Full circle

"Dad ! Dad!" The panic in the voice at the other end made my blood run cold. Taking a deep breath, i  replied, "What is it son, what's happened." All i could hear was deep wracking sobs, then, " Kumar.. Kumar..I.. I think he's dead. What should i do..?"


My son. The intrepid adventurer. He had left home that morning, with a biker friend, on a holiday to the beauteous, scenic Jharkhand. At twenty-one, the world was his oyster. Young, but very responsible, he had always been into sports and prided himself on fair play. Football and biking were the two major loves of his life at the moment. That was how i had been too, when i was his age, until that fateful day. 


It all began with a crazy challenge. The bike seemed an extension of my body almost, as we raced thru the streets of Bandra, almost every other night. I and my best buddy, Farukh. It was his birthday that day, the fourteenth of August, and he was in an elated mood. His dad had gifted him, the  bike he had always coveted, the bike of his dreams. "Let's do it buddy," I could still hear the lilt in his voice, as we stood near the bikes, donning our helmets. It was my turn to drive, since we had already reached the Expressway, and had to turn back for home. "But we shouldn't." i replied. "It's too dangerous, specially at night. " What he had been suggesting was that we return, driving on the opposite lane. " At our speeds, we'll be just a blur, c'mon man! Here i'll drive if you don't want to." The way his eyes looked, no burned, thru me, with a world of scorn and challenge in them, i gave in.


As we zoomed across the highway, i could hear his whoops of delight. It was then, that the head lights hit us. The truck coming from the opposite direction, veered towards us, and in that one blinding moment, my life was shattered, never to be the same again.


When i came to, i was lying on the road, besides the divider. Heaving myself up with a superhuman effort, i found myself sitting on the road. It was still dark. Still night. Stunned, for a moment, i wondered where i was. Then it hit me. "Farukh ! Farukh !". Hoarse with fright, my voice sounded like a whisper to me. I saw him then. From the way he lay on the road, i knew it was all over. Crawling towards him, oblivious to any danger to myself, i shook him first, crying out his name. Heart thundering in my chest, my body palpitating, i refused to believe the evidence of my eyes. Feverishly, i felt for his pulse. There was none. The bike lay mangled, twisted, like the body of it's owner. Putting my head over his, i wept, softly at first, then great racking sobs as hysteria took over. How many cars must have passed, i lost count. Not one stopped. Some even reversed before taking off, as fast as they could. Feeling for a handkerchief, to stem the flow of blood  into my eyes, obscuring my vision, from a probable head wound, i found my cell in my pocket. Dialing as fast as my fingers could, i found my dad's number  and called. Incoherently i explained what had happened. "I'm coming. Try to stay on the left side of the road. Be safe" The reassuring voice of my dad, steadied me." I remember, seeing the time. It was three a.m. 


When i came to, i was at a hospital. My parents sat beside my bed. They told me i was lucky to have survived, with just a superficial head wound, and a few cracked ribs. Since the doctor was my fathers' brother i had been admitted. No questions asked. "Farukh, dad ! Where's Farukh ?" I asked. "He is no more," my dad answered in a low voice. "His parents must have been informed by now." Bewildered, i asked, " But, but dad! Didn't you inform them ?" My father averted his gaze.


It was the biggest cover up of his life. They had come to the accident site, my uncle and him. They had picked up my unconscious body, and after ascertaining that Farukh was indeed dead, they had picked up all my belongings, and whisked me away. Of course, the police came, but my dad claimed that i had been simply dropped off to the hospital by a good samaritan, who had then left. The story that was then given to all our friends and my late friend's parents. But deep down, they knew. I knew, as did my conscience.


The office, when i was well enough to rejoin, seemed to reverberate with Farukh's presence, as it had when he had been alive and working in the cubicle next to mine. All the good times that we had shared, all the tricks that we had played  on the others as a team, replayed constantly in my head.


At first, it was subtle. A few snide remarks, some insinuations dropped here and there. Then came the boycott. People wouldn't answer when i talked to them. Colleagues who had been full of bonhomie before, left the room when i entered. No one would invite me for parties, anymore, or for movies. After a year, i could take it no more and had a nervous breakdown, after which i resigned my job. We left town, my parents and i. Relocated to Banglore. Life started anew. My counseller was an old wise man, who steered me back into my life with his kindly hand, and wise counsel. I put it all behind me. I thought i had until today. 


