trainsofthought

Anup is forever on his marks, getting set to go. Is that what P.T. Usha too does? One moment she is standing here but her mind has already reached the 100metres mark, followed by her long legs. Except that Anup’s running is all in the mind. The closest he can come to the present is tomorrow. He is in a hurry to get done with that and to bask in his time zone of comfort: the real future, the farther the better. He should have been a comet or a creature of the milky way. Light years as units of time would suit his personality better than the 24 hour dwarfly Gregorian calendar.
You guessed it right. Anup is a great planner. The kind who finds a 100 year calendar handy. It does not matter if his plans pupate into a chrysalis of action or event or whether they never see the light of the day. He is fine with all. A germinating idea gives him a high like nothing else. What he is doing today took form in his mind a good semester ago. Or so he would like to think. Anyways looking back is not his cup of tea.
Can a man with such kangaroo instincts survive the pushes- or the pulls- of day to day life? His marriage to Meena is the fortunate answer.
Meena is a strict no nonsense, down-to-earth woman. When she sees him taking off into an orbit, she lassoes him right back. ‘our house will have sky blue walls and the carpet in the living room will be deep red’ he says. ‘When are you starting to save up to buy it?’ she counters. ‘My son will do his higher studies in London’ he declares. ‘Let him finish his kindergarten first’ she quips. You bet Meena was stunned when she found out her husband’s strengths and weaknesses after marriage. At first she was happy to have an ambitious husband. She truly believed his every word and had rosy visions of their future. In some years she had learnt to recognize and classify the possible, the probable, the wishful from the sheer bluff and took it all in her capable stride.
How can such a futuristic guy survive in society you would wonder. Luckily for him, he is a ticket booking clerk in a small town railway station. Punch tickets, transact the cash and shut the counter is all he is expected to do-besides the small occasional out of turn favour to a known uncle’s unknown relative eager to travel. While some would find the job intellectually wanting, Anup is content enough. After all the present is not the present for him. The sound of trains, the non-stop sing-song rhythm of announcements, the guard’s whistle and the general commotion of the station aid and abet his forever chugging mind. While he issues tickets for destinations far and near, his mind also follows its own travel plans. When a family on a pilgrimage to Varanasi books tickets, he is already there, with Meena and his two kids. The baby girl takes after him, a real chubby little thing, forever smiling. Truly a ball of sunlight in their life. You guessed it. She is yet to be conceived.

Anup and Meena make a good pair. An ideal pair in fact. In the 6 years of her life with Anup, Meena has evolved her own signature lifestyle. Although Maths was hardly her strength in the small town high school, she has founded her own creative maths. Maybe not maths as in Mathematics but a way of calculating the probability of happening of an idea Anup puts forward. ‘Next Sunday I will take you to see ‘Raavan’ gets 6/10 in Meena’s probability assessment. ‘Next month we will buy the new sofa set’ gets 4/10. And so on. Meena has begun to enjoy this guessing game, whether the promises made by Anup materialize or not. If she waits for his future to turn present, she may wait her whole lifetime without seeing Raavan or without replacing the worn out sofa set. She has developed her own methods to achieve silently what she wants to.
As a creature of the future, Anuj has never spoken about his past to her. He does not seem to have any nostalgic memories of his childhood. meena only knows that he was orphaned early in life. A distant uncle of his fixed their match and died soon after. The good thing about a forever-in-future man is that he is rarely given to bitterness. He holds no grudge against anyone for that would demand staying in the muggy present uncomfortably long. That does not make Anup a saint. He has grouses, against people, against society, against fate but as they are in the future, he has to play all the parts himself. Meena is amused by this childlike behaviour but she realizes the cathartic effect it has on him and lets him pour out his imaginary woes. “The railways will not give me a promotion again next year and just see what I will do”…silence. When Meena goads him with “what?” he says “I will go on a long leave”. Does he really crave a promotion, wonders Meena or a leave, but the grouse has already spiraled away like steam engine smoke. “the neighbour will get a match for his daughter and will not even tell us till the last moment”. “why don’t you search for a good groom for her?” Meena says. “The price of petrol is going to climb so high in two years time, I won’t be able to afford keeping the Bullet”. Meena peeps out of the window and enquires innocently “where have you parked it right now?”. Such sarcasm is lost on Anup for he is anyways content riding his old screechy bicycle to work which is just a train toot away from home.

Anup loves his little son dearly. He is a precocious child. Meena thinks her husband’s leapfrog instincts might have had this happy result on their child. Munnu can read and write well for his age. No wonder Anup dreams about his higher education in London. How he will fund this project when there are two more kids lined up for happening, he has not figured out. Some unresolved issues make good fodder for his ruminant mind. Why three, asks Meena. Munnu will go away to London and leave the sunny little girl Babli all alone. A younger brother would keep her company and protect her, he says. Munnu has got undivided attention till now as the only child but Anup wants Babli and the baby to be just a year or so apart from each other. After all the role of the last child is well defined so why delay? He does not want Babli to mother him; she is The Sunny Princess and it is the younger brother who has to guard her. Anup has not even thought of a name for him. He will leave it to Meena’s discretion. Meena tries to remember what plans her husband had before Munnu came on the scene. He wanted a son in the nearest future possible. He wanted to give this child all the love he never got early in life. Meena was so touched by this desire that when the child came as timed by Anup, she could only be the best mother possible to him and let father and son bond. As Munnu began to understand the spoken word, his father found in him a reliable accomplice for his futuristic ideas. What they would do tomorrow was the fevicol which bound them. Plans for the next Diwali, the next summer vacations and the shopping list for the next school reopening occupied them. Curiously, Munnu never actually demanded anything. These virtual plans left him satiated. Meanwhile, Meena rested firmly rooted in the present so that their family did not fly away like a storm-hit house, futurewards.

Anup shuts his booking counter at 7pm, buys two small packets of roasted peanuts from his age-old vendor friend for his son, climbs the rickety railway staircase, takes his time to cross the foot over-bridge. From that height the small station looks handsome to Anup. A goods train may be whiling away some leisurely hours on a track; some people may be spiriting away small heaps of coal from an open compartment. A passenger train may be bringing alive the other track. People scurrying about as if the whole human future was going to ride this small train! Anup feels his own heartbeat in this vibrant scene, everyday. Movement, movement! While getting down the stairs, he looks at the few horse carriages, a couple of autorickshaws and a lone taxi awaiting passengers near the ‘arrival lounge’. This expectation hanging in the air is a whiff of oxygen for him even though no one ever comes to his house from another town. He pats the discoloured seat of his bicycle and rides back home. Each day in Anup’s life rolls on like yet another featureless boggie of a goods train. So while riding back home through the narrow lanes, he lets his mind roam the curves of the future too. Luckily he does not have to wait at level crossings; no one ever impedes his flow of thoughts. Nor are there diamond crossings. Anup does not have to change tracks. His thought train runs uninterrupted at superfast speed. Besides the important task of bringing Babli and her younger brother to life, he has to think of how Munnu is going to shape. It is very possible that he will turn out to be a prodigy like that boy Tathagat Tulsi, who finished his schooling at 9 and his doctorate in Physics at 15. As a child comes running across the narrow lane, Anup’s bicycle rings a shrill warning bell. Then he continues his thinking. The photograph of that boy Tulsi in the front page of today’s daily, with his beaming mother, did something to Anup. Will Meena also be rotund like that woman when photographers come to their home? she better watch her figure after the babies are born. A good red sari would be a necessity too. But before that…Anup has to take his son to Mumbai to meet eminent scientists at the BARC and professors at the IIT. There is no direct train from here to Mumbai. That means two nights away from home. So Meena will have to pack at least 8 rotis (pickles optional) for them.
Rotis!
The whiff of freshly baking rotis from every house brings him abruptly to the present as if a chain has been pulled. Why, he didn’t even realize how hungry he was till now!
Meena wonders while baking rotis how life would be if they were living in a big city like she has seen on TV this afternoon. Actually she is fine living this small town life; her daily routine is her anchor and doing her tasks mindfully gives her satisfaction. She does not miss relatives; her lone friend is the next door girl, much younger to her. It is just that today when she went to the girl’s house for a brief chat, the TV was on and Meena caught some mesmerizing impressions of city life. From what she saw, houses in big cities are very tall. It can be interesting to have a view of the whole city from one’s house. She also saw fleeting TV images of malls, airports and big hotels. In such a place, her husband and their son can have good fun. She also saw big red city buses, some even two storeys high. Instead of making Munnu sit behind him on his rickety bicycle, Anup will take him out in buses. She will mind Babli and the other chap till they come back. Maybe just once a month the whole family will go out together in a bus. Luckily her husband is working for the railways. So he will get a transfer to a big city, like say…Kanpur or Lucknow. When he gets a promotion, his salary will also go up and then they will be able to afford an occasional dinner in a hotel. She has not seen many hotels, the ones on the road to the station are all yucky. Meena will rather go to a neat hotel. She does not know much about the food one can get there, but she will want it to be different from what she makes day in and day out. Will the two little kids let her eat in peace? They will fight for attention from their father who will be busy educating Munnu. Will Anup remain the same patient man and good father when the family has two more members? They have never known marital discord till date and Meena suddenly becomes anxious that Anup may shout at the two little ones fighting and screaming in the hotel. What will she do? What will she do?
What will she do? The strong fumes of burning rotis lasso her right back from orbit. Never mind! Small price to pay for the experience of a once-in-a-lifetime futuristic kick!

fromnothingtonothing

Flutter

I am a smart, clever crow. Now, you will say, all, or most of the crows of the world are clever. Forget the ignoble greedy one who let the fox con him and whisked away his piece of cheese. Remember the brainy one who filled the pot with stones to make the water rise in it? I am most probably her preferred descendant. I was on a busy flight one day, thinking about how I could trace my lineage when my wing hit a high tension wire. How I survived the spiraling fall was a miracle beyond me. It however left the wing permanently damaged and my left leg half broken. I recovered from my pain in some days. Though afraid to fly again, hunger made me overcome my fear. No big deal, I thought, in a huge city like this, where half the humans are forever starving and where garbage bins are forever overflowing, I am lucky to be born a crow with a keen eye and a half.
As I slowly let myself rise to the height of two floors, then five, then ten, taking off vertically like a helicopter, I felt faint. I landed on the railing of a tenth floor apartment, took a deep breath, looked out for shooers and decided to chill there a while. The leg threatened to tear apart. I balanced myself on the good leg and looked around. I saw a row of neat plants and many pretty flowers in pots. There was something about the place which I liked. I think it was the goodness of the vaastu or Feng-shui present there. Beneath one of the pots, in a clay container, was some stagnant water. I hopped clumsily and had a refreshing drink. Fortified and refreshed, I took to the skies again.
I came to the same balcony the next day. Drawn to the place would be the right term. I had my sip of water and as I was limping on the railing of the balcony I heard a child exclaim ‘see, a crow with a white wing’. Good Lord! A white wing? When did I grow a white wing? Did the accident discolour me, the ravishing black beauty? There was no way to confirm the finding so I decided it could wait. As I tried to fly, I felt a searing pain in the wing. Instinctively afraid of humans, I tried to walk fast till the edge of the balcony railing. I could feel the clumsiness of my gait when I heard the small voice say ‘look mummy, the crow is injured.’ I cocked my head a wee bit to catch a glance and saw a little girl talking to her mother.
Soon this 10th floor balcony overlooking the sea became a foster home, or transit camp, to me. A bond of trust grew between us three. The little girl and her mother became my friends (fans may be the right word). As I tried to express my feelings by waving the good wing, the mother thought Flutter would be a good name for me.
We crows have an embedded digital alarm clock in our brain which needs no repairs or oiling. Every day at noon sharp I would land at the 10th floor balcony. The little girl would be back from school a little later. I would wait, often walking to and fro on the railing by way of physiotherapy for my broken leg. As soon as I heard a distant door bell, I would know it was the little girl coming home with her mother. I would caw in a distinctive voice to announce my arrival. She would throw her things and rush to the balcony to greet me. Her mother would also come calling me by my name. Then she would go into the kitchen. I would hear her voice call me ‘Flutter, Flutter’ and I would hop to the kitchen window sill. The mother would make a ball of cooked polished white rice – I think it was Basmati – the size of a tennis ball- and keep it on the sill for me. I assure you, it is the most fulsome, fresh and healthy food a crow could ever get. Piercing the ball of rice with my beak was a moment I grew to anticipate. It had the sexy feel of bursting bubbles. So addictive did I grow to these balls of rice that even looking at dead rats, our staple diet, made me throw up. Thus nourished and loved in a healthy place, my leg and wing healed. The streak of white did not bother me because it helped to distinguish me from the run-of-the-mill scavenger crows. It was like I had been elevated in status, like a commander-in-chief.
The girl and her mother would talk to me. About the birds and the bees, about the good and the bad, about how nice it was to have a pet crow. They would click my pictures on their digicam. The profile ones with my sharp beak were the most remarkable, they commented. They sent my picture, feeding on the ball of rice to National Geographic and it won them the ‘picture of the month’ prize too. They were overjoyed. So was I.
Then one day the girl’s grandmother came from her village. She was a misfit in this environment, I could say from my first glance. When she first saw me, she tried to shoo me away. She didn’t approve of crows cawing close to the house, why she herself could not tell. It was simply her nature to oppose whatever the girl’s mother liked doing. She did not approve of the ball of rice offered to me. She did not like my looks either.
One day however, everything turned topsy-turvy. Even a smart crow like me cannot make a flowchart of the events that followed, rather of the origin of it all. I only know that one day when I was as usual, waiting for the little girl to come home, I saw the grandmother come to the balcony. Behind her was a group of people. Are they going to catch me, I wondered. I revved up my wings and waited a second for taking off. But to everyone’s amazement, and mine the most, the grandmother told the crowd that I was a divine crow. The white streak on my wing showed that I was an extraordinary being, a messenger from Lord Shiva. If I had come only to their building, when there were a million other high-rises in the city, it was with a purpose. If the people venerated me and made me appropriate offerings, I was sure to grant their wishes. So confused was I by all this fuzzy logic that I did not wish to wait for my wholesome ball of rice. I flew away.
But the next day, I was back again there at noon. To my utter surprise, there were about a dozen women there, with platefuls of elaborate offerings. Grandmother led the chorus. While I noticed that she herself did not bring me anything, she was quick to goad the others to generously give for a divine cause. As I was curious to know where this would lead, I too played to the gallery. I looked this way and that, I waved the streaked wing and the women became hysterical. Some thought I was foretelling good tidings, some became nervous. In all the offerings made to me there was none I could eat. There were flowers and there were whole coconuts. There were unpeeled fruits. There was not even a small bowl of Bisleri water to quench my thirst. Anyways gorging before these worshippers would be demeaning. There were shiny bits of cloth, there were incense sticks and there were coins and currency notes.
Then grandmother floated the theory that Tuesdays were special days for my worship. So I became a real spectacle on Tuesdays. They even built a special colourful tent on the balcony to house me! A priest was called to chant prayers to please me. The grandmother made sure that every woman contributed generously to be eligible for the privilege of seeing and worshipping me. I would stay on the balcony for exactly 7 minutes and then fly away. The grandmother told everyone that I came from Mount Kailas every noon and after blessing the devotees I flew right back to my abode. Slowly from being the messenger of Lord Shiva I became the Lord himself.
As word spread, journalists and television crew began to crowd the balcony. Flash, click, flash, click….I became the News Breaker. A ‘supernatural crow comes to a Mumbai high-rise to bless the city’ went one report. ‘a devotee won a million rupees in a lottery’ said another report. Soon I was on youtube as the sensation of the century. ‘is this an avtar of Lord Buddha?’ questioned Budhists, ‘the white streak in the wing suggests the bird is Buddha’s peace initiative for our strife-torn planet’. Scientists and skeptics formed another camp to counter these claims. ‘the alarming trend of global warming seen in a city crow’s streaked wing’. One zoologist claimed I was a new species of bird altogether.
Oops!
The attention I got made me supremely self-confident. I felt good about myself, quite superior in fact, to the rest of the avian world. I began to believe that if I could stir up such a mighty hurricane, comparable to Katrina, then I had to have something extraordinary in me, besides the smart genes of my forebears. I needed to figure out what it was.
Thus was I musing one glorious morning, carefully avoiding high tension wires. After all no one had yet come forward to insure my life. I decided to rest on the branch of an inviting neem tree, to mull in peace over the events of the last month when Wham! My leg touched a dangling live wire, that perpetual urban menace. To say that I was shocked out of my wits would be an understatement. I was roasted, grilled, fried and steamed all together. I saw myself exiting this wonderfully conniving world of the scamster and the gullible which had elevated me from nothing to - nothing.
In my delirium I thought I heard a small voice shrieking in anxiety “look mummy, Flutter is dying. Give her a ball of rice.”

Identity

‘I am so proud of you. You have topped the class in the exams. My grandson truly’ beamed Grandpa when Aryan showed him his report card. Grandma came along. When she heard the news she added ‘your father was also a topper, so was your uncle. You truly take after our side of the family. You will one day fulfill all our expectations.’ Besides being intelligent, Aryan was also a handsome looking boy and his grandparents said he was a carbon copy of his father. Not only that. He was already a junior swimming champion and would soon be on the national team.
Aryan was very happy to please his grandparents whom he loved dearly. He too felt that he had all the qualities of his father and Uncle Shyam. They were engineers earning very well. His grandfather had been a renowned lawyer and his father a scholar. Aryan had heard this so often that he felt proud to identify with a smart family and to be thought capable of adding his own accomplishments to it.
Aryan had a younger sister Tara. She was eight years old. She was a nice girl but unlike her brother she did not come first in her class. She took time to understand things. She was slow in learning but once she had learnt something she never forgot. But nobody cared about that. Being slow was unacceptable.
Aryan was 5 years older to Tara. He liked his sister but he never had the time to sit with her, play or help her with her homework. As soon as he came back from school, he got busy with his studies, after which he went off to play cricket with his friends or went cycling. Computer games took away some hours, chatting with friends some more until the day was over. Weekends were worse. Aryan had swimming classes on Saturday and then he would go to his close buddy Atul’s house for the day. On Sundays, he woke up very late, disliked anyone disturbing him and then shut the door of his room, switched on the AC and was lost to the family. While Aryan was in the 8th standard, Tara was still struggling with her second standard syllabus. Numbers scared her. Spellings terrified her. Her mother spent hours repeating the same lessons to her. Though she was the most patient among the family members, even she lost her cool sometimes. ‘how many times have I taught you the same lesson?’ she would yell at times. Then she would see Tara’s tears and feel really bad. She would give her a hug to make up for the hurt.
Grandfather and grandmother loved Tara dearly but no one said she made the family proud. When her grandparents spoke of Aryan as his father’s carbon-copy, Tara would long to know whom she looked like but she could never ask that question because she knew nobody would answer her. They would just look the other way. When the whole family went together for a function, Tara would be instructed again and again to pay attention to what people asked her and to reply correctly and not fumble. Her grandparents though usually did not let anyone come too close to Tara or ask her any questions. They did not want people to wonder why this girl was so slow in everything especially in comparison to that brilliant brother of hers. When people came home and Tara came to talk to them, her grandmother would rush there and send her away as fast as she could.
Tara felt lonely at times. In school, she had one or two friends. They helped her with studies when the teacher asked them to. But Tara had no real playmates. She could not follow games which had rules and in which one had to think and act fast. So she stayed back in class or sat alone watching the others play.
In a way it was fortunate that Tara was slow. She did not have the complicated thinking of a superfast brain and so she did not ask herself too many questions. She just accepted reality as it was. Aryan’s world was as far to her as say Mars or Jupiter.
Tara’s mother worked in a bank. Luckily it was close to their house. Only her mother’s boss and a colleague of her mother knew about Tara’s difficulties. When her mother wanted to remain in this branch because it was convenient for her, she told her boss that Tara was a special child who needed her constant attention. When she was in need of a holiday she requested her close colleague to take charge of her work also because she had some urgent meeting with Tara’s teacher. Her boss and her colleague sympathized with Tara’s mother and gladly let her have her way. To be identified as a special mother gave Tara’s mother some practical advantages. Not much really compared to being called the mother of the class topper or the swimming champ.Tara’s mother came home from work, relaxed for a while and sat down with Tara to do the day’s lessons. Teaching Tara took away so much time that as soon as it got over, her mother had to rush to the kitchen to make dinner and then it was bed time. Tara’s grandparents would talk to her when she came to them but it always ended with ‘you should do this’ ‘you should not do this’- mostly before others.

There were three bedrooms in their apartment. Until last year, Aryan and Tara shared a room. Then Aryan told his parents firmly that he needed his own space and comforts and anyways he did not wish to disturb Tara’s sleep when he sat up late. So the family did some space-juggling and the grandparents agreed to share their room with Tara. It was good that Tara had few things to crowd their room. She had no use for costly games, she did not need a TV or computer, story books scared her. The few dolls she had, had come as gifts. The sofa-cum-bed in the room became her bed. Grandmother would put a small mattress on it in the night for Tara and remove it after Tara left for school.
5 years went by swiftly. Many changes happened. Aryan was now in junior college, a real well-built young man. Grandpa had died. Grandma could not get over her grief. The very idea of being labeled a widow, even though of a renowned lawyer, made her bed-ridden. Tara’s mother had to leave her job to take care of her. The only thing that remained the same was that Tara was still lagging in her studies, though now she went to a centre where she was taught in a different way.

Now everybody was busier than before so nobody bothered about how Tara spoke to others or what others spoke of her. Least of all Tara. In the centre she found a very understanding teacher whom she instantly liked. She was in fact the first person who made life interesting for her. She helped Tara bring out all her thoughts and feelings. There were so many of them, hidden deep inside her heart! As Tara was not very good with words, her teacher taught her to paint and express all that came to her mind. She made Tara feel good about herself.

Now, it did not matter if people looked at her differently. When her mother was busy and someone came home, Tara welcomed them and made them feel at ease in her own special way.
And now it did not matter to her if her parents and grandmother did not say who Tara looked like.
Tara had built her identity from her own inner resources.

new bonding

Deepu was in an irritated mood। Nothing was going according to his wish। School was reopening after Xmas holidays and he had been pestered to get up early। Then his mother had not given him noodles for breakfast as promised. Instead he had to gulp down idlis which he hated. Not that staying at home was a better option. His younger brother had fought with him over a fancy ball pen and his parents had asked Deepu to behave like a responsible older brother and give Shamu the pen.Always give in!
Deepu was sick of being the older brother, that too of a fightercock like Shamu. In his 12 years of life, the happiest were the first four when he had been the only child of his parents. They were devoted to him, boasted about him to everyone. Why can parents not have just one child, he wondered. He had never asked them for a brother or a sister. He was happy with all his belongings and games, his own TV and computer. Ever since this Shamu came into his life, it was ruined. He had to share everything with his brother, including his room. Everyone was always comparing them. Deepu is average looking but Shamu has really good features. Deepu is smart but Shamu is very bright, they said. Shamu is also always smiling, always affectionate. When Deepu heard these remarks, he felt humiliated. Certainly he didn’t feel any love for his brother. People do not know how cleverly Shamu acts before them to get a good name. He keeps his true nasty self only for me, mostly in our room, spoiling my happiness, thought Deepu. If Deepu as much as touched his brother in anger, he would start howling and the parents would come running to accuse Deepu of irresponsibility. Truly he had had enough.
Deepu could not even sulk in peace. Immediately the complaints would start. ‘why are you pulling a long face? Don’t we buy you all you need? Don’t we send you to a good school? You should be thankful for all that you have got’ was his parents’ usual litany. Ufff! Deepu was sick to the core.
Both the brothers wore their uniforms, took their bags and lunch boxes and walked to the bus stop. Deepu did not even want to look at Shamu. Shamu tried to hold his brother’s hand but Deepu shrugged it away. Shamu said ‘I am sorry Deepu. Don’t be angry with me’ but Deepu just turned his face away.
Deepu had only two good friends. He would not talk to the other boys or girls. When he entered the class he saw that both his friends were absent. He felt gloomy. Now his whole day would be unhappy. He would have no one to speak to. He would have to eat his lunch alone. As he sat in his place, Deepu noticed someone new sitting in the last row. The boy must be of my age, thought Deepu. He looked a bit tense because it was his first day in this school. He looked eagerly at Deepu but Deepu just turned his face and sat in his own place. He disliked strangers.
During lunch all the children of the class rushed out in groups to eat in their favorite spots: some under the banyan tree, some in the small garden, some simply in the corridor. Deepu did not budge from his place. He did not care what the others did. Then he heard a small voice from behind. Then two voices. They were carrying on a conversation. But the voices sounded unfamiliar so Deepu turned back to see who the two boys were. To his surprise he saw there was only the new boy and no one else. He had been talking to himself. One boy as two boys. Deepu was so surprised that he forgot not to talk to a stranger. ‘whom are you talking to?’ he asked the boy. ‘I have an imaginary brother. He is a sweet boy. Whenever I am lonely, I imagine he is near me. Then I make up the conversations to feel good’ he said. Deepu was utterly surprised. ‘you mean you have no one to speak to?’ he asked. The new boy, Param, said he was his parents’ only son. His parents gave him all that he wanted but what he wanted most was a younger brother which he did not have. He wished he could share his toys, games and chocolates with a younger brother. Even if the brother was naughty, he would teach him to do things the right way. He wished he had a brother who would sleep with him in his room. He wished he had a brother with whom he would come to school and share his lunch. But Param was not miserable. He made up his brother in his imagination and was content enough with it. Maybe one day he would be lucky to get a friend who would be as dear as a brother to him.
Deepu was stunned. This was all so new to him. All these years everyone had only told him how inferior he was to his brother. Nobody had tried to make him understand the value of being an older brother.
Their conversation ended there. but Param carried on his own sweet dialogue in two different voices. Deepu listened attentively: Param asking his imaginary brother to take a bigger bite of the chocolate, param telling him that he would wait for him to finish before washing his hands. (and so on)
Deepu realised how lucky he was to be a real older brother, even to a wicked fellow like Shamu. He would learn from Param the right way of bonding with his brother.
And of course he would be Param’s new best friend.

whataworld

I am at the end of my tether. Nothing has worked for me. Why ME? When every other chap has a job and a pay, decent or indecent, why am I denied employment? An Arts graduate is not offered earth-shattering choices of career, I know, and certainly not those obscene pay packets – or are they rackets – of engineers. The brightest ones get themselves, tie and all, splashed in the front page of newspapers, if not national, at least regional ones, for the ransom companies pay to hire them. Don’t get me wrong. I have absolutely nothing against those guys, nor against their parents, who are the teeth-gritting, whip-lashing single-minded drivers behind them. As for the medicos, they are a scam apart from the rest. They have the whole sick world at their mercy and they have a contingent, yes, a whole army of chaps to collude with and wring out their capitation fees from the coughing, spluttering lot in no time. The heirs to business magnates, girls who look so like each other in their business suits and guys who put on fake modest looks for covers of business magazines do not deserve much thought. Silver spoons in a god-forsaken country, where even five fingers have nothing to dig out of an earthen bowl, are simple obscenities. No, no, I have nothing against any of the above. Right now I am in a deadly introspective mood.
With a naked B Com degree in hand, I have joined the vast ocean of Indian youth in search of a job. Everyone, from the fruit-seller’s studied-in-the-streetlight son to the class V government officer’s mediocre, unmotivated son, is a graduate on a job hunt, as clueless as an ocean wave. I sometimes envy the plumbers, carpenters and electricians whose mobile phones are forever ringing when they are at work in our house and whose numbers come switched off when we nearly die for their attention. But would I dare to train myself under one of them? I may be banished from home, if and when I do find the courage to declare the building plumber my guru! And honestly, dirty loos make me throw up. Things electrical are great when they work but they are shockingly lethal when leaky or plain scrap when out of their sockets. The din of the carpenter’s saw irritates me no end and sawdust makes me sneeze. No, I cannot aspire to any of these vocations (thankfully).

My attention has shifted from myself to that all-important yet perfectly useless piece of paper called the degree certificate. It is a key with nothing to unlock any more. An MBA is master key but by acquiring it I will only be joining yet another ocean of a slightly superior band of unemployed. I might as well save up the money and instead wish for some magic spell to breathe life into my birthday-suit degree and my good for nothing horoscope. If I could marry a tycoon’s congenitally morose daughter by making her laugh, I would have a life to live. But for that you need a caring, sponsoring father like the king in the fairy tale. Today’s tycoon could himself do with a dose of free laughter. There are those who make a stampede for computer classes, and change the course of their life like a damm(n)ed river. Many of my classmates have ended up in BPOs, with their biological clocks running anticlockwise. They have a ghostly pallor under their stubbles, unsightly paunches and dark Saturnine rings under their eyes and zilch personality of their own. I would rather sell veggies on the pavement than become a BPO zombie. Vegetable seller…hmm. The old stick-like lady whose son owns a vegetable shop is forever driving away cows and vegetable lifters. Yes, they do exist, if you did not know. She has to dispose off withered carrots at half price and balance the loss by overpricing elsewhere. Guess one is born with special crafty genes to do this kind of a juggling for survival. Blame my parents for not endowing me with those. Those who juggle jobs, landing one, losing another and eyeing a third are a modern mutated subspecies of homosapiens. I wonder how they put up with so many HR guys, those perpetual troublemakers who get trained to turn and twist your wits inside out. I would truly prefer to keep those devils at arm’s length.
I cannot philosophise on all the jobs of the world which my bare-beauty B.Com will not get me. On the other hand, I am also in an enviable vacuum where I can simply rave and rant about the unfairness of the job market, as it is called, with me fitting in nowhere. What about those umpteen possibilities you may ask…door-to-door selling, telemarketing, insurance selling and the like, ideal turf for us in the grey zone of the professional world. I once almost kicked out an encyclopedia seller who came banging on my door bang in the middle of my siesta. Marketing leaves me cold, if not frozen like a week old chicken in the freezer. Trying to stuff a product down another’s throat is a gagging crime, that’s what I feel. Those loan sharks-or are they leeches- who get hold of mobile phone numbers as if they were gold nuggets and get on a pestering exercice are horrors. If a man needs insurance cover or a loan, what the heck, he has to do the needful to get there. Like one buys himself an umbrella when it rains.
I notice with a tinge of envy the next door auntie and her husband, both former bankers, doing brisk business from home. Their clients do not ask for their degree certificates. What started as a simple help to a neighbour by way of a small lunch pack has grown into a bustling catering service. At all hours, auntie is busy washing, chopping, peeling veggies and her husband delivering lunch/dinner boxes on his motorcycle. By their own admission their profits are huge and their plans for the future as varied as their biryanis and salads. Now that’s what I call an appetizing career. When you are wanted for your service and goods, and not for your god dam certificate microscopically scanned by HR and PR and what not.
Of course I don’t picture myself in their shoes, not because there is no Midas touch auntie in the picture, but because I don’t see myself making all those countless delivery trips. Unhappy clients could raise a stinker like rotting fish which I would not like. This is the drawback of word-of-mouth advertisement. An unsatisfied palate could splutter the wrong words and scramble up a promising career.

All this brainstorming leaves me going in depressing, concentric circles. I may end up throttled when all options spiral away. It is very frustrating. I dress up and decide to go on a long drive to freshen up.

A little on the outskirts, I notice a small bright yellow house with a hand written board saying ‘astrologer’. The simplicity of the board is appealing. I decide to check it out for myself. Maybe for a tenner I could get that invisible horoscope of mine get a cosmetic make-over. Even if his predictions are as threadbare as his signboard, I can at least see how he runs his business solo. He would be dhoti clad with a simple towel by way of upper garment. He could be sporting a big red tilak on his forehead to enhance his persona. Maybe he has a caged parrot which will pick up a card for me with some prediction. As l(e)ast a creature who will not rinse my intellect and chew my brains out with questions. Why not? When Octopus Paul can predict which way football matches will go, why can’t a parrot inform me about my future? I decide to enter the place with reverence and faith. Why not try out what he prescribes? I notice a couple of other vehicles parked nearby. There is a tea stall next to the astrologer’s and that explains their presence.
As I gingerly make my way into the small entrance of the house, I am surprised to see a good number of footwear in the anteroom, if the small sit-out can be so named. A man asks me to remove mine. There is a second sit-out, or a true sit-in, where some ten people are sitting on chairs, waiting for their turns. I am asked whether I would want to communicate in English or in the vernacular. There are different waiting rooms for them.
Now I have not reckoned with so much complication. As the waiting gets desperately long, I eavesdrop on fellow-nail-gnawers. There are those who want to know if/when their daughters will get married, those racked by chronic illness and relatives of the terminally ill seeking relief from/for both, and then, my own kind, the career-disoriented. From the hushed tones it looks as if the astrologer is renowned. I may as well slog it out and see it for myself.

When my name is announced, I enter the third room. I am in for a surprise. The guy I was seeking out is a woman! A well clad, sexy, middle aged woman, with short streaked hair seated on a plush swivel chair. There is a computer before her. The sudden gust of cold makes the presence of the split-AC felt. No, she has neither a halo around her head nor a spiritual aura. On the contrary, her sharp look across her rimless glasses announce a keen business acumen. She has a male assistant with a laptop who enters my details proficiently, professionally. After hearing my job woes, the astrologeress asks me to deposit Rs 500 with the guy in a side room and to come back. She and her laptop assistant have juggled with the details I gave them about myself and when I come back for the august hearing, she says my good days are not THAT far away. I may face a few hurdles as in rejections by company HRs in the first few attempts but I should not lose hope. I should keep knocking on unresponsive doors. No, self-employment is not my calling, she has found out. And for the next three years, Saturn in a wrong inter-planetary seating arrangement blocks any possible short-cuts to prosperity like a sweepstake win. My horoscope has congenital deformities, correcting which could be possible-for a fee of course. Seeing the look of despair on my face, she nods at another assistant. He brings me a pamphlet. These are companies I could try in, she says. Tie-ups? If none of this works, she says with extra softness, do come back for the needful. Incidentally, this is a branch. For bigger woes, a visit to head-office is recommended. She will be present there tomorrow at 11 am. Can her P.A. make the appointment for me? I can deposit the fee here now itself.
As I look at her in disbelief and face her unflinching eyes, I catch sight of a prominent name-board on the opposite wall which says: Dr. Lakshmi MBA (London).

prize

It was a big day for Geeta. The biggest day in her life in fact. She wished to crow from the rooftops that she had finally achieved something for herself in her 55 years of existence. Above all she wanted to tell her daughter about it.
Yes, Geeta had won a short story contest for which an amount of Rs 1000 had been announced. No one would have thought it possible. Geeta had never shown any propensity for writing and certainly not the ability or the ambition to win a prize for it. As she set the dinner table, Geeta smiled to herself wondering how she would tell the family about it. They would all ask her the details. Wiping the plates, she went over them in her mind.
It all started when her daughter Minu went to New Zealand for higher studies. Geeta had been the driving force behind the whole idea. A nature lover, Geeta had been smitten by mental pictures of New Zealand, its pristine beauty and it led her to consider it as an ideal educational destination for her daughter. Perhaps deep in her sub conscience was a glimmer of hope that some day she would get to visit the country too. She had persuaded her husband to arrange for the loan, talked to her husband’s cousin who had settled in the country and given Minu her utmost support and encouragement.
Minu had successfully completed her first year of graduation in the well known university of Auckland. Right from Minu’s first day there, through the year, Geeta had lived like in a state of trance. She had listened keenly to every description of the country, imagined campus life and pictured Minu’s friends and classmates. So intense had been her involvement that New Zealand was vividly alive to her. She could rattle off all details about the country, backed by the pictures sent by Minu.
Geeta was brimming with material and ideas and the need to process them almost hurt. Unknown to the rest of the family she joined a computer class nearby. In two months she was fairly proficient in basic computing skills. She started going to a nearby internet café and in her high-school English, she transferred to the computer all that she could remember from the previous conversation with Minu. Then she learned to use the internet and soon was exchanging e mails with her daughter. Her only request was that Minu keep this all a secret, why Geeta herself could not say.
As Geeta grew more familiar with her daughter’s life and the people in it, she began to improve it with her imagination. While doing her morning chores, she would wonder how X, Y or Z was doing in college, their dates, hoping their relationships were stable. She had encouraged Minu to experience the outdoor activities she had learnt about: Swimming with dolphins, watching whales, hiking in a national park and bird watching at a nature sanctuary. With reliable friends of course. From there to weaving them into stories was a credible enough step. Without telling Minu, she took the liberty to enhance the lives of her friends in her stories. Of course her outlook was the one with which she had grown up and with which she was living now. So her stories had a strange mix of Indian ethos in alien people. Geeta’s friend Jaya was her sole confidante. She was more educated than Geeta and her English was better. She lived in the flat just opposite to Geeta’s and they were good friends. When Jaya saw Geeta emerging from the internet café one morning at 11, she was surprised. That is what led to her being let into the secret and eventually to her editing Geeta’s stories without touching their essence. It was also Jaya who persuaded Geeta to send one of the stories for a contest announced in an English language magazine.
As soon as Geeta saw an envelope addressed to her from the magazine, she was very excited. She rushed to Jaya who opened the envelope and danced a jig holding Geeta’s hands. Her story ‘blind date’ had been selected as a winning entry for the very original effect of merging accurate details about a foreign country flavoured with a delicate Indian spirit. The congratulatory letter said the prize money of Rs 1000 would reach geeta in a week’s time.
My! That was a lot to disclose to a lot of family members! That is just those living with her. Her father in law, mother in law, her husband and two college going sons. She had carefully timed her classes and internet café outings when her parents in law rested so they had no idea about it all. Then there was Minu of course and Geeta’s father who would be happiest. While she put things away in the fridge and while she cleaned the kitchen, Geeta’s eyes shone with anticipated appreciation.
She casually put the envelope on the centre table to see whose attention it would catch. As she flitted in and out of the kitchen every ten minutes to keep her prized envelope in sight. Then her husband came. Geeta’s heart beat fast. He put on his reading glasses, he searched the newspapers, put one right on top of the envelope and got immersed in his reading. Geeta panicked when she lost sight of the envelope but she did not want to jut in when her husband was reading. In a state of anxiety she hoped he would soon finish his reading and remove the papers. That was when her mother in law called Geeta. By the time Geeta came back to the living room, all the newspapers were gone and was also gone the envelope. In utