For Better Or For Worse.

She landed in Ontario at about seven o clock local time. Clad in jeans and a tee, a long overcoat in her hands, she made her way to the luggage console along with the rest of the passengers. Like some people get high blood pressure when in the presence of doctors, she dreaded immigration officers. Nay, phobic was the word. She and the folks. So maybe actually it was a genetic thing. Ever since she had been a little girl and her mum had taken her on a trip to London. Mum was hard of hearing and wore a hearing aid at all times. Not being allowed to carry batteries, she was without the aid at the critical time that we were clearing immigration. From past experience i knew that a deaf mother was an extremely nervous and irritable mother. But the poor immigration officer didn't. The conversation went something like this,
Custom officer :" Madam, do you have anything to declare ? "
Profusely sweating, her hands clammy, Mom muttered hoarsely, " No, your, er..er.. highness."
Custom officer (peering suspiciously at her) : "Are you trying to be funny."
My hard of hearing mum, " Yes, sir, its quite sunny." Then seeing his expression, she gestured vaguely, "Back there in India, sir."
Custom Officer : " All i want to know is, do you have anything to declare ? "
Mum, with a weary sigh, " How kind of you, yes, i could do with a chair. "
Custom officer ( gnashing his teeth) : PLEASE proceed to the exit.
By this time a long line of passengers were chafing impatiently behind her, and the officer, in his hurry to see her go, turns and trips over mum's ample bottom, bent to retrieve her case.

After the mass of officer, case and mum had been restored to their upright status, we proceeded, if a trifle sheepishly, towards the exit, the hapless officer, having hurriedly retreated to the rest room to avoid the sniggering mass of humanity in his wake.


With dad, she had gone to Jeddah for The ritual of Umrah, literally the mecca of muslim pilgrimage. Wearing 'ehraam' ( a set of two sheets covering the top and bottom half of the body, with nothing, and i mean NOTHING else ) would render  any man irritable. My dad was the coolest, mildest person you ever knew. That is in normal circumstances. Add a custom officer, endless immigration lines, and an overtly cautious custom officer, flinging peoples' belongings around like confetti and the 'ehraam ? If, dear reader, you have been to the circus, and chanced to see the ringmaster free the lion, who then jumps on him and proceeds to run amok, you will know what i mean. He stormed to the head of the line, grabbed the bloke and proceeded to give him a verbal lashing, which fortunately for him was in English, not the officers' strong point. The man frowned, then struck his forehead in inspiration as he saw dad  gesturing wildly and clutching onto the bottom half of his ehraam.The next thing she knew, her dad had been escorted to the nearest restroom, still protesting vigorously, while she and her mum went equally mad, thinking that he had been arrested.


To revert to the present, it was with beating, nay wildly beating heart that she made her way to the nearest line for immigration. As her turn neared, she was amazed to see the courtesy with which all the passengers were being handled by the officer. Breathing a sigh of relief, she surged ahead. Finally she stood, in front of the actually very good looking blonde man, the officer, who smiled a warm smile and wished her a "top of the morning, ma'am." All her fears laid to rest, she beamed back at him. He smiled a  still warmer smile then held out his hand. Blushing she made to put hers in it, when he laughed a little and said softly, "Your passport please."

The passport ? "Ah, yes. Sure. My passport." The.. the  thing that she had had with her when she boarded, the thing that she had sworn to protect with her life to her neurotic parents. The thing that she was going frantic trying to find. She scrabbled on hands and knees, she searched high and low. A high pitched voice from behind her said plaintively, " Miss ! Miss ! Is this yours ?  I found it behind you.You must've dropped it." She looked up, a bedraggled mess, to  see this thin beanpole of a man, holding out the blessed passport. As she grabbed it with a whoop of joy, she looked around her to see the officer looking around him, a bewildered expression on his face, at the collection of woman things, including sanitary napkins lying strewn at his feet.  Going red in the face, she was on hands and knees again, grabbing her things, pushing them all back in the bag, as well as hiding her mortified face from the people sniggering behind her.

Airports ? Nah. She thought to herself. Why fight genetics.  From now on it was the train for her. Forevermore. For better or for worse.  

What Lies Within

Genteel. That was the one word in a nutshell that described him. In his late sixties, his was the face ones eyes went to, instinctively, when one entered the bank. Assistant manager said the job description plate on his desk. Easily the go to guy, for anyone with a problem. Always helpful. Unwaveringly courteous. No matter how agitated or belligerent the customer, his soothing yet authoritative voice, the sensitive handling of the matter, the look of perceptive understanding on his face always righted the situation.