My life had flashed before my eyes, as with my son, i awaited the ambulance that would take his friend to the hospital. Life does give a second chance, i realised, for he lived, my son's friend. Now my son goes about campus, quite the hero, because he saved his friend's life, with his quick thinking, even though it meant having to face  the consequences and a tedious police case.


Older, wiser, i was grateful too. Life had allowed me to bury the ghosts, make amends. Yes, life had come full circle.   

The Pretender

He looked up at the clock on the Rajabhai Tower. Almost four. If she had left college by now, she would be here soon. Looking around him, he saw a number of students. Hungry ones. Crowding around Rajubhai, Sandwich Wala. Had the tower been named after him, he thought sardonically. Most of the students were his age. Clad in jeans, tees, the hip ones exuding attitude. The boys, eyeing the girls, clandestinely or openly. The girls, preening,  some talking too loudly to draw attention, some just eating hungrily. He was both. Hungry and seeking attention. None of the girls around, interested him. His girl. She was yet to come.

The car rounded the corner from Churchgate. It was a Honda, no less. Seeing it, he hurriedly rose to his feet, dusted off the back of his jeans, and stood waiting for her to alight. Waving off the driver, she walked towards the stall. Towards him. He stood, heart pounding, his eyes seeing only her. As if the rest of the world, had faded out. Long hair swinging, the rays of the sun playing hide and seek in it, she came. Clad in jeans, that highlighted her lovely long legs, she came. Swinging the satchel, onto her shoulders, dark, chinky eyes on the oncoming traffic, she came. In his mind, she was walking towards him, straight into his arms. The whiff of her perfume as she brushed past him, took his breath away. He walked alongside her, a little distance away, his eyes glued to her. Maybe it was her exotic looks, that captivated him. Or the perfect hair, not a single one out of place, or the perfect rose hued skin. Her very presence made all the rest seem drab to him.

Since the day, he had set eyes on her, he had dreamed of her. Waiting for a sandwich, he had seen her car first. Then she alighted from it.. A sudden gust of wind, blew her hair every which way, covering her face. With a firm movement of the hand, she collected it all, then held it back. As she strode off, it swung behind her, every perfect strand, adding to the sensousness she exuded. He had stood, mesmerised. Since that day, he had been smitten. The fact that she refused to allow her car near the her friends, spoke of her modesty, her need to blend. After having her sandwich with her friends, she went to the bus stop, with them, allowing them to catch a bus, before she made her way to her parked car.

Thereafter it had been his daily ritual. At four, he was so haazir, every, single day. From the past six months.

That day, as usual, he was at his spot. When she neared, his eyes closed, he stood inhaling the scent of her. "Excuse me." The voice was low pitched, melodious. His eyes flew open. He turned instinctively, to see if she was talking to someone behind him. Tiny smile playing around her lips, she indicated that he was in her path. Still smiling she moved around him, and was gone.

Her friends had gone, and she was making her way to the car when it happened. A  biker, helmet clad veered close to her. Behind him, an accomplice, reached out and grabbed her bag. "Oye !" The outraged cry came not from her, but from him. Picking up a stone he flung it with deadly aim. As it struck the biker, he fell off his bike. Running towards them, lunging across her, he picked it up, then grabbing her hand, he hustled her off, even as the crowd started to collar the thieves.

They stood a short distance away. Just him and her. " You ok  Ma'am ?" He asked hesitantly. The shocked look receding from her face, she nodded. Taking the bag he extended towards her, she held out her hand. Fingers trembling he clasped it in his, as time seemed to grind to a halt. Then she was gone.

He stood there hand still extended. Leaping over a parked scooter, he paused. Turning the mirror towards him, he looked at his reflection. Smoothing back the shock of black hair, he struck the pose of Arjun Kapoor, the latest heart throb. Pulling his faded tee over his torn jeans,  foolish smile lighting his face, he went on his way.

