Introduction of self to the class.

Topic to be spoken on..viz..The advent of and A short history of Dawoodi Bohras in Mumbai

" The attractions of the city to Muslims is evident from the facts that state that between 1840 and 1915 Bombay became the third largest city in the British Empire, the largest port in Asia and , after overtaking Calcutta, the industrial center of all India and the economic center of the west
Indian Ocean. From the beginning of its great expansion around 1840, Bombay drew Muslims as diverse as the merchants and political exiles of Iran and the rural poor of the surrounding country in the Gujrat and the Konkan, in fact from all over India.

 From mid century onwards, its growth came to rely on migrant labor from its continental hinterland, creating not only a muslim labor force but a huge market demand for religious production. which continues to this day. Entire markets sprang up and continue to do huge business in RIDAS, as we call the purdahs that bohra women wear, as well as every conceivable kind of religious requirement. Not only are these goods in demand locally but also supplied worldwide from The United States to the middle east and Africa

In 1850 Bombay was already home to around 100,00 muslims. Yet, historian Nile Green says that Bombay was not an indiscriminate Muslim melting pot in which difference was dissolved into a single homogenous Muslim community demanding a single formation of their faith.

In its cosmopolitan environment, different Muslims protected their customary community boundaries. Bombay's distinct 'Mohalla ' quarters housed separate 'Jamaats' or communities of Mongol, Irani, Habashi, Konkani, Pathan, Hadhrami, Memon, Khojas and of course, the Dawoodi Bohras.

Each community had its own 'Masjid' where the members offered prayers and held discourses, specially in the months of Ramazaan and Moharram. Each community even had their own version of the Arabic calenders. and its own Jamaatkhanas where religious or celebratory feasts were held. They were all classed as Muslims but the different sects follow their own rules, marry mostly within their own and keep their working  and religious lives in similarly communitarian distinction.. All of this justifies that Islam is not a single monolithic faith. It also shows the variety of Islamic sects that made Bombay their home.

Of the Bohra community The Gazeteer says, "The Bohras are the descendants of the Fatemite Khalifa of Egypt in the fourth and fifth centuries of the Muhammedan era. The community comprises four main divisions, vis., Sunni, Aliya, Dawoodi and Suleimani, of which the Dawoodi is numerically the largest and separated itself from the suleimani,which is the smallest, about 300 years ago, owing to a dispute as to who was the rightful Dai, or leader. The section favoring the claims of Dawood came to be known as the Dawoodi Bohras.

The term 'Bohra' is derived from the Gujrati VOHORVU or VYAVAHAAR meaning to trade. From Saurashtra and Kutch, Kathiawaar and and Surat, the Gujrati speaking trading castes began flooding into Bombay from mid 18th century onwards. It also was significant that the seat of the Daawat shifted in about 1815 to Bombay. This led to an even greater influx of bohras coming and settling in Bombay as their Dai, their spiritual head encouraged them to invest in small businesses often giving them interest free loans and advice on how to go about it. Education for both boys and girls is encouraged. Deserving students are provided loans, again interest free for education abroad and for setting up small industries.

In the 1700's Surats decline of an important centre of trade and industry, the incentives given and business oppurtunities proved a draw. For the Dawoodi Bohras, the city also seemed to offer escape from the religious persecution of the Sunni  sultans of Gujarat. The famines of 1790, 1813 and 1877-79 in Kutch and Kathiawaar also made them flee their native lands. They were attracted by the wealth that could be made here and joined the floods of migrants flooding the city which was booming because of the cotton trade and the share mania.



The Bohras are essentially a business class, though in todays day and age they have aspired to and scaled the heights of most professional careers. Bohras originating from small towns of Gujrat and Kathiawar, spread far and wide in search of livelihood. Bombay because of its vast business oppurtunities attracted many small town first generation Bohras. They came to Bombay with very little material possessions. Armed with only their dreams of making it big, they came seeking employment and starting off as Feriwalas, house to house vendors carting different goods. They lived in the homes of relatives or on room sharing basis often seeking food and security from the various masjids in their vicinity.

The Bohras established themselves as itinerant peddlars, who would buy all kinds of goods at auctions and go door to door selling them. Travel writers like James Maclean drew up intresting pen portraits of the Bohra peddler, quote," Unpacking bales of cloth for inspection of the ladies of the house and with marvellous patience, never uttering a word by way of complaint even if after all their goods have been displayed, nothing is bought." He goes on to describe the Bohra traders wares as quote," jewelry from Trichinopoly and Delhi, London and Paris; shawls from Kashmir and Amritsar
Rampore Chudders, Dacca muslins, Cutch and Kashmir silver and gold work, silk and satin from China and Europe, carnalians and agates, curbuncles, pearls rubies and  diamonds.."

So taken up was Lady Amelia Falkland by the Bohra traders that her journal on Bombay published in 1857 was titled "Chow- Chow" after the Bohra vendors 'Chow- chow' or mixed oddment bag, famed for having within its depths from quote, " Pins, ribbons and hair dyes, to a copy of 'Uncle Toms cabin', and bottles of anchovy sauce and Wiltshire Cheese."

The coming of shops however pushed the peddlers out of existance, tho some of them moved on to other lucrative businesses likeretailinf foodstuffs, hardware, provisions, tin works, glassware, shoes, perfumes, perfumery, saddles and harnesses. The Northern end of Fort, in mumbai, is srill called Bora Bazaar after the large number of Bohras who set up shop there.

Sameera Khan says, that their enterprising spirit remained and manifested itself in multiple business dealings. When kerosene began to be imported in tins they began to buy up empty tins cases at 2 and 2 and a half annas each and fashion them into lanterns, kerosene lamps, cash boxes, travelling trunks and oil and ghee pots.

Maclean gives a lucid description of the Muslim quarters in the city in 1877 quote " Immediatly north of the Fort is Sheikh Abdul Rehman Street, Masjid Bunder and Dongri. These are the Muslim quarters of the towns. Streets are full of shops kept by the Bohras for the retail sale of furniture, clothing, cutlery.."

Walter Hamilton, in 'A Description Of Hindoostan' 1820, wrote " the remarkable race of men named the Bohras, who although Mahomeddans in religion, are almost Jews in manners and genius. They form everywhere a distinct community and are everywhere noted for their proficiency in bargaining, minute thrift and constant attention to lucre.."

According to the 1872 census of Bombay city and Island, in the city's Muslim population there were 7.94% bohras. Today, their number has grown vastly. From the inital 'muslim' areas they are now spread all over the city and its suburbs. By the late 19th century, some Bohra families, could be counted among the richest in the city. Akberallys and Monginis became household names. Wockhart and Saify Hospitals can be counted among the state of the art hospitals in Mumbai. Living by the principles taught by their Dais, they have prospered and given back to Society.The SBUT project stands tall among the cluster developments in the city, being upheld by the prime minister Narenra Modi as worthy of emulation elsewhere in the country. Whether the Swachh Bharat campaign or the Save the sparrow campaign, bohras have participated enthusiastically. The birthday of their Dai, is often celebrated by planting of many saplings . The first generation Bohra left behind a legacy of enterprise which has enabled future generations to go from strength to strength. Bohras, distinct in their colorful ridas, the men clad in kurtapyjama and  long white overcoat called the saya are a ubiquitous part of the city. Their priorities lie in education and business, and so their uplift has been swift. Many Bohra schools even at a mohalla level ensure education for the not so well off, be it Bohra or otherwise. MSB, the school set up in Mazgaon imparts quality education.

Children hence imbibe the moral and spiritual values of their forefathers and grow up to be responsible members of society. They are a part of the vast Muslim brotherhood, but remain individualistic in that they are more liberal. Women stand alongside their men, as eduacated and as career oriented as the men. In fact many ladies and gentlemen from the 1940's are an alumnus of this very college ! They have the best of both worlds, often choosing their own partners or settling down in arranged marriages.

So in ending i think you will agree with me when i say, the Bohras came.. and conquered.. But unlike Alexander the great, they made Bombay their home, and are determined that this marriage of geography and enterprise will have a happily ever after..

Thank you.

Come Into My Parlor...

Bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see. Some were behind light curtains, some had been placed in a sitting position. Some of them had white faces, some were green, some the colour of earth. All of them were clad in white.  My five year old recoiled, buried her head in my thigh, and clung on to the rest of the limb for dear life.
"Mama..! " she muttered, " There are no sleeping beauties here only ghosts ! Co..Co.. Come on lets get out. " She tugged at the afore mentioned limb as hard as she could, trying to get us to leave.
I started to shush her up, trying to explain the whole concept of a parlor to her. Titters rose from all around us, the 'dead ' bodies having come to life at her words. Added to that must have been the sight of myself, trying to balance on one leg, the other flailing in the air even as the tot refused to relinquish it.

Teetering and shouting at her, the inevitable happened. I lost my balance ending up clutching at a chair to avoid falling. Unfortunately the chair had a body.. errr.. lady  in it. Lulled no doubt by the soothing hands of her masseuse, she had dropped off to sleep. The next thing she knew she had been whirled around a couple of times, make that six. The combined shrieks of the lady, myself, the kid, and the rest of the ladies who had been in serene repose up until then, had a passing police man burst in. To which the shrieks grew louder, as the half clad ladies rose as one, sheets clutched to chest.

My first instinct had been to grab the kid and flee, but struck by conscience and horror, mostly the latter, i stood rooted to the spot, the kid clutched possessively to my chest.
 After profuse apologies, and half baked stuttered explanations on my part, some normalcy was restored. The good humored among the ladies, were convulsed with laughter, the morose, indignant ones muttered darkly, glaring at my kid whose face was buried somewhere deep among an unmentionable part of my anatomy.

"Ai there, Anna ! See what madam wants," the command came from the tall lady, surrounded by minions. The owner of the parlor, she had had her work disrupted, but had been gracious enough to not chase us out forthwith. A hay stack, or rather a hair stack on the floor rocked. From behind it a young girl arose hurriedly. Apparently, she had sought refuge behind the stack when the policeman had barged in. A peremptory "Anna !" had her hurriedly say," Ya madam, what do you want done ? "

I emerged from the parlor with a brand new hairstyle, my joey, still clutching my pouch in a death grip.

