered, she saw her husband sitting at the dining table, coaxing a spoon into her younger sons' mouth. The elder sat in his chair, his daadi, fussing over his hair. Her eyes, filled with tears met his. His arm crept slowly around his son, the child content to snuggle against him.

She learnt later, that her sons' herculean efforts in alerting his daadi when she suffered the attack, probably saved her life. On entering their room, after their mother had been hospitalised, the father had found them, huddled together, hugging each other and crying inconsolably. The moment smote him, as he felt a deep sense of shame at his callousness towards them. Going towards them, he felt them shrink away from him, as if afraid.

Like spring entering a garden, long frozen with snow, his heart melted at the sight. Tears falling from his eyes, he bent on both knees and engulfed them in a hug.     

Abandoned

Once upon a time he must have been a handsome man. Fair, tall, balding now, with a face which when animated, must have caused many a female heart to flutter.

My hospital stay was almost over. The bored sister attending to me, would often disappear, coming back apologetically every now and then. Curious, I asked her where she was going. "Just down the corridor , ma'am. Please dont tell matron, " she pleaded. "Only if you tell me why," was my retort. She told me then about Mr. Roy.

An Indian living in Britain, his family consisted of his wife, and daughter. That fateful day the family decided to visit the famed Lotus Temple, on the outskirts of London. Behind the wheel, he hummed to  himself, listening half heartedly to his wife, sitting on the back seat, bickering with his teenage daughter over her choice of attire.

Afterwards, he had no idea what happened. All he remembered, was his wifes' scream, as the car ahead of them  skidded, did a 360 degree swivel and smashed into his windscreen. The last thing he remembered was his daughter, bent over him, her mouth open in a soundless scream, her tears falling over his face.

He was the only casuality. God knows for what reason, he didn't die. But he was left in a coma, a vegetable state, where he could niether speak nor move. But hear he did, and feel he did, as his life underwent a drastic change. Incarcerated, in a hospital bed, he slowly resigned himself to life. The visitors started dwindling, his wife and child among them, as they picked up the threads of their life and moved on. Gradually as the expenses piled up, he was flown to Mumbai, India, where his parents resided. This was the hospital where he had been admitted a year ago, by parents who, unable to do much else, prayed that one day he would respond, and get up.

But God looks after his own, it is said. The sister assigned to look after him, was a woman in her thirties. Tall, statusque, she could have had her pick of men. She chose this ailing, abandoned man, who could never respond to her. Her devotion to him was so intense however, that his eyes would light up, whenever she came into his room. He would eat only if she fed him, and sleep only after she sat beside him, soothing him with her gentle touch.

For nurses it is considered a hazard to fall in love with their patients. But even the stern matron understood and gave in to her wishes to always serve only him.

A few days ago, however she had contracted malaria, and had been forced by her colleagues to take leave. When she saw how agitated he became to see her ill, she agreed. In her absence all the sisters had taken it upon themselves, to look to his needs, reading to him, feeding him, all the time, assuring him that she would be back.

"Ma'am," said my nurse. "Why dont you come see him too ? He loves to have visitors."

So, it was that, holding onto my nurse, I went to his room.

On a pale, pallorless face shown the most compelling eyes I have ever seen. Light blue, with eyelashes a girl would kill for, they seemed to look thru your soul. The tears sprang to my own, so overcome was I. Reaching out a hand, I put it upon his lifeless one on the sheet, trying to convey my empathy. When I regained my composure, I saw that he was smiling. His glowing face, stayed on in my memory, long after I had left the room.

Many a time, my thoughts went back to him, I never knew what happened to him after I left the hospital. But this much I knew. Alone he was. But never abandoned. Not by humans nor by God.
  

  

Revenge

The Bengali is a special kind of human being. In fact a whole new genus came into being when the bengalis came into, well, being. The distinguishing features of a true blue bengali are an inborn love for rabindra sangeet, sung soulfully, in groups. Give a bengali a mike and chances are he will grab it and give anyone listening an earful.