"Ai Pakiya ! Ai hero." Yelled the voice from behind. "Chal jaldi parking receipt de. Sapne baad main dekhna. " He laughed with sheer happiness, then got down to issuing it.  

The Tug Of War

She stood there bristling. "Dad. What would you know about girls' clothes? Why you hardly know about boys styles !" Having said that scathingly, she took one look at my face and the next minute she was hugging me close. Arms wrapped around me, she said, gently " That didn't sound the way i meant it to. I mean, dad i love you, and your the bestest dad ever, but if i wear those baggy jeans, i won't have any friends left in college. So please, next time ? Let me choose my jeans myself, ok ? " Sighing, i agreed, hugging her back, then reminding her to text me when she reached college. With a shake of the head, and an exasperated look, she was gone, her " Goodbye Dad," wafting elusively around the house.

Strange how suddenly teenage struck. One moment you had a sweet, trusting little child, who looked to you for everything, including clothes ! The next you had a rebellious teen, staring you down, and making you feel archaic, ancient. Everything about her had changed. From neat, parted hair, worn in two long plaits, she went to short, dishevelled crop. From skirts and  tights and kurtas, she went to slim fit acid jeans, washed, even torn at the knees and tees, much shorter than she had ever worn before. From books and more books, she went to facebook and the ubiquitous cell phone. From avid discussions we went to heated arguments. From our daily shared dose of dinner and who-dun-its, we went to solo meals, and double entendre sitcoms, that repulsed me.

It had never been easy, bringing up a child as a single parent. So i figured the best way to do it, would be to treat her as an adult. She had been five, when her mother chose to walk away from our lives, never to look back again. At first she clung to me, so that i had to take a flexitime job, before i abandoned it altogether, and discovered my calling in writing. From sleeping to the sound of the clatter of my keyboard, she grew to reading my drafts, over my shoulder. From baby, she bloomed to child, then teen. My best friend and worst critic, i lost to the vagaries of hormonal surges.

I left the home, after she did, going for a short walk to clear my head, and air my thoughts. These days, i had a lot of time, to catch up with my writing, which was good and bad. Good, because it was what i did for a living. Bad because, it was not as satisfying any more. My thoughts meandered around how i needed to take a "chill pill" as she put it, this vulnerable rebel who lived in my daughter's body these days. Yes, i had to learn to let go. My fledgeling was ready to fly the nest.

I entered the home to soft sobs, that came from the vicinity of the sofa. My heart skipping a beat, i touched her shoulder, "Want to tell me, what happened ?" With a sob, she sat up, then burst into tears. head buried into my stomach, she mumbled something that sounded like, " I've got it. I've got the scholarship to the institute." My heart did the sinking act once again. We had filled the forms together, for the two year course offered by the Institute of Journalism, Australia. Catch 22, situation for me, because much as i loved the thought of her following in my footsteps, i was not prepared to let her go. Not this early, anyway. She was just seventeen. I knew also that it would break her heart if she didn't get the scholarship. It was i who had taught her to dream, to follow her dreams. Ironical then that i should have to pay the price by losing her. Holding her close, unable to speak, i smiled, the tears that sprung to my eyes, betraying my mixed feelings. "I'm so happy for you," I said, when the lump in my throat allowed me to speak. "Go. It's the chance of a lifetime." Wiping the tears from her eyes, she half laughed as she reached to wipe mine. "You are such a cry baby, dad. Boys are not supposed to burst into tears at the drop of a hat."  True, but then, we'd laughed together as much as we had cried.

When my wife had left us for good, and a small hand had reached up to wipe my nose with a tissue, before planting a small kiss on it, i"d cried. The time when her best friend had moved from town, she had cried and we had drowned her sorrows in ice cream, two whole tubs of it. When i took her puddle hopping in the rains for the first time, we had laughed in  shared delight, when she had helped an old blind beggar, across the street, i beamed with pride. When i lay sick and shivering with malaria,  she had, against her grandmother's advice, sat beside my bed the entire night. When the first pizza that i made, got burnt, she solemnly ate the crust, declaring it to be the best ever, how she always praised my efforts at cooking, no matter what it tasted like.

How could i ever let her go.

The next two days were quiet. I retreated into my own world. Grieving at my loneliness, even before she had left. Worrying about how young and impressionable she still was. From her room came the furious clacking of the keyboard. Finally she emerged. "It's done, dad. I've confirmed my applications. For the Institute of Jounalism. Banglore. Seeing the shocked look on my face, she held up a hand. "I'm not ready to go. Australia's been in the news for all the wrong reasons, and so i've decided, im staying here. " Nothing i could say convinced her otherwise.  I held her close. She had grown stronger and more perceptive too, when i was not looking.  

The Hundreth Try

A hundred times she fell. A hundred times she picked herself up.
I sat there watching the kid. One year old  ? Give or take a month. Nappy clad, frail looking, boisterous black curls, bouncing on her head. Each time she fell, she bumped her bottom hard on the naked ground. On the table lay a jar of multi coloured sweets, which she was trying to reach for, unsuccessfully so far. "Get some sense kid, give up!" I said, more to myself then her. A small determined wisp of humanity, what gave her so much determination, i wondered. There she was again ! Heaving herself up, she stood, precariously balanced, gripping the table with small fingers, and then standing on tip toes she stretched the other hand towards the jar. This time, the table, under repeated assaults, lurched and she fell yet again. The small plastic jar, rolled over, falling conveniently in her lap. With a gurgle of pleasure, she clutched it to her. Crawling a safe distance away, she held the jar up. Turning it round and round, she watched the sweets roll around with the motion. She tried eating up the whole thing, jar and all, but it wouln't go inside her mouth. Thwacking it in frustration, she at last flung it aside and started crawling away. Unable to desist, i got up from my seat, opened the jar and offered the valiant thing a small duck shaped sweet. Giving me a big smile, she reached for it, and popped it into her mouth. "Thank you," I whispered to the fast retreating little bottom, "For teaching me a valuable lesson." I had just come to deliver a dress to her mother, but thanks to the baby, i was going back  much wiser, more determined then i had come.

The next day i made my way back to the pool. Three months. Three attempts, failed ones.Three consecutive years of my life. That was how long i had spent trying to learn how to swim. It was the month of May. Peak summer. In India, that's a blazing thirty six, thirty eight degrees and the pool was already warm by the time i got into it at ten. By now, every other person, old or young, amateur or seasoned, in the pool, was giving me advice, cheering or jeering me on. Tanned to a chocolate brown, in spite of my mum's liberal lathering of sun screen all over me, i had given it my all, but to no avail. "Give up kid," said a testy old lady, whom i had splashed inadvertantly as she swam her ten lengths. As the others laughed at my mortified face, i determined that that was it. No more

A student of psychology, i had just read about learned failure. A psychological concept, that explains why people who fail, find it difficult to try again.In one experiment a dog was kept in a closed cage. After frantically trying to free itself, it realised that there was no escape and settled down in one corner, tail tucked in, defeated in attitude and attempt. After a while it was taken out and put into a cage which had a lever which when pushed would open the cage. The dog however, went straight into the corner and settled down as before, making no attempt to explore this new cage or to free itself. Maybe i was a victim of my knowledge. Because in spite of giving it my all,every year, year after year, all that had happened was that i remained desperately trying to swim a breadth, without sinking. Even the coach, had moved on, giving up on me as a lost case.

Today was going to be different. Closing my eyes, i saw in my mind's eye, the baby, getting up, the minute she fell.  Repeatedly. It didn't occur to her that she could give up. Holding her image in my mind i plunged into the pool. Blanking out all else, i started out and............ Just kept going. Intent on my exertions, i was still aware of a presence beside me, swimming alongside me. Each time i'd come up for breath, a quiet voice, would say," turn your head. Good! keep going, just a few lengths more, " Exhausted, my arms motoring on, my world, a haze of pain, i finally touched the bar at the opposite end. Panting, my lungs bursting, my mouth drawing in great mouthfuls of air, i turned to look at my mentor. It was the old lady i had splashed ! Then she looked at me smiled, and started clapping. Soon, the whole pool was resounding, as all the people i had splashed/ kicked accidently, stood where they were applauding me. Beaming, my face a beetroot red, i'm sure under the tan, i bowed theatrically, before sinking underwater to do a cartwheel.

My real mentor ? That baby.