"What happened, " exclaimed the hubby when he saw us. "I thought you had gone to have the baby"s hair cut.." Sinking down onto the sofa, I muttered, "It's a long story.." 

'Hairy' Tales.

"Poor thing, " The lady standing beside me whispered, "She has no mum,"
Shocked I looked first at the girl, then at the bengali lady,who had spoken to me.
"What ?!" I exclaimed, "But I just saw her mother yesterday. Whatever happened to her ?"
"Oh ."She muttered apologetically. "Nothing, Nothing. I just assumed... You see her hair is not oiled, and just a loose pony tail, so i assumed.."
My bemused glare had her scuttling away from me, still muttering about irresponsible,socialite, lazy mothers who had no time to oil their kids hair even in school.

What is it with Indian moms and oiled hair I wondered . My thoughts went back to my own childhood. Ever since i could remember, my hair had been oiled and plaited into two neat plaits. Both us sisters had waist length hair. For the first fifteen years of life, at least, that hair had always,but always, been oiled and plaited. It didn't help that our neighbours were Sardars. Leave alone the women, on Sundays when the men washed their hair, one had to look twice to make out girl from boy !
 After a head wash in the mornings, ma would sit us down and by evening, the two inevitable plaits were firmly in place. We knew no other hairstyle. We must have all looked like clones in school, Short girl, tall girl, fat girl, thin girl, fair girl or dark, Hindu or Muslim or any other ! Except for the Chinese girls, we all wore oiled plaits. As for the Chinese, they had such beautiful sleek straight hair, never a single hair was out of place, so it looked oiled. Anyway, they were Chinese were they not, Even if their five generations had lived in India !

I don't believe I have ever seen a Bengali girl without oil in her hair, and I lived in Kolkata for the first twenty years of life. Occasionally, they would, of course, go entirely bald, believing that the hair would grow back stronger. There was this girl in class, when I was in junior college, who was the top scorer. Short and nondescript, owly glasses perched on a small nose, but with the ability to work hard and long. Her hair was the only vanity she indulged herself in, Long and straight, and always, what else ? Oiled. One day, we got our mid term results. Of course, she had top scored again, but only in maths and science ! In English, someone had scored better than her. The next day, I breezed into class, of course Sushmita, the nerd, was already present. The "Hi..!" I had begun to shout out, died in mid word as I beheld her head, sedately covered with a scarf, tied neatly under the chin.

"Sushmita ! What happened, " I cried out. She looked up, benevolent smile in place, "Shaved my head, " she answered mildly, as if it was the most normal thing to do and why was I so shocked. But shocked was not the word for what I felt. Touching my plaits possessively, I was apalled.  Never, not ever, would I ever do that. To my vain teenage self it was the ultimate desecration. But it set me thinking. Why was I not making the most of my hair ? Why did I have to oil it everyday ? So when mum asked me to sit down to oil my hair the next time, I balked a little. Looking intently at her face, I stuttered, "Ma, i dont want to oil it..." Seeing the horrified look, quickly changing it to.."For one day. Please. " Ma's expression was so bemused, bordering on the comical, that before she had the time to think, I was gone. Thus far and no further. The next day, the plaits were oiled and happy again. Truth be told, so was I. My head was much cooler that way .

Cut to circa 2015 and my daughter the rebel. Up until the time she was in school, she was perpetually in two. Plaits i mean. That lasted as long as teenage hit. Then the hair started becoming shorter and shorter, until the day, we had a what-the-hell impulse where she got up from the parlor chair, her hair cut shorter than the average boy ! A fallacy that since most boys prefer to grow their hair when they rebel !

So we live. A happy daughter and a defensive mother. Since the fateful day when we left most of her hair in the parlour, she and I have become the cynosure of most eyes. The old looking accusingly at me, while the younger lot open their eyes wide and go "Oh, your mother let you do THAT ! " envy writ large on their faces.

The day might just come when i join her, more out of necessity than rebellion. The only thing holding me back is my mother. I'm sure she will tear her hair out in despair, so i would rather not split hairs and keep mine. !

This Her Childhood.

The surgery had drained her. She lay in a an alien world, within an alien body. The only sensation was of pain. Pain that was all consuming, that seemed to be devouring her. In a haze of medication and alternating between consciousness and blackouts, she wondered how she had ever got there. Who had trapped her, more vital, how on earth would she escape. She opened her mouth to scream.

But the screams were already resounding in the room and penetrating her consciousness. Then she saw her. The tiny five year old being wheeled in to her twin sharing room. Strapped to her hand was an I V. From somewhere behind her back emerged coils of tubing leading down to drains, affixed to the tubes. The paraphenalia emerging from her body seemed to be larger- and heavier- than her body even.

Pinky, or Kuku, as her parents called her was born prematurely in the thirty second week of pregnancy. Her young parents, for whom she was the second daughter, their elder child was a normal healthy ten year old, doted on her.She was a tiny ethereal little thing, and there was such little hope that she would survive even. "Kachre ke dibbey main phek do," was the brutal opinion of the head nurse, which the mother overheard . As if to prove her wrong, she lived and kept living until a pediatrician, a relative, was able to call a neo natal specialist who gave her the vital injections needed to get her lungs to work.

But there her battles did not end. Nor did her ability to survive each and every crisis that came her way. Each time the doctors gave up on her, like a baby Phoenix, she rose from the ashes. If it was her eyes that needed attention one year, it was her liver the next, and her kidneys the next. The last time had been her gravest challenge yet. She kept getting fevers, which were eventually diagnosed as a reflux of urine back into the kidneys because of a blocked ureter. This needed a minor operation for which she now had been admitted.

Selfishly, when i learnt that a baby had been admitted into the other half of my daughters room, i was alarmed. How would there be the peace and quiet, she needed to recuperate if their was a wailing or naughty kid in an adjoining bed. Should there not be a paediatric ward in the hospital i questioned.

The vagaries of misfortune and ill health throw together the most random of people in life. That has been my experience in the multiple times i have been to hospital as a companion for various family members. Also people who are nervous and scared for their loved ones, bored too i guess, with the endless hours of waiting in shared rooms where nothing, from ablutions to conversations on finance remain confidential, take to strangers readily. Kindred souls in suffering, tho strangers otherwise, they pour out their fears, in fact their entire life stories to each other, the anonymity acting as a catharsis.

So when the child's grandma, with total disregard for privacy, peered into our section of the room, i turned into a cold, discouraging alien, who answered all her queries about my child in a cold off hand fashion. I also requested her to maintain silence, to keep the child quiet as my daughter needed rest.

She nodded sympathetically, and for the rest of the day, there was total silence, hushed whispers were all we heard.  Some part of my mind registered that even the child was whispering only. Which Five year old is so good, i thought to myself. After one more day of model behaviour, i was defeated. Curiosity getting the better of me, i stepped into their side of the ward. Their she lay. a small fragile thing clad in hospital robes. A small face with the most brightest of eyes. Light brown hair, framing a delicate profile. A small toy in her hand had her engrossed. I tried talking to her, she hid behind her mum, answering in small whispers.

The next day, the child was wheeled in for surgery. When she was brought back, it was imperative that she be kept lying on her side, so we tiptoed around our respective spaces, hoping the sedation would last for a few hours. By evening tho she started to come around and that was when the screams started. Sedated again, she slept, getting up occasionally and repeatedly asking for water. Her vigilant grandma and mother took it in turns to keep her distracted. Amazing child that she was. she heard them out then would keep quiet dozing off again. On asking i was told, that she had been to hospitals so many times that she was used to it all !

Day turned to night. Anguished about our respective children, an uneasy silence fell as we slept, our senses alert should the children awake. Every time she would moan, her grandma would pat her down, Morning dawned and the nursing staff descended on us. The child screamed as her I V's were shifted from one hand to another. Unable to bear it, i asked her mum to lift her up and take her out of the room. Distracted, the child quietened down. That entire day, the child did whatever the parents asked her to. Gradually, they gave her water, liquids. Once, only the granny was there with her when she threw up. The cleaning staff took almost thirty minutes to come, during which the small figure sat patiently with her granny clutching on to her, seated precariously on a chair. Come evening, the physiotherapists arrived. My daughter was taken outside the room with her IV's trailing her. As she walked the corridor, a small figure emerged behind her also trailing IV's..

Returning to the room, my daughter was in acute pain. As a mother, i could feel the tears in my eyes, as she battled pain and depression.  How would she recover ? How would i get her back on her feet ? Suddenly i heard a soft little voice, singing an all too familiar song. The baby behind the curtain was crooning " We shall overcome, We shall overcome.." softly to herself ! In a flash, i tore aside the curtain, and together we sang that inspiring song, our troubles receding, our souls uplifted, our burden of pain, much the lighter.

How fair was life, how did the Gods allow such a small child to be stuck in a quagmire of hospitals and medicines. Why was her older sister leading a perfectly normal life while this little scrap of humanity laboured to survive. Day after day.. Was this her childhood, a boon  in that she was alive, or was it a cruel affliction, that robbed her of the joys, and unfettered liberties due to such small children.. ? Who is to judge ? Who is to decide ?  

The Lost World

Once upon a time there was an innocent world....


She sat benumbed on her prayer mat. The picture on the mantlepiece across looked back at her. The child in the picture was the picture of pure innocence. A small shy little boy bravely facing the cameraman. Tousled soft brown hair, sunshine angled at the lens so that the face was half illuminated, half in shadow.  How she loved the picture, how she had loved the child, as had everyone around them.

"Oi Mukhtaarey ! " resonated around the house, as she chased him across the rooms, trying to get him to finish his milk. "Oi maaaaa... Pehley dhoond to sahi mujhko.." the little boy would chortle, as his mum pretended to search for him...

The first day of school. His Abba and his mum, holding onto his little fingers, as he wrapped them tightly around theirs, refusing to let go. Where had time flown. Childhood evolved into teenage. The child who had been content to listen to bedtime stories, now preferred his laptop to his mum. She who anxiously still queried his meals, only to be told brusquely that she need not bother. He still could not sleep without hugging her tho, and she sought solace from his friends mums who reassured her that their children did just the same.

He had been her only child, and they had tried to give him the best that life had to offer. Being Muslim and young was no longer easy, in an increasingly hostile world. She knew that he spent long hours discussing the scenario abroad, the US, Australia, even France, after the Charlie Hebdo attacks. That he had made it abroad, to a university of his choice, in spite of it all, showed his dedication to his studies. How proud she was of him !

Yet. Within her heart she knew. They lived in a dangerous world. The internet had brought home all the angst and violence that prevailed in the world. How safe was he, was a question she asked herself everyday. All it would take was one zealot, one madman, one racist police officer, one shot from one gun. Everyday anxiously they waited for night and the skype, to reassure herself he was alive and well. His choice of subject did not help. Journalists were constantly at risk of life and limb.

Where was the world of her youth ? Where did the innocence go ? Questions that she asked herself often. The only rebellion then had been a stolen ice cream, a party with girlfriends on the sly. Fathers word was law. For her and her brother. Marriage was a happy arrangement. Maybe the thought that it was for keeps brought security and love. A journey she was contented to share with a good man who cherished and loved her. Of  the child she beget him. The son who grew up happy. Until the advent of the computer. That it made a recluse of him, she could forgive, that it took her away from them, opened up the vistas of wild and dangerous adventure, she never could. Yet if she was to keep up with him, she needed it. Vitally.

 Then  it happened. For the next five days there was no contact. Skype, phone calls, even e mails were not responded to. Only after she had panicked and called her cousin there, did he call her. The call came from an unknown number. An he told her that she was not to contact him. He would whenever he could. When she demanded to know why, he impatiently replied that he was busy with exams, job interviews.

So she waited. Prayer beads in hand. These days, they were never far from her hands. Her otherwise carefree husband seemed to be retreating into his own world. He came and went, silent as a shadow. They avoided looking into each others' eyes, lest the fear she felt was reflected in his too. The tenth day, he came home with a ticket in his hands. He was off to the United States. To bring him back. Joy and trepidition, her heart filled with mixed emotions, but she was relieved that he was going.

The wait became longer. Her husband no longer picked up the phone too. And still she waited.

When the door bell rang, she went to answer it. Outside stood her son, and her husband. But why the wheel chair. A thousand questions shrieking in her mind, she gathered him in her arms, going down on bent knees to embrace him, their tears mingling within her dupatta.

The society he had joined, had demanded of him that he use his expertise to make a bomb. Oversee the explosion. He refused, his mothers love and anxiety had saved him in the end.  But he had to pay a price. The next day as he crossed the street, the car came swiftly, silently. He was thrown into the bushes nearby with the impact. When he came to, he lay in hospital. The stub of his amputated leg, a grim reminder of how lucky he had been.

His father had been called by his relatives to bring him back home. Back to the innocent world of his mother's love.

A Valiant Man

The trip to Ahmedabad had been uneventful,  pleasant even. Dad and mum, in their eighties now and Sakina were with me. After a halt at the Shrines of Syedna Kutbuddin Shahid, we rested and prayed. I was almost relaxed because this was the final leg of the journey. Dad walked slowly with the help of a walking stick. Afflicted with degeneration of the knee cartilage,he walked with a great deal of trouble. pain was a constant that he battled with pain killers.  

We reached the platform at about nine p m. The train was scheduled to leave at ten. Concerned a little about time i anxiously scanned platform l where the train was supposed to arrive. To my horror i was told it would only go to Platform Five instead. The coolie, with our considerable luggage started to run ahead, sakina in his wake. I started to hurry the parents towards a lift which would take us up to the footover bridge. Crowds notwithstanding we struggled slowly along. Dad must have been equally anxious, but was calm, concentrating on hurrying as much as possible.

After what seemed an interminable wait for the lift, we alighted on the footover, only to be faced with the prospect of a long stretch of corridor to take a lift down to the platform. Nine thirty. We were just descending on to the platform. Nine forty. We were finally on the platform with the train alongside us. B 2. B 2. Almost obsessively my mind repeated those words. The number of the bogey we were supposed to be in. Panic stricken we turned left and struggled along amidst the teeming crowds, Sakina was nonstop on the phone hurrying me on. All of a sudden i stopped. To my horror i realised we were heading right instead of left. Towards S 2. Panicked Ileft the parents and raced in the opposite direction, abandoning the folks, reaching the right bogey in a flash. Swinging up, my daughter took one look at my face and took off to find the folks. I collapsed on the seat, my entire body trembling with the surety that they would miss the train.

Five..... Minutes to ten. Anxiously peering from the door, i got a call. "Ma, put your head out. Do as i say. Fast." I did just that. Miraculously, dad's head emerged from the door of the adjacent bogey. Mum was pushed in literally, followed by dad. Finally in flew my brave daughter. Just as the whistle blew and the train started, we sat stunned and laughing almost hysterically. We had made it.

Sakina it seemed had the sense i lacked. Having flown across the entire platform, she had located the folks, and got them to climb in the nearest bogey. Then. pushing people aside, brandishing one of dads two sticks, she hurried them along until they reached B 2.

Having caught our breaths i anxiously turned to dad. Only allah knows how his feet must have pained him, Only Allah knows how tired he must have been. But nary a word of complaint from him. He kept reassuring me that he was fine. Everything was fine. Any other old person in his place would have blasted me off. Not my dad. That is the stuff he is made of. 

Wardrobe Malfunction !

Wardrobe Malfunction...Ah. Those words ! Man or woman, those words jumps out into the consciousness. Images of women clutching at falling dresses assails the voyeur in most all of us. But ah, gentle reader, this one, this blog is about malfunctions of a different kind. One only Indians are afflicted with. Bemused ? Don't be. I refer to the Indian dhoti. As worn by Indian men.

All of sixteen, I was. Travelling with an old highly possessive aunt, who glared at every male who happened to even look our way.  We had just landed at Ahmedabad station with only about fifteen minutes to catch our connecting train to Mumbai. Off we raced behind our spritely coolie, or raced as fast as her old legs and panting heart could carry us. Holding my hand firmly in hers, we trotted along, when suddenly she realised that a man was calling after us. Aunt looked back, consternation giving way to indignation as he waved at her. Clutching my hand tighter still, she forbade me from looking back and tried running faster still.

So off we sailed , trotting as fast as we could behind the coolie, with aunt darting killer looks at the now desperately running after us man.  In spite of myself I looked back. What I saw made me stop in my tracks . Skidding to a halt, dragging aunt also to a stop, I pointed behind us. Pulling at me,  her ranting stopped midway. The poor man's dhoti was caught in aunt's trailing purse. Clutching at his rapidly opening dhoti, the man gave a hard tug, dislodging the errant edge of cloth caught in the hook of  her purse. Glaring at her he whirled away, muttering expletives under his breath. A sheepish aunt tugged at my hand as we carried on towards our train. This time I trailed behind her. You see I was trying to run even as I clutched at my stomach, I was laughing so hard.

The rest of the people travelling with us thought us to be quite mad. Aunt and I. Every few minutes we kept bursting into giggles, aunt wiping tears of laughter rolling down her cheeks now that we were safely ensconced in our train.

Fast forward to 2014. My daughter had just joined college.  The admirable thing about this college was that many differently abled students were given seats.  In her first year, she was highly excited about a guest professor from abroad who would be giving them a lecture that day. He was an Indian and proclaimed himself thus, by his attire. A dhoti and kurta.

Anxious to meet him, she and a friend waited at the gates to catch a glimpse of him as he entered.  Expecting a venerable old man, to their consternation, in strode a youngish man in his thirties. However for some reason he seemed to be rushing in behind a student. Looking at their watches, they wondered why he was hurrying so much when there was still a good fifteen minutes to the lecture.

Their wonder  turned into peals of  quickly stifled laughter as they realised the reason for his haste.
Ahead of him walked a blind student in whose cane was caught that time bomb of a garment, his dhoti.  Fortunately, they reached the foyer where the student halted with the  harried professor in his wake. Catching hold of his shoulder, he made polite conversation with him while surreptiously  pulling his errant garment together.

So gentle reader, now you know why the Indian male abandoned this garment altogether. The imagination boggles at the plight of a local train jam packed with males wearing dhotis and trying to emerge from it with both dhoti and dignity intact !

Yours.. Mine.. Who's...???

The station, Mumbai Central, was its usual chaotic self. Locals,(as in trains) thundering in with throngs of people hanging on for dear life. The masses on the platform desperate to get in, surging ahead. Like grains of sand being brushed off, the train shed its passengers, amongst who was me. Heaving a sigh of relief, straightening my clothes and patting my hair in place i took a second to catch my breath.

Ahead of me people raced towards the exit. Joining them, i wondered why they were veering off into two branches, left and right, much like a  fast flowing river dividing into two before converging to  spew its waters or humans , into the ocean of people outside. Moving involuntarily to the right, thoughts racing faster than my legs, some part of my brain registered shock, horror. The obstacle that was dividing the river was a body. The body of a young man, lying inert on the platform. Withdrawing into myself, more emotionally than physically, i too prepared to race past. Curiosity , inherant in every human being, that which makes us look even while we withdraw  from a situation, a kind of latent guilt at not involving oneself, made almost every person going past, look at the man before rushing past. I, too, found myself looking down as i reached the man. A stranger, a drunk, a victim of violence an almost everyday occurence in our city. I expected to  witness all of this. What i saw, stopped me short. Jostled from behind, yelled at even, for stopping , i dropped down in front of the man. 

The child playing in the mohalla, was a boy of about six. A beautiful child. Gold brown glistening hair. Eyes of the same color. He played quietly, all by himself, running a small car around in circles. His mother, of whom he was a splitting image, sat across keeping a close eye on him. From my perch on my gran's home across, i too sat, reading a book. Compulsively my eyes would be drawn to him now and then. He was that pretty a child.  

After a few days of familiarising ourselves thus, i  exchanged smiles with the mother. I could see that her life revolved around him mostly. She never tired of sitting outside while he played, she fed him with the single minded devotion of a single parent. They would emerge together from the home whenever she went out, and return together. The house they lived in belonged to her mother, who was now too old to do much, except heave great sighs at the misfortune of having  her daughter return after a divorce. The daughter who ran her home for her, who had lived with her for most of her life, except the past eight years or so, was perceived  a burden. In those days, divorces were frowned upon, spoken of in hushed tones. Destiny was cursed, tho, and a home offered reluctantly to the woman, who was divorced and whose husband had abandoned both mother and child to marry again for love. Or lust.

I built up a rapport with both the mother and child. At seventeen, and  vacationing in the back of beyond town of Palanpur, i was studying and in total sympathy for her. The child was delightful. We played hide and seek, catch and cook and marbles. I would buy him biscuits or share a baraf gola with him. He would sit in my lap happily slurping away at the gola, while i hugged him and held him close. Why and how do we develop an affinity for some ? A latent maternal need ? Whatever. He was so easy to love, such a delight to talk to. Such a happy, good, little boy, who, if you loved him, would love you right back.

After the summer holidays were over for me, i left Palanpur. The next time, i returned was a good decade hence. As soon as i stepped into Gran's mohalla, my eyes sought out the lady across. How was the little chap. Surely a handsome teen. Truth be told, he was the one i had thought of often. How was life treating the mother and child ? How were  the two ? To my  great disappointment, the house was locked and barred. Looked uninhabited and ramshackle.

As soon as i could, i tackled Gran. She told me that the mother had remarried. The child she had loved, with all her heart and soul, she had left with her old mother. As time passed I continued to glean information about him. That he had set up shop in Madras. That he had married. Then disturbingly, that he was extorting money from his dad. That he was into drink. He see sawed between ups and downs. At some point he had cleaned up his act. Got married and had kids. I continued to get snippets of news. For a while he was stable. The wife and kids gave new meaning to his tortured life. This didn't last for long however, as he lapsed into drink and even worse.. drugs.

Absorbed in my own life, i relegated him to memory. Having come into some kind of contact with his dad, now married to a distant relative of mine ( his third wife) I knew he was a sober, responsible man. Guilty about his child,( he now had another son ) he bailed him out as often as he could. Sent him to rehab.
The wife, tiring of his misdeeds, left with the kids. Divorce meant he was foot loose and floundering once again.

It was his eyes, that stared at me now. His eyes from his lifeless face. I accompanied the police to the hospital. From there i contacted his father. Unable to come himself, (or was it unwilling to come?)  he asked a distant relative to complete the formalities. The timing was a kind of revenge he had taken on his dad. His half brother was getting married on that day. Dad. And Dead. Ever notice how only a small vow..el.. separates the two.

Two of us. The distant and the not so distant, for had i not always cared..., we took him to the masjid, from where they buried him. I wept then. Wept for a life not wanted, wasted, abandoned. Even by those who had given birth to him.

A Distant Past

 The view from the wimdows was panoramic. The sea, with its vistas of waves.. Ebbing and flowing, horizontally, stretching out endlessly, lay on one side. On the other, there were the skyscrapers. Stretching vertically, again endlessly up..Naina stood at the window, staring  out with unseeing eyes. An eagle soared in the skies, majestically, master of both land and sky. It swept over her head, as she stood. Its wing span, a huge brown blur, broke her reverie. With a start, she came back to the present. Ravi, lay on the bed. Slight snores indicated that he was fast asleep. Nearing the bed, she sat down beside him. Her face softened as she looked at him. In repose, at least, the frown lines were erased, giving his face a boyish look, belying his forty odd years. Tenderly, she touched his soft, black hair, sweeping it gently away from his face. If only, she thought to herself, life had been as idyllic as she had envisaged it. She loved him. Always had, since she had been a little girl and they  had lived and studied in the same neighborhood. When he married Divya, her whole world had come crashing down. Calling upon strengths of reserve she didnt even know she had, she attended his marriage. Died a thousand deaths seeing the elegant but shy bridegroom, so in love with his wife to be.  But even then she had known, somehow, that if she waited long enough, he would be hers.

In her heart she knew. Destiny would not be denied.

The years passed. Was she still in love with him ? She didnt know. All she knew was that she couldnt have stayed in the same city as him. So Mumbai became her new home. Time blurred her images. Of him. Of herself as she had been. Young, heart broken, with zero self confidence. Mumbai, that detached jungle, had been the saving of her. She got absorbed, its tentacles wrapped itself around her and the highs and lows of the stock market, the skills she learnt there put her back on her feet. No affairs for her. Her passion now was her work. As the years passed, she grew. Older, wiser, wealthier

No time for love. Parental pressures not withstanding she was not willing to give up her working life for marriage. At thirty five, everyone including herself, had given up on her getting married.

The day had been a very busy one. The markets had been on an upswing. She looked up as she heard her name being called. Then slowly rose to her feet. He stood there. Much the same, only more handsome with age. The callowness of youth replaced with a casual insouciance. Eyes riveted she could'nt tear them away from him, as he wended his way to her office. They stood smiling at each other, before he drew her into a hug, impulsively.

She dressed carefully that night.  It was her first date ever. With him. She got her reward when on opening the door, she heard him draw in his breath sharply. "You are still the most beautiful woman i know.." he said softly. "Liar." she reproached him.  "But I will admit its good to hear that from you.
You never saw me that way before."



Maybe distance does make the heart grow fonder. There we were, sitting across each other over a candlelight dinner. Friends from decades.. Yet strangers. Youth then and a mad passion, albeit one sided. A culmination of sorts, after two decades. The conversation flowed easily, like it always had between us. The difference now was the palpable undercurrents, the shaking of my knees, the slight tremor in his hand when he touched mine accidentally. Oh yes , a hitherto absent chemistry was in the
 air.

Reluctantly I asked about his wife. Then stopped him from answering. This evening was mine.. Ours. I was indulging a fantasy.

The night ended with him in my bed. But not quite as imagined. In the bathroom along with nature's call I  attended a  longish call from one of my investors. Emerging in my room I found
him fast asleep. All I had to do was to get in beside him. So why was I whiling time. Why was I not making the vital move.

He moved so that his back was now turned to me. I stared at him, the whole concept of having a naked man in my bed was so alien to me. Did I really want him there ?

The next day we sat across each other , yet again. Unfinished business I lied glibly. I'm really sorry. Maybe we could have dinner again sometime ? When he was next in town ? His eyes bore into mine.. My steady gaze must have convinced him for he left. I switched on the computer. Good gosh! The market was also cartwheeling towards the magic 25000 mark. I pulled my chair closer to the console. Im my heart was a strange kind of surge. Of pure happiness. I was the master of my ship.. The sole custodian of my destiny.

Sacrifice

Vulnerable. Why was I so vulnerable. I stood in front of the mirror, staring bitterly at my reflection. Forty going on twenty eight. Or so people told me, envy writ large on their faces.  If only they knew. Envy was something that ruled my life. That and frustration. Resentment. Guilt. These were my companions. day in and day out.

The mirror showed a petite fair woman. Long straight silken hair pulled back tightly across the nape. The figure was immaculate,  unspoilt by child birth. For I have no children. Married since I was twenty eight. But living the life of a spinster.

When did I lose control of my life ? How insidous is the passage of time.

"Mehwash !" The voice was low, imperious nevertheless. Reverie broken, I was up instantly. Conditioned by years of subjugation. " You are a terrible person, " I told my reflection." That there, is your mum. The lady who after years of suffering endless medical treatments, bore you and your sister. Treatments that savaged her body and left her a chronic asthmatic, a severely overweight diabetic confined to a wheel chair. It wasn't her fault ! None of my wasted life could be her fault. For I, as a responsible adult had made my choices. Now I was living them.

Entering the dark room, I snapped on the lights. "Ma ! " I said, a trifle rebukingly," At least leave one light on. " Her voice, initially cold, snapped, " You have to remember and switch them on, right ?" Then, " You will have to call the servant, my pamper has to be changed. I tried ringing the bell, but she never hears it, does she ?"

Contrite, I bent by her bed. "Turn over Ma," I said gently. "I'll do it. "

"What do you pay her for, why cant she stay by my bed ? You know I hate for you to do these things." Her voice was angry, the frustration evident, as was the helplessness.

"I don't mind ma, you know that. " As I finished and rose, I could see the tears in her eyes. Bending over and hugging her close, I allowed a few of my own tears to fall unseen, before I composed myself. " Shh. Don't cry ma. I know you love me, I do too. We don't need anyone else, when we have each other, right ? Hey, you know what happened today ? Aisha mausi fell down while chasing the pigeons ! " Ma was aghast. "What ! Sit here and tell me all about it." So began our evening gossip session. Soon, she was laughing animatedly, while I sat beside her,  assembling her nebuliser. It was easy to distract ma. After all I had a decade of experience handling her.

 After she was asleep, I retreated to my room. Book in hand, I tried to read, but found myself drowning in reverie. It hadn't always been like this.  Growing up, with my sister for company, mum had been sickly. Multiple miscarriages, and infertility treatments left her bloated and overweight. But she managed to lavish all her care and attention on us. Our childhood had been near idyllic. Holidays abroad, a wonderful holiday home near the sea, where we holidayed almost every week end. Dad, who is a doctor himself, made sure we studied well. Shaheen was now a qualified orthodontist, I had a degree in chartered accountancy. Earned after dedicated backbreaking study. A colossal waste. Of studies, time, finance. For all I ever did with it .