His second passion in life is his beloved rossogolla, his sandesh. Bengal, I believe was the first to introduce, sugar free rossogolla and all other bengali mithai. After all, the bong, as he is lovingly called, could possibly die of diabetes in the long term, but without his daily dose of mithai, he'd be dead within the week !

The third item that has a hold on him... Well, lets just say that his daily prayer would be " God, give us this day, our daily boiled egg, fish, cucumber and banana, or else !......"

All of this, however gives rise to a fascinating personality. Let there be a fracas on the streets, moost of the bystanders would jump into the fray, and voila! street justice would be meted, and the protagonists sent on their way, before you could  say "Mishti Doi", another weakness. Get aboard a tram or a minibus, and chances are you'll soon get embroiled in a hot debate on football, politics, for or anti mamata di, with every bengali worth his macher jhol, giving you his opinion on it. Women are the spoilt gender in kolkata, and woe betide anyone, who indulges in anything more than singing the latest cheesy hindi film song, by way of eveteasing.

 The mini bus that day was packed to the gills, pun intended ! A possessive bengali was unfortunately seated behind his pretty wife, with an eagle eye on the men crowding the aisle. The mini bus is just that: a small bus, careening madly thru the streets, and packing in people until the attendant is hanging out with one leg on the footboard.  Much like a sardine which dosen't know whether it belongs in the can or out! Back to the bengali within the bus. An executive types who seemed to be rubbing knees with his wife, was the fresh object of his suspicions. Suddenly the bus driver, intent on his suicidal mission screeched to a stop as a cow veered almost on to his wind screen. Mayhem followed, as most of those standing were catapulted onto the laps of those seated. Flinging off the man on his lap, the furious husband bounded onto his feet and a battle raged as he castigated the poor executive who had landed onto his wife's lap. After many a verbal volley, back and forth the executive fished into his pocket and came out with a visiting card,  and thrust it into the husbands' face. "Here," he scowled. "Take this ! Come to my house in the evening, have dinner, and sit in my wifes' lap all you want !" As the public around tittered, the  still bristling bengali,  herded his embarrased wife towards the exit and got off, even as the bus zoomed off in to the blue yonder.

And Lead us Not Into Temptation

Hungry as hell.. Hell, hungrier!

It was Ramzan, The month of fasting for all pious Muslims. And one rebellious one: Me. All of seventeen, it seemed to me that all my friends were either partying, or eating. Don't get me wrong. Ramzan was always a very exciting month, too. After sunset.

That day in school, I sat glumly. Class eleven, was otherwise a lot of fun. A small group of the most like minded girls you ever saw. All of them, in todays words, wacky, fun loving. That day after school, we were having a party, an impromptu one, as a kind of pick me up for the next day's physics test. The last period, math, was troublesome for me: I fell asleep, even as the teacher went into paroxysms of rage over my mild snores. Disgruntled, grateful for the timely bell, I escaped.

Tiredly I sloped into the next classroom, where my classmates were having an eatathon. Abusing them roundly, I turned to go home. Some unseen signal flew over my head, and I was pinned to the door by two of my sturdy 'fiends', while the rest dangled bottles of thums up, (Yes, the everybody's feeling great on thums up!,one) and cakes and leftover tiffins in front of my face. Stoically, I stared, calling upon every ounce of will power to resist them. Changing my strategy, then, I lunged for the bottle and grabbing it, raised it theatrically saying, " on your heads be it, you b------." Horrified, they now went into reverse mode, grabbing the bottle right back. Triumphant smile in place, I tucked my errant blouse back, and swaggered out.

Wiping my forehead with relief, trembling with thirst, I was sure, today was the day, I would, for the first time in my life, commit the sacrilige and break my fast. Nearing the gates, a small hand slipped into my hand. 'Oh no,! ' I groaned inwardly. It was my little neighbour, a little hero worshipping thing, whom I escorted home every day from school. In no  mood to bear up with her chatter, I stumped along, in a haze of murderous thoughts, when what she was saying, penetrated the haze. "You are so strong, Bhen," said she, munching contentedly on a biscuit. "I couldn't ever fast and go to school as well. I want to be just like you when I grow up."

Kids! They say the darndest things. One has to live up to them. That fast had to be completed.