Mr. Basu. He had worked his way up the ladder slowly. Over the years. From lowly cashier to PR, to head of PR. Many many years. A lifetime of hard work. His affable exterior disguised his ambition, as he rose up the echelon. Only one person stood before him and his promotion as the head. The manager of the bank. The nadir of his success. But he was a patient man. Hardworking and patient. Two qualities that had stood him in good stead.

At home, his life was tranquil. A devoted wife, with whom he had spent the golden years of life. They had raised two lovely children. Boys, both who now did him proud. One was a doctor, the other a journalist. At present, his wife having died the past few years, he was lonely, but content to play with his grandchildren. A nondescript man, you would say. Leading a nondescript life. Like so many on God' earth. Until that fateful day.

He had got up late. Monday. The first day of the week. By the time he reached the bank, he was late by a good thirty minutes. " Hey, babumoshai, " The not- so- young security guard stood up, his hand raised in an old worldly salute, "You are late today, " Basu frowned and peered at him. Was he daring to mock him ! Without replying, he proceeded towards his desk. As he prepared to sit down, he noticed that almost all of them were staring at him. His frown turned into a glare, as he turned to his secretary and snapped ( again, most unusual for him ) "Ki ? Shudu adh ghanta der hoyeche. Shorir kharap hoi na tor loker kokhon ? ( What ? I'm late by just a half hour. Don't you people ever fall sick ) His secretary shook her head mutely. Then nodded towards the cabin. The general manager's cabin. "They are waiting for you, sir." As he looked up, he saw a small group of three clustered in the office. The regional head accompanied by a young suited booted fellow and the manager. As the adrenalin started pumping within him, his mouth went dry.

He entered the office. The trio turned. "Ah, babumoshai. Kemon aacho ? " (How are you ?) Was there censure in his tone or had he imagined it ? His anxious eyes scanned the RM's face. "I'm fit sir, absolutely." he tried to make his voice sound more robust. Then curtly, turning away from him, the RM continued, " Meet your new manager. Mr. Sen." he indicated the suited fellow standing by his side. The next few minutes were a blur. He somehow managed to look stoic, resigned, when inside he was sick. As the two left, he emerged ashen faced and went to his desk. "Jol khaben ? "  (Will you have some water? ) The sympathy  in the secratary's voice was more than he could take. Struggling to regain some measure of control, he shook his head and moved towards the exit. A cluster of clerks turned rather guiltily away. His bete noir, the security guard drawled on seeing him, "What?  Leaving already Saar ? You must be sick today."

When the police arrived, they found him standing stunned. The gun belonging to the guard lay on the ground, as did the guard. His voice had an unreal quality about it when he spoke. " I must have done it sir. I'm sorry." Then sinking to the ground, eyeing the petrified office staff huddled behind their desks, almost speaking to himself, he said softly, "So very very sorry." He lifted up the gun, and before anyone could stop him, he pulled the trigger. The bullet went cleanly thru his tortured brain.

Indeed he had been sick that day, was the feeling all around later, or else babumoshai ? And anger ?

The Eyes.

All the seats were occupied, when he got in. An imposing figure. He was stout, thirtyish. Jet black hair, neatly gelled into place. Dark glasses shielding his eyes. The smart jacket in contrast to his work worn jeans. As he strode towards the wheel, and eased himself into the driver's seat, even the grandma's in the bus let out a sigh. Far cry from the drivers in their own country, India. Many a female  heart skipped a beat as he looked up into the rear view mirror, found almost the entire crowds eye's on him, and smiled. As if he knew the effect he was having on everyone. He knew the effect he was having on everyone. "Hi." The rich baritone befitted the man. It enhanced the persona, the sheer confidence that he oozed. Leaning forward, on the wheel, he continued, still holding onto everyone's gaze. "I'm Randy. I'm going to be your driver for this trip. I hope you enjoy it. There a few ground rules that Praveen here will explain to you."  The accent was polished, and to their ears, even exotic. As he sank back, giving centre stage to the tour guide, he looked into the rear view mirror, and squarely met her eyes.  The placid gaze turned to something akin to surprise, as their eyes met.

Chemistry. That which is defined as instant attraction between two people. As their gaze continued to hold, Praveen coughed lightly, bringing Randy back from his near reverie. He smiled and started the bus. The bus had started from London, and within the course of the next twenty days would wend itself through Europe. Eight countries. It certainly would not be boring, as it usually was, he decided. Now and then, he would allow himself to look into the mirror. Rich, dark brown curls blew around the curve of a dusky cheek. The eyes were liquid brown. He drove a little quicker, hoping to see her outside of the seat at the first halt that they made. They reached the hotel. The bus came to a halt. As the passengers rushed towards the door, propelled by full bladders as much as excitement, he was courtesy itself, proferring his hands to help the jet lagged travellers to alight. She was the last to alight. His attention caught momentarily by an old lady, he looked up to find her above him, so close he caught his breath at the face. Almost within touching distance. " Excuse me please ?" The melliflous voice belonged to her he realised. Hurriedly he held out his hands. The soft fingers barely touched his, as she got off the bus. Their was amusement in her eyes, as she realised the effect she was having on him. "Aarti." The voice was that of the old lady's. " Cmon, child." He felt, rather than saw her going away from her.