Then came the proposal. He was a young chartered accountant. He had seen a photograph of me from a cousins marriage and he was taken by me. So was I when he came home with his mum to meet us. The marriage happened a year later. On my wedding night, I sat on the marital bed, a shy , coy, bride. For that night I had forgotten my sick mother. She had cried, had been crying from  many days. More at the thought that now she would be at the mercy of the servants, I sometimes thought cynically, immediatly feeling guilty and torn. For I was worrying about her too.

A year after, Akram dropped the bombshell. He had been offered a job in Dubai. A fantastic salary and all the perks of a job working for one of the biggest realtor in Dubai. He looked at my face as he announced his decision to take it up. My face lighted up. Away from the confines of family, I still spent a good part of the day at my mother's home. I would finally be able to set up my own home. Maybe even take up a job and have a fulfilling career ! Oh, I was happy, as we lay awake that night discussing our future. Both he and i loved travel. We would explore Europe, the world, before we had children. I slept that night blissed out with my dreams. The only cloud on my horizon was the thought of my mother.

Entering her room, I paused. Was she asleep ? I was just about to retreat quietly, when she spoke, "Come in, beta.  you are late today." I sat beside her, took her hand in mine. "Ma, I have great news ! Akram has got a job in Dubai ! " Full of my happiness, I lay down beside her, airing my dreams. So full of myself  was I that I didn't notice her lack of response. Suddenly I realised that she was still. Too still. Leaning over to see her face, I saw that it was ashen, The eyes closed. Yelling for the nurse, I cannoned out of the room, grabbed my cell phone, calling the emergency numbers. Soon the ambulance wailed into the lane, mother was taken to hospital. "The heart attack was  almost fatal. We managed to save her this time. Good you were with her, Mehwash. " The doctors voice was grim. The recovery was not easy. Ma turned even more fatalistic and cranky. I had to stay with her almost continuously, as she would not tolerate anyone else caring for her.

Akram was understanding. At first. We decided he would go alone. After he settled in, I would follow. As soon as Ma improved.  The day he left was the bleakest day of my life. Never had I been so torn. Ahead was a life full of promise. Behind was my sick mother.

The months turned into years. Each time I approached my dad or my sister, they would beg me to stay just that much longer. Busy with their flourishing careers, they balked at the thought that they would have to handle ma.

Akram meanwhile, grew more distant. The once a day phone calls turned into once a week, then once a month. Then came the letter seeking my consent. For him to take a second wife. I cried for weeks. My agitated family now decided that I should join him as soon as I could. Shock sank in when he refused to have me join him. He was in love and was willing to divorce me. Fearing the shock would be too great for my mother, the family decided to let things stay as they were.

Here I was then. "Main aur meri tanhaai, aksar ye baatein kartey hain...." Amitabh Bachhan's deep tenor resonated from the television. What would he know about this gut wrenching loneliness I carried in my heart..
   

Capsule of a Life..

She stood towering over me. When i dared to look up, i could see only her thick dark legs with the prominent varicose veins, before i lowered my gaze again. All of five, it was my first day at school. Twenty odd students, of which i was one. That day i discovered that drawing was not going to one of my skills. She was the drawing teacher and she had commanded us to draw a... a Chilly ! Which for the life of me i couldn't.. my hand was shaking so much. Thankfully the bell rang before my turn came to display the sorry squiggle that i had drawn, which i would have had to display to the class ! We were herded out to the water taps, where in this room milk was served to all the children. Big mugs which we had to down before we were allowed to file back to class.

Lunch hour. Nobody told me that it was that, and that school was not over. There i sat, weeping silent tears, on the bench, before i heard her sweet voice. My sister. whom i had presumed had left without me, and gone home. She sat down beside me, held my hand in hers and opened my tiffin box, assuring me all the while that she would never leave without me. Smiling broadly thru the tears, i made short work of the biscuits before happily bounding off to class when the bell rang.

The rickshaw ride back home was fun. Both of us climbed into the first available one and off we went. After having paid him the princely sum of fifteen paise, we embarked and rushed up to the home and mum.

Welland Gould Smith. My first school. Where the fees were something in the region of thirty odd rupees.

And so we studied. I until class seven, ben until ten. For some such paltry sum. Then first sis shifted then i did to Calcutta Girls High School. Nearer home and walking distance. Our Principal there was an American. A fine lady always accompanied by her fierce dog, Mesca. Not that she needed one, because all us girls were already in awe of and highly intimidated by her. A tall lady, sparkling eyes glinting behind her spectacles, who mwas queen of her domain, indeed of all that she surveyed. You never knew when you would meet her, around which corner of school. When first i went for admission with my dad, i was a shoo in.. "Oh, Tasneem's sister."  And admission was that easy. In those days. I was bad at maths, scraped thru with a woeful 45% in the boards, ICSE in class ten. Topped in English with 90, though. But then, we studied in candlelight most days, because of six and seven hour power cuts that lasted entire nights sometimes. I remember working on problems at twelve at night, with two candles on either side of my desk. I, who was normally in bed by eight p.m. No Television, and the government made sure our night vision was honed !
Taking tuitions was a big NO. An insult, because only very poor students took them, and that too was hushed and never spoken of publicly !

In spite of the pathetic marks, i ended up in class eleven, with maths and science as my subjects, the aim being to give the medical entrance exams, which dad had decided we both would give. My pathetic math scores put paid to those plans. But i greatly enjoyed my years at CGHS. I was one of about eighteen students! We were thick pals. Our group consisting of a punjabi, two sindhis, one bengali, a south indian, a christian, a marwari, and a muslim, myself ! Talk of national integration. We ate greedily from each others tiffins, organised parties and raffles, even a junk sale, and sold drinks, rasna, at break times, thanx to our enterprising President, and my best chum.

Winter was in the air when i casually strolled into school, wearing my black cardigan, as we called sweaters in those days. Early October. Until January. Climate change ? Whoever heard of it. The P word had not been sighted as yet. The ozone layer was very much intact and the world rotated along peacefully, as did ours. We were nor scared to walk the roads, and as children played happily and safely together, while our parents went about their work. Books were our sole companions. Pods meant peas, and pads meant periods! For music we tuned radios and fine tuned them to 'catch' our favorite stations. Hippies were the rebels, and only the beatles really made us go weak in the knees. Junk food ? Was ice creams on sundays, and if dad was feeling relly indulgent a coke, to which i always preferred a pineapple drink. Then we went home, dad climbing the stairs, with his two girls giggling atop his shoulders !  

The Intrigue

He lay on the floor. His body arranged neatly. His shirt straightened as if by a loving hand. His brown locks falling on his forehead, covering up the wound inflicted by the gun. He must have been a handsome man when alive, in his early forties. His eyes looked unseeingly at the ceiling, his face frozen in an expression of surprise. A woman knelt beside him, weeping uncontrollably.

"Cut ! " The director's voice restored the normal chaos to the sets as everyone started to prepare for the next shot. The actress got up, dusted her knees, looking at the director enquiringly, " Mr. Suresh, was the shot good ? " Then, after noting his absent minded nod, she turned to her co star. " C'mon, Vij, get up." As she extended a helping hand, something stopped her in her tracks. The hole that covered his hair, was not visible, but a small dark red trickle, still oozing ominously, was spreading on the floor. As she bent to peer closely, she looked at his face, ashen now, then screamed and scrambled to her feet. Within seconds, the entire disbelieving set was crowded around the actor. For he was not play acting anymore. Never would. He was dead.

 Inside his dressing room, the wife sat, staring blankly at the walls. Simone appeared bewildered, in shock. Having been married just three months ago to the man of her dreams, she was the object of great sympathy. Her face though swollen with tears, was still unbelievably pretty. Black curls framed a small heart shaped face. Great luminous eyes, sparkled like champagne, her small upturned nose crinkled when she smiled. Love at first sight. He had been the handsome hero. She, the famed, powerful, directors daughter. A match made in heaven.

Hysteria having finally subsided, Richa, the main female lead sat in her dressing room. Her face was streaked with mascara, sweat and tears having wreaked their havoc on her face.
"The shot required me to race into his room after i hear a gunshot. When i run onto the stage, i see him lying on the ground dead," (here she paused and broke into sobs ). Recovering again, after a sip of water, she continued. "I sink to my knees in disbelief, then weep long and loud in shock. I did just that. I heard the sound of a shot and after counting fifty, I was supposed to run up to the bedroom from the hall below,  i ran onto the stage. Seeing him lying on the floor, i was concentrating on my part, and rushed forward to complete the scene as i had been told to do. I.. I did not realise that he.. he was actually dead. It was only after the director cut the scene, that i realised that there was something very still, unnatural in the way that he lay on the floor... That he was not getting up, or moving.." With this she dissolved into tears again. Patting her shoulder consolingly, the detective moved away from the room, into the corridor, where the wife sat. Towering over her stood her father, a giant of a man, belligerantly barking orders into his cell phone...

Dear readers,
 Here i leave you. Tantalised i hope. Enough to complete the story ? Just give me the killer and the motive. Or else i will . But only after i receive a few solutions to this christiesque mystery. Go on. The cleverer the answer, the more votes you get.. Clue ? It has to be one of the characters already introduced.


And now for the solution.

The detective, Binod, sat back with a sigh. Why couldn't the murder be as simple as my dear reader suggests, simple . Straight out of CID. For the simple reason that there was no proof of the motive.

Recreating the events of those crucial hours had been difficult. The man had seemingly been absolutely alone when he had shot himself. Then the obvious conclusion was to be a clear cut case of suicide. If only the hole where the bullet had entered had been on the right sight. It wasn't. The man was right handed, as vouched by hundreds of ardent fans who had his autographs. So the hole should have been to the right . How would a right handed man put a gun to the left temple to take his life ? So maybe it was not as clear cut as the murderer wanted it to be. The problem lay in unearthing the witnesses. For the present suffice it that  all everyone knew was that he had committed suicide.


"Can I come in sir," the quiet voice belonged to the man who was responsible for the stage lights. "Ah yes, " Binod looked up to see a small neat looking man, fortyish, glasses perched on the edge of his nose, standing at the door. "Sit down, Satish. " He sat looking a trifle nervously at the detective. "According to your statement here, you were sitting on a small platform above the stage, from where you had a birds' eye view of the stage." Leaning forward, Binod looked into his eyes. Was it his imagination or did he see a slightly alarmed look in them, before he looked quickly away. "Tell me what you saw."

"Sir, I...I already told your detective, I was taking a toilet break, after I had finished my end of the work. It was only a rehearsal after all. I... I left soon after Vijay entered the stage. I.. I am diabetic you see. I need to er.. go often."

"What did he look like, any signs of nervousness, desperation ? "

The technician shifted uneasily on his chair. "No, sir. Not that  I saw. He was concentrating on the script that he held in his hand. Absorbed in reading it.

"What about the pistol ? "

"I thought I saw it in his hands. He seemed to be twirling it around in his hand."

The detective sat back in his chair, making a few notes. "Anything else that you might have noticed ? Who else was on the stage apart from him ? "
"I didn't see anyone else, sir."

"That's it then. You may go. " This time the relief on his face was palpable. He rose hurriedly to leave.

"Just a moment. You said you saw nothing. Perhaps you heard something ?" The tension on his face was back. He sank down onto the chair. " N... Nothing , sir. Nothing !"

"Then why are you so nervous ? Why did you sit down again ? " The detective's voice grew stern. Loud.

"Tell me what it was that you heard. A conversation, a noise ? Tell me !"

"I...It..It was maybe my imagination.." Beads of perspiration formed on his forehead. " as I was leaving the stage, I heard someone  climbing the stairs to the stage.  It's made of wood and there are loose boards from years of wear and tear. I remember being surprised, only Vij was supposed to be on the stage. Then I heard a small thud, and a soft curse. As if someone had dropped something. Unfortunately I was in too much of a hurry to think too much of it. I left." He looked down embarrassedly.
   
"Who do you think it was, did you hear the voice ?"

He paused at the door, turned and replied slowly, " It sounded like a female voice. I thought it was probably Richa since she was due on stage next. " Having said that, he realised the enormity of the implication and swabbing at the copious amounts of sweat on his face, he stammered," i...i.. don't mean it THAT way, of course, just just a guess sir. No, no it cant have been her, just my imagination." Still shaking his head, he quickly retreated thru the half open door.

Binod sighed. Getting up from his chair, he paced the room, brow furrowed in concentration as he reflected on what he had heard. A knock on the door had him sink back into his chair.

The Authority Figure

Crash !

The noise reverberated in the stillness of the afternoon. Awoken from her siesta, she bounded towards the kitchen, from where the noise had come. As she burst thru the door, her eyes widened in disbelief, no! shock! The chicken curry she had laboured over all morning lay strewn over the floor. As she swung around to berate the maid, she saw instead Ammaji, her mother in law, eyes dilated in horror, palm held over mouth as if to stifle a scream, cowering in the corner. Taking deep breaths to calm her racing heart and boiling mind, she took a wash cloth, bent over the mess and started mopping up. Once there was space enough to walk out, and her urge to shout had subsided a little, she stood up. "Koi nahi, maaji. Chaliye aap kamre main under." As she took the old ladies hand, she could feel her it trembling within hers. She herself was feeling angry, then sorry in turns for both of them. "What happened, Maji.?" she couldn't resist asking, keeping her voice low, her initial fury abating at the old lady's distress. "I...I thought..I ought to help you.. You.. you have guests for dinner, and all that cooking to do.. I make those curries.. always.. so.." she trailed off apologetically. "I'll manage, ma. You relax. Just lie down for a while. " so saying she helped the old lady to her bed, helped her lie down. As she turned to leave, maji caught her hand, the look in her eyes made her cringe with sorrow, sympathy, hell.. pity. "I'm of no use now no, beta. What will you do now that i spilled all of it. I so wanted to help, you know.." she tailed off, a tiny tear spilling from her eyes, and trickling down the wrinkled cheek.....

The marriage rituals had just gotten over. The young bride, looked a trifle warily, at the imposing figure standing at the threshold, surveying her almost critically, waiting to welcome her into her new home. Tall and statusque, she stood. Clad in a blood red saree, Durgaesque, huge bindi over big kohl lined eyes, she was easily the most authoritative figure in the room. The most striking too. The archtypal Mother-in -law. As the young bride met her mother in laws eyes, she swallowed. How on earth would she fit in. But as the mother in law helped her cross the threshold, she saw her eyes mist, and somehow she was reasssured.

Life had not been easy. Easily the authority figure, nothing happened in the home, that was not approved by her. From the everyday menu, and the household accounts, to the naming of her grandchildren, and the welcoming of guests, she was second in command. Always the 'bahu raani ', she thought bitterly. Young and educated she strained at the leash. Many a conflict arose because her husband would not hear of separating from his parents. After one such row, she was summoned into the presence of her father-in-law. A mild, gentle man, she never heard him raise his voice with anybody. He had long ago relenquished the house to his efficient wife, acting as mediator or judge only in rare circumstances.

"Beti, are you happy here ?" was his first question. She looked up, shocked. "Yes, baba, why wouldn't I be?" "Are you sure you wouldn't like to live in a separate household," The question came from the shadows. The voice was that of Maaji. She looked up stricken. "No ma. It's just that.." She paused. "No one ever asks my opinion or lets me make even small decisions. I feel i am of no use, I exist in name alone...She stopped, thinking she had gone too far, her outburst would be misconstrued as rebellion. "I see. Would you like to come to work at the office ?" The question took her by surprise. "Yes, oh yes baba ! " Her face lighted up as she looked at them. "From tomorrow. Would you like to work in liasion ? Or some other department of your choice ? So it was agreed and so life took a new turn for the 'bahurani '...

Life became easier. She easily took over her role as business woman, earning the respect of the men folk in the house. Her mother inn law however remained just that. Home was her territory plainly, as she continued to be the ultimate authority consulted for all things big and small.. Sometimes there was a stand off between them, subtle, simmering differences. For the sake of peace, the younger always retreated, by doing so relinquishing whatever little authority she did have.

The death of babuji, came as a great shock. Having come to know him well over the years, she had grown to love him for the gentle, understanding, father who always sought her opinion and consent on all business matters that she dealt with. Greater than her shock was that of her mother in law's. She went into a deep mourning from which she emerged after the mandatory four months. Having come to terms with her loss, she was now determined to transfer her affections to her son. Hawk like she oversaw his meals, his clothes, even berating the children if they ate what had been left for him.. This led to friction between the two women, the younger resenting the older still more, now that she was encroaching on her territory.. At the slightest hint of a dispute, the older woman's eyes glimmered with unshed tears, hurriedly causing the younger to retreat. Emotional blackmail was not something she could handle.

The heart attack when it came was sudden. The hospitalisation and the ensuing rest period affected the house drastically. She had to leave the office, and take over household duties, which caused her great anguish, for by now, her office was her refuge, her second home. Mundane duties of the home had her frustrated. The dowager, even though sick, tried to enforce her own opinions and methods of working, which irked the bahu even more. Each was frustrated and cried great tears, alone in their rooms. The former at having to leave her bastion, her home. The latter at having to juggle home and mother in laws tantrums and dictates. Even the servants, kept reverting to the elder lady not wanting to get into her bad books.

Slowly, the wheels of time rolled along. The old lady got back onto her feet. Admit it or not, her authority helped greatly to restore some semblance of normalcy. She took over the supervising of the kitchen, which freed the younger woman to work from the home, for which she was grateful, but still unwilling to let go of all authority. There was a compromise of sorts, a slow reversal of roles. Perceiving her as as the paymaster, the household now looked upon the younger as the ultimate authority. Slowly the older lady backed off, retreating into her prayers, only sometimes battling the winds of change. Her relationship with her bahu was cordial but distant. The finely etched line of formality always keeping her at arms length..

With a sigh, she bent over the stove. Having restored the old lady to her room and wiping her tears, for the first time in her life she had hugged her. They cried together, then having reassured her she could substitute the curry with a daal, she had hurried back to the kitchen. As she worked feverishly to restore order, she couldn't help but reflect.. Hadn't she always sub consciously battled to win the old lady's affections, her respect. To be regarded and treated as an equal. Maybe she had never truly appreciated her. Maybe the spilt curry was a small price to pay..

Twist Of Faith

I stood on the periphery. Of life. Thus it had been. Thus it would always be. With acceptance, came a resigned serenity. For I was different. Differently abled. One armed in a world of two armed people. When you are destined to be different, you become very adjusting, accomodating. You are always relegated to the background. Someone to be pitied, scorned or worse, to be helped by every Tom, Dick and Susan who comes along.

As a child, I was seated in the first row. For heavens sake, I remember telling my mum, I'm not blind !
But I took advantage of my situation, sometimes. Like when the girls fussed over me, and yelled at the other resentful fellows for taunting me.

Youth brought a different set of problems. I  no longer wanted or liked being pitied. I wanted to be loved, admired for myself. After all I was good looking. Had worked long hours at the gym to have a sculpted body. Alas, there were no takers. I watched admiration turn to pity, concern as the girls checked me out. Every time I turned away. The unshed tears burning up my heart. I turned bitter, cynical.

That was until she came into my life.

That day had been a sad day for me. I had been invited to my best friends marriage. To be the best man, observing at close quarters, the girl I was enthralled with getting married to my bestie. Getting out of the car, I was about to cross the road, when I saw a biker hurtling down the road. Talking into her cell, the girl crossing the road was directly in his way. Reacting instinctively, I leapt across, sweeping her aside with my one good arm, both of us ending up in a heap by the side of the road. Stunned we sat there. That is until she got up, brushed herself and started yelling at me. I looked up at her in astonishment. For God's sake, I had just saved her life ! As people started to mill around us, she extended a hand, pulling me up. As if she had saved me, not the other way around ! Then after a brusque, " You ok ? " she ran off in the opposite direction leaving me in the midst of a crowd. The type of attention I dreaded most. Seething, I strode off, having to head back home to change my clothes.

The next day, as I entered college, I heard a voice calling out my name. Turning, I saw it was her. Scowling I turned back, when a small hand tucked itself into mine. "Hey. I never did thank you for saving my life, " said she. Then she stood on tiptoe, to land a kiss on my cheek. Time stood still. As did most people who knew me on campus. Here was a pretty girl kissing me!  Me ! The background guy. Always the best man never the groom ! The smile stayed on my face for the rest of the day.

So the friendship bloomed between us. Every day I would wait by the college gates for her. She would come in, take my hand in hers and we would stroll in. I had no idea why she did that. I had no illusions regarding her either for she was already betrothed. In a long distance relationship. With a childhood sweetheart. I loved her but as one would a buddy. Because she was a girl, there did exist a what if ? between us. But only on my part, I guess. I confided in her. Things even I didn't know were bottled up within me, I found myself telling her. We went to cricket matches and discs, coffee shops and restaurants. She pined for him, I could see. I pined for just such a girl and companionship.

Alas the day came when I stood looking on at her reunion with her fiance. She had insisted I go with her to the air port to receive him. I was even more chagrined to find I actually liked the man. From there on, I stepped back. I assuaged my aching heart that she had never been destined for me. In the hopes of a romance, I was not willing to lose the best friend I had ever had.

We kept in touch. She emailed or called almost every other day from distant Canada.  Four years went by. Years in which she strangely made no mention of husband or child. For now she was both a wife and a mother. Her parents had moved to Canada, too, I heard, to be with their only child.

The job offer came like a ray of sunshine. I found myself coming alive again after many years. I was headed for Canada, Toronto, where she lived. I would work there, I promised myself I would see her only very occasionally. Also it would be a surprise. My visit to her home. The flight landed and I stepped out into a freezing, blustery winter morning. A strange feeling flooded my heart. I was soaring higher than the planes around me, so happy I was.    

The week went by in a flash. I had received her mails, but of late she had been sounding depressed. I waited anxiously for the weekend to come, settling down into my new job in the interim.

Her house was beautiful. Just as she had described it . A small neat garden surrounded the red stuccoed roofed house. I stood outside taking deep breaths. Who was I kidding. She would always be my true, my only love. Heart pounding, I rang the bell, holding the flowers i'd brought up to hide my face. The door opened. A beloved, beloved face shone in front of my eyes. Then I dropped to my feet. Holding that beloved body in a tight hug, even as the flowers dropped to the floor. I looked at her face, for what seemed like hours. The delicate lines that etched the beautiful sparkly eyes I had known. The unruly curls escaping from the tight knot behind, framing her pixie face. Oh. How I had missed her. But why was she sitting. Why did she not stand up to greet me ? Hug me ? Then It hit me. Stunned I reeled back. She was sitting on a wheel chair.

The story was painful. Tearfully told. She hugged me, and I held her close even as a deep wail of pain rose from within her. A car accident had taken not only her mobility, but also her loving husband from her. She had'nt told me because she had to fight her battles to regain her life and that of her little daughter. With the help of her parents she ran a creche and lived in the hope that life would reclaim her enough for her to provide for her child.

We got married in the next month. Life was cruel. To reward me, it had caused her great deprivation. But i was there. I would always be there for her.           

Cupid

The cell phone. That ubiquitous piece of metal. Such a small thing, capable of so much mischief has not been invented since.. since Dennis the Menace. Read on.. read on, dear reader..and judge: Friend or foe ?

It seemed to Ravi, that he had been waiting for hours. But then, he was waiting for the college hottie on campus and he had managed to land a date with her. So wait he would. The cell, of course had played cupid to this strange love story. For he was the campus nerd, the one no girl spared a second glance to.

Scene 1
A bustling college canteen. A worker scrubbing the floors, pauses pats his pant feverishly, as if he has a case of poison ivy, then leaving the bucket and mop dashes off outside to coo lovingly into the errant cell.
In walks the college hottie also absorbed in a cell conversation, a high pitched monologue actually, ticking off a long suffering boyfriend, then after a series of shrill "hello.. Hello.. HELLO..'s" she stomps a delicate foot.. straight into the bucket, which skids.. and not unlike insy winsy spider, she slithers and falls with a thump on the floor, landing almost at the feet of the nerd.

Like a modern day Mumtaz she lies hapless, wet and bedraggled on the floor, one hand fumbling for her skirt, the other for her cell. The nerd stoops to help her up, then winces as a banshee yell resounds in his ears. The girl has just realised that her cell has landed in the bucket and drowned. Hurling his hand aside, she leaps up to rescue her cell, then realises its dead. As she bursts into tears, the nerd flips open the cell exposes its innards, then strolls to the air conditioner vents exposing it to the hot exhaust. After five minutes of having the entire campus eyeing him and the girl, he nonchalantly rubs it against his sleeve, then profers it to the girl who squeals in admiration then, plants a kiss on his virginal cheek. Grabbing the moment, he asks her for a coffee. Unable to refuse the modern day Gallahad, she nods absentmindedly as he very cleverly dials his own number from her cell, thus saving her number in his for posterity.

Scene 2
A spiffy Ravi is hanging on to the street pole for dear life, adopting different poses, eyes and ears on the alert for her appearance. An hour later, a Ravi, shoulders sagging is desperately making calls that go unanswered. As he attempts to move, body drooping, feet dragging, he hears a voice from behind, hailing him. He turns to  see Ishita, his competitor and fellow nerd holding out his cell. He must have dropped it after that last desperate call, he realises.  He holds out his hand to take it, then accidently touches hers. A sudden shaft of lightening seems to run through him. He looks pleadingly at her, "Coffee ?"

Why hadn't he noticed her smile before he wonders, and her luminiscent eyes as he sits across her enjoying the debate of Cassius versus Brutus with her. A loud crash resounds from the opposite corner of the room. A girls raised voice heaps insults on the hapless boy sitting across her. She stomps out of the coffee shop in a huff. His phone starts to ring, even as he cowers behind his table, cringing as his truant date marches past him. Ishita looks at him. He holds her gaze and disconnects the phone. All he ever needed, he realises is sitting beside him.

An Alien World

The girl was pretty. Or rather she had very pretty eyes. Luminous, dark orbs glinting curiously at the passers by. The rest of her was covered by the hijaab, the head to toe black robes of the Moslem women. What was she doing in Singapore I wondered..

The Mercedes was wending its way smoothly along the coppery gold streets. It glided slowly to a stop at the traffic lights. Excited, unable to contain myself, I leaned out to get a better look. Where I come from that was surely banned. But besides the car was a young couple. I leaned out of the car, shocked, apalled ! The girl was wearing unbelievably short shorts ! Her slick halter top revealed a generous cleavage. and most of her back was exposed, shining white! Allah ! Surely she would be arrested ? Or worse, some man would swoop upon her and carry her off ! She turned to sneak a look at her husband. But he was absorbed in a phone call, seeing with unseeing eyes. As she watched, the girl turned to her companion and bestowed a loving kiss on his lips. The smile they shared, the spontaneous holding of each others' hands as they crossed the road, stayed with her for a long time.

Strange country this.  Looking around her as the lights changed and the car purred ahead, she realised that she was the only one staring! People all around were self absorbed, busy with cells or simply intent on crossing the road. Indignation, anger almost, flowed through her. Why was the girl not being accosted, dragged away to the police station ? How heinous, shameful was her behaviour ! She stole a glance at her husband. An imposing looking man. He was handsome, if much older than her. After all she was his second wife. This trip was a honeymoon, of sorts. A working holiday for him. He had indulged his wife and allowed her to accompany him. The mullah had recommended he go to Malaysia. Prayers at a particular masjid and the powerful herbs sold by a hakim there always guaranteed the birth of a son. Singapore was the business end of the trip.

He turned to see his wife, bristling with indignation as she pointed at a model displaying a bikini in a passing lingerie shop. He laughed and said something in Arabic, which had her blush a beetroot red and pull the mask attached to her burqa over her eyes. Indeed they were in a country of infidels. Surely on the day of Qayamat, they would burn in hell, she thought.

I stood looking out of the window. The luxurious suite of the hotel was a gilded cage. My husband had left at ten in the morning, before I had barely awakened. Awake I was though and restless. As I paced past the windows, I looked down to see the blue glistening waters of the swimming pool. What I saw had me thunder struck ! Women lay on the beach chairs, wearing almost next to nothing. Their upper bodies were naked, just a nonchalant towel thrown over their chests. The lower extremities were just covered with the tiniest of cloths, not big enough to be even called underwear. As I stood aghast, I saw men swimming in the pool too. One emerged from it, and making his way past the sleeping women, settled down beside a woman, who leaned over to say something to him. They both sat up and taking a bottle of lotion the man began to rub it all over her back. The sheer brazeness of it all had me standing their mouth agape.

The knock on the door startled me. Reaching for my hijaab, I put the chain over the door before opening it a tiny fraction. The girl standing outside wore housekeeping uniform : pants and a short top. Her face, though was unmistakable. She was the same woman I had seen at the traffic lights. As I looked inquiringly at her, she spoke, first in English, then seeing the incomprehension on my face, in Arabic. Smiling hesitatingly I let her in. Then, unable to stop myself, I told her that I had seen her yesterday at the signals. Eager to know more about her, I struck up a conversation, asking her how she came to know Arabic. She told me that it was one of the languages she had learnt in school.

Time flew. As she set about cleaning the room, we talked. She told me about Singapore schools, how women as well as men, studied together, underwent compulsory military training together after university. The woman standing before me was indeed a confident, smart young woman. She apoke five languages, earned her own living and was going to marry her boyfriend after a month. When I pointed at the pool, she smiled, then told me that was the way women dressed while swimming. What I saw before me was a world, that was free. Free to live, dress, move, earn, marry even, as they wished ! By the time she was gone, I had glimpsed a world so alien to mine, it was almost like another planet.

Alone for the entire day, I had lots to think about. Within me raced mixed emotions. I was superior to her where my station in life was concerned, or was i ? Determined to find out more, I called her back.

The next day, I was up as soon as my husband had left. Actually I was so excited I had hardly slept the whole night. Having dressed in a hurry, I waited anxiously for the clock to strike ten. Five minutes before, I walked out of the room. My mouth felt dry, my hands shook as I hurried to the elevators. For the first time in my life, I was going out unaccompanied ! That too, in a foreign country. An alien, alien land. As I walked towards the doors and out of the hotel, I broke into a sweat, wondering if she would be there. Praise be to Allah, she was. Hijaab firmly in place, I walked with her towards the car I thought she had brought with her. Alas, to my horror ahe was pointing towards a small motor cycle ! Before I could refuse, she had hustled me onto the back seat, carefully arranged my hijaab around my legs and we were off.. !

I asked her anxiously, " Are you sure we won't be discovered ?" Not only would it be catastrophy for me, she would lose her job as well. "Ah, she replied, "Don't worry. I'll have you back in good time."
As we zipped thru the streets, a strange exhilaration rose within me. Eagerly I took in all that she was trying to tell me, show me. Wide eyed, I took in the sights, smells and sounds of this lovely city. The bird park was an amazing place. I watched as the fabulously colored birds flew about, sometimes at will, sometimes in obedience to commands. How free were they, how magnificent their surroundings, how loved were they ! For lunch she took me to a Macdonalds outlet, letting me stand in line and ask in broken English for a burger, fries and a coke. The best meal of my life ! Next stop was the beach. We walked together, I took her hand in mine, as we waded thru the shallows. As I walked, a strange kind of happiness bubbled through mu entire being. For this day, this moment I was Me. Not a daughter, not a wife, not one in a sea of black, but in a multihued, serene, liberated world. Just being Me. Just being.

As we rounded a rock, Maria, for that was her name, asked me to stop. Before I knew what was happening she had pulled off my hijaab ! Stunned I looked at her at first, the protests, the fury I ought to have felt dying within me, as I slowly stepped out of it. I raised my hands, then my face up to the skies. Was I alive, still ? Hadn't I died and gone to heaven ? I must have ! The spray from the sea stung my face, my black tresses flowing freely around my body, as if aping the hijaab. Time stood still. I walked, I sat, arms wrapped tightly around my knees. I stretched, even ran a bit on the sands. I picked up shells, even a starfish that had washed ashore. I waded into the waters, up to my waist. Maria just sat and watched me.


I didn't know what  time my husband came to the room that night. Even he must have been surprised to see me fast asleep as early as ten, when I had been pacing the room upto twelve the previous night, exhorting that  I could not sleep, after having been cooped up the entire day.

We left Singapore the next day. Maria, came to the room before I left. I slipped her a card along with my diamond ring. A marriage ring I had no use for. For it shackled me. But was a symbol of liberation for her. My ties were of compulsion, I was the caged bird. Hers were of love, and so she flew. High up into the azure skies of Singapore.

Haunted Minds

It was love at first sight. The single storied house, stood alone. Red slated roof, in contrast with the green ivy trailing down its length beckoned the passerby cheerily. Just the way i had envisaged my new house would look. Getting off from the car, i  walked down the driveway, admiring the small lawn, the feeling one got of being in the countryside, though one stood just a lane away from the main road. That was Banglore for you. Lovely homes, together but a discreet distance apart from each other. Coming from Mumbai, and its chawls, i was taken with the thought of having my own little bungalow, private, serene, above all quiet.

After the agent, going in for the kill, had shown me around the spacious hall, the small but cosy bedrooms on the first floor, i was ready to buy. The first person i called was Dad, in far away Kolkata. I may have earned my money, but my financial advisor was definitely my dad. " Be cautious, beta. " was his advise."Go check out your neighbours. If it is such a good buy, why is it on the market in the first place ? Is it the only vacant property around ?"

"Ah, dad. Must i go talk to total strangers ? I dont even know Kannada, at all."
"So what ? People know English, no ?!"

So, having got rid of the most- reluctant- to- leave, broker, i set off to the house next door. Standing outside, i realised that it had very high walls, which was strange, considering that most homes here had small fences merely around their periphery. As I rang the bell, a huge clang reverberated inside, accompanied by the furious barking of dogs. I started to retreat when a voice boomed from inside, " WHO is it ?" Startled, I replied, trying to get myself heard above the din the dogs were making, " Just a neighbour. "
"Wait !" commanded the voice. I could hear the sounds of bolts being dragged open. The door finally opened. Before me, eyeing me suspiciously, stood a small man. Dressed in pyjamas, though it was almost evening. Almost bald, a small ring of  mostly grey hair around his head, he must have been in his late sixties, at least.

"Well ?" He demanded in a surprisingly strong voice. "What do you want, young man ? "
" I was interested in the house next door, and just wanted some information, sir."
He eyed me for a minute or two. Suddenly, the door slammed shut. Literally on my face. I leapt back just in time, or my foot would have caught in the door.

Shaken, i turned to leave. "Don't buy it. If you value your life." The voice, much quieter now, came from within. The windows, I noticed were barricaded. In fact, every window in the houses nearby was barricaded, I noticed as I walked, slowly back to my car. It was back to my father again.

Most parents are paranoid about their children's safety. So was dad. But having been a policeman all his life, he never gave up on things without reasoning them out. I heard him out, then driving back to my hotel, I had a plan of action ready for the next day.

The broker stood trembling before me. He tried to speak bravely, but his voice quavered as he pleaded, "Sir, you get one of your friends, how can I...No! No! i cant, i won't ..."

" Look, Pandey. These are my terms. Take it and i'll up your commission by  one percent. Leave it and your house stays unsold. Come on, man ! " I urged him." Why don't you want to spend one night that too with me, in this house." Then I added slyly, " how do you expect me to stay here alone for the rest of my life then? Is it haunted or something ?"

Those were the magic words it seemed. Suddenly the man was a blubbering mass, clinging onto my feet, pleading with me to reconsider my decision. "I will show you other homes, much better than this one, sahab. I swear on my mother, I heard about it today only, or I wouldn't have brought you here. This house is haunted. Someone screams and cries from inside, so the neighbours say. A woman died. Murdered by her own son. That is why no one is ready to buy it. "

"Your mother is dead, right ? " I retorted. "No. your punishment then for lying to me, is that you will spend a night with me in this house, if I have to tie you up and drag you there. I am a policeman's son, you see. I  never give up  without investigating.

Maybe the words "Police" had something to do with it for he turned up at my hotel that evening. I took one look at him, then burst out laughing. He was dressed in a white dhoti, with a saffron shirt. Numerous   rudraksh, sundry other malas and threads were tied around his neck and wrists. "Arrey, Pandey you look like a pandit. Any ghost will be able to see you from far away, then what will happen to you. " As he turned white, I put a reassuring arm around him, "Come on then, don't be such a coward. Main hoon na ?"

Soon we were at the gates, Pandey with his eyes shut had to be led inside. Muttering various mantras under his breath, he led me into the hall. " Sir ji. We will sleep here only.  Look I have sleeping bags." I frowned then, agreed. The last thing I wanted was him running out on me.

The house was quite. From the garden, we could hear the sound of crickets. An aura of peace surrounded us. The disquiet lay within us. Every sound we heard had us alert. His eyes would immediatly dart to mine. He had slowly shifted his bedding so that we lay almost side by side. The watch I wore showed the time as eleven forty five. Slowly the conversation had run out between us. We lay, cold and shivering on the floor. Was this the craziest thing i had ever done ? You bet !

Surprisingly, he was the first to fall asleep. I tossed and turned. Then I started thinking about how I would do up the house if I lived in it. The ceilings would be pristine white. The walls an electric blue offset with white. "No. It used to be green. The ceiling was off white." Had I imagined it ? Or had I actually heard someone say it ? Nah. I was keyed up. That's what it was. Time to sleep. " No. Time for the yagna to begin." There it was again. Then it started. At first softly. Then slowly it started to reverberate in my mind.. "Om Namash Shivai....Om Namash Shivai...." My eyes snapped open. I reached out a hand, for the first time it was actually trembling, and grabbed Pandey. Only my hand touched thin air. Pandey, still sound asleep, and snoring was suspended. On the very same ceiling. I opened my mouth to scream. All that emerged was a strangled croak, " Pandey !" His eyes shot open, then arms and legs flailing wildly, he turned, and landed on the floor with a thump. Petrified, he scrambled to run. But discovered he couldn't move. "Join the yagna, Mantra padho ! " The voice rang and echoed all around us, growing in frenzy, until we both had our ears covered. While Pandey clutched me in a death grip, i took a hold on myself. " Meditate !" I could hear my dad's  voice commanding me. "Block it out, you can do it." Closing my eyes with a super human effort, i started retreating into the abscesses of my mind. I was a zen master. I had the strength. Soon there was nothing around me, but the vistas of my mind. Wave upon wave of serenity.

I must have been thus for a long time. When my eyes  opened, i could hear the chirping of the birds heralding dawn. Pandey must have fled a long time ago. What had happened with him, I would never know. I checked the ceiling just to make sure. With a heavy heart i made my way out, and home to the hotel. I knew what I needed to do. Pandey, when I located him, had his bags packed. He was going to his desh, he said, his haunted demeanour spoke loudly then his words. Nothing I could say convinced him to stay.

The Puja was held in the house early on Sunday. My dad and I were the sole participants. Even as the mantras were recited by him, we could feel a wave around us. One that exuded joy, exalted relief. As it was coming to an end. I heard a voice in my head. "Thank you. " It said. " Now I am free, Now! I can rejoin my mother, I owed this to her, her last wish on earth, before she died. Killed by me, when I had one of my fits.Killed by these cursed hands of mine. " I was now free too. To live in peace in this beautiful home. Pandey, visits me now and then, but never stays the night. I wonder why.