The Mixed Breed

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

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

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

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

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

The Master

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

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

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

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

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

The Initiation

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

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

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

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

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

The Witness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dust thou art..

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Thing of beauty

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thing of beauty, a sorrow forever..

The Butterfly Garden.

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

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


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


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


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


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


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


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


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