She walked slowly towards her grandma. Randy stood as if turned to stone. She was young. In her early twenties. An innate grace, an air of tranquility almost, separated her from the rest. As the days went by, he was more and more taken by her. By the fifth day, he would smile at her warmly, wish her  a good morning, to which she would give a soft reply and a small smile. The rest of the passengers too, were smitten by her, but she stayed aloof. Often, he would find her sitting completely still, staring into space, as if in a trance, as if she were a yogi. Randy found himself intrigued, thinking about her, studying her as she sat behind him. The grandmother on the other hand was gregarious, talking to her co passengers, sharing food and thoughts with them.

So the days passed. Randy waited for an oppurtune moment to strike up a conversation with her. She always eluded him, holding back or hurrying forward, while he tended to the others, almost as she were avoiding him. On the thirteenth day of the tour, they were in tranquil Switzerland. The beauty of the snow capped mountains towering over the serene, green fir treed landscape lightened the spirits of even the most seasoned travellers amongst them. Young and old alike frolicked on the Jungfrau mountain side. He was amused to see most of them clad from head to toe in the warmest of thermals, until his eyes fell on her. Clad in a thin sweat shirt, atop figure hugging jeans, she drew the eyes of most of the young crowd huddled in the snow.

The scream startled all of them. A small child of about four, dangled precariously from a small rock below the fenced embankment. The child must have slipped thru the bars and tumbled down the rock face. Like a slow motion movie, the mother lunged ahead, the terrified face of the child as she clung desperately to the rock brought the crowd to a stand still, as most people raced ahead to help. The desparate mother, ashen faced beseeched the child to hang on. As the emergency services swung into action, a small figure expertly and swiftly scaled the rock surface. Randy sprang forward as he realised who it was, who was racing to the child's rescue. The terrified scream rang out again as the small, numbed fingers of the child released their hold.

The terror on the mother's face turned to relief,as she realised that having reached the embankment below, the climber had caught the child even as she fell.

The child restored to her mother, the crowd clustered around the heroic figure of her rescuer, who strangely enough, after her initial calm had collapsed in a heap on the snow.The crumpled, delicate frame of the woman shook, as her grandmother sat beside her clasping the sob wracked figure to her bosom. Eventually, regaining her composure, the duo moved slowly towards the bus, as the crowd regained its holiday mood and spirit of adventure.

As they sat in the bus, Randy offered a bottle of water. Her eyes deep pools of pain, she spoke softly to  her grandmother, who then explained, " Her child was as old as the other, when she drowned. She was the spitting image of her mother, and an expert swimmer. But Aarti was unable to save her. Though she was sitting just by the pool, she got distracted momentarily, by a call from her work place. She never forgave herself, even though her husband eventually did. So here we are, trying to get away from it all." The sadness in the old lady's moist eyes, was almost palpable  " I'm fine now, naani. I really am." She spoke slowly, yet her melliflous voice was strong. "Today was a catharsis for me. God gave me a chance to save that little life, and i'm so grateful. Maybe now i can get on with the rest of my life." So saying she reached out a hand to Randy, as he took it within both of his, and raised it to his lips. Just for a moment they seemed to look right into each other's soul. Then she withdrew it hurriedly. " Can we please take a flight back to India tomorrow ? " Sorrowfully, he agreed.

The rest of the trip was uneventful. For Randy, his eyes kept searching for that one pair of mesmerising eyes. Eyes that had the power to reach his soul. Eyes that he would perhaps search for, for the rest of his life.

The Land Of His Birth

"Ai birru...The voice behind him was rough, guttural. As he turned to look back, a gentle nudge in the ribs egged him on. Then, exasperation writ clearly on his face, the man said, " Utarne ka hai k nai. Train akkha dinnaj idhar nai rukne wala  kya ?" As he hurriedly hopped off, the crowd in front of him surged ahead, almost pushing him back into the train, from which he had alighted. A timely yank from his bete noir, turned guardian saved him from that fate. "Kya Sir," the man chided, "Ye Bambai hai. Sub ko ghai rehta hai na, gutter main jitna keera nai, utna log rehta hai train main. " He laughed at his own wit. " Ok sir ? Bye, bye." So saying the man took off, blending in with the crowds. He stood getting his bearings. He was on Bandra station. Somewhere close by was his aunts' home.

Emerging from the station, he stood stock still. All around him was the stench of humanity in its various forms. A dog lay, asleep. Its body a muddy brown, from its foray into a pile of garbage seemingly extracted from a drain nearby, and left to rot. Beggars and vagrants, teemed all over the place, some asleep, some eyeing the crowds hurtling by. From fruits to underwear, caps to street food, everything was being pedalled in the narrow lane leading towards the main road. Drawing a deep breath, he moved as fast as he could towards the taxi stand. The first two cabbies, refused to ply by the meter. The third was ingratiatingly eager to have him. He smiled to himself as he pictured in his mind the crocodile he had seen in the zoo at Cologne. The one with it's mouth wide open. Almost hypnotising you to go close. He decided to walk it. Squaring his shoulders, holding tightly onto his haversack, he spent a minute, perusing the map of the city that he carried with him.

The small cry came from behind him. he turned around astounded to see nothing behind him, except for a garbage tin. Again the cry came. Persistant, breathless. To his horror he realised it was coming from the bin. Aghast, he hurried to it and quelling the nausea rising in his throat, he peered in. A small arm flailed out from beneath the unspeakably dirty refuge within. Furiously pushing it all aside, he plunged his hand in, even as the cry resounded again. Digging his hand in deeper, he first felt, then pulled out the small wisp of humanity, struggling to breathe. In wonderment, he looked at it. It was a girl. A tiny thing, abandoned to its fate. Struggling to control his tears, he almost tenderly wiped her wee body with his shirt. As fascinated as a father holding his newborn fot the first time, he looked down at her. Her bright eyes, huge, almost grey with the trauma she must have undergone, stared back dazedly at him. For a second, there were only two people in the world. Him and her.

" Apney India main aisaj hai, sirji. Jo nahi chahiye woh kachre main phenk dene ka." The wise words came from one of the crowd that had gathered around him.

It hit him hard. The pathos of his rescue. The tears flowed freely from his eyes, as he carried the child to the nearest hospital. Indeed, this India was alien to him. Having returned after a gap of nearly twenty years to his birth place, he realised that he could never belong here. He had been alienated. Forever.

What Would Roshan Say ?

Harried. Hurried. Like most housewives in the morning. "Hah. Homemakers ! is what Roshan would say. Big deal. " She scoffed to herself. "A servant is a servant by any name. Coming maaji, " she yelled across the house. " No need to shout, I"m not deaf !" exclaimed the old lady querelously. "Well, just a little hard of hearing," she admitted reluctantly. "Where's my hearing aid ? I can't seem to find it. " Smiling wryly, she pointed out that it was caught in maaji's hair. "Auntyji ! " The peremptory tones of the help resounded from behind her, "I'm leaving, you see to the kitchen now. You have to give me my pay tomorrow. With the raise."  Like a whirling dervish she was gone, the door slamming shut behind her. She glared at the shut door." Servants! What would Roshan say !"

"Maaaaa......!" The voice came from the bedroom. "What now !" muttering to herself, she hurried across to her son's room. The eleven year old, stood in front of the mirror. "Where's my gel ? And don't give me the ' You are too young to put gel ' spiel. All the boy's use it in my class." Sighing, she looked at him. "What will...."  "Roshan say ! " He completed her sentence for her. "I need it by tomorrow, okay ? Let me have the money by evening please." Another door slammed in her face.

 So the morning led to afternoon. "This bhaaji, is too bland, bahu. What would Roshan say, if you gave him this tasteless mess for lunch ?" She looked down at her one roti, in which the offending bhaji was wrapped. "Eat it maaji. " she said quietly. "It's good for you." The old man seated across the table looked up. " Eat it," he commanded his sullen wife. "It's much better than what you used to cook. You eat too, bahu," he said gently, noticing the hidden tear trembling within her lustrous eyes. "Roshan always says you are a fabulous cook. " The meal over, she retreated to her room, even as the television blared in maaji's room.

" Hey, baby, look what i have for you, " The deep baritone belonged to Roshan. As he dangled the watch she had long sighed over in the showroom, before her, she leapt up with a squeal of delight. The twinkle in his eyes, the love that shone in them added to her joy, as he gently took her wrist in his hand and strapped the watch on to it. Her eyes misted over as she went into the receeses of her memory hunting for sustenance, succor. " Ma ? Look what i have for you !" The voice was so like that of Roshan, she jumped up, then realised it was her son, his son. The next minute he was on the bed, arms wrapped around her, clumsily trying to wipe her eyes. " I'm there, no ? You just wait until i grow up, i' ll earn so much money, you will never have to do any housework at all, ever.I can't take dad's place," his voice choked a little, then hurriedly recovered. Now cheer up, do.." He beseeched. "Here! I brought   you your favorite ice cream. Choconut. As she smiled amidst her tears, they sat mother and son, mourning the man they had both loved. Clinging on to each other and his legacy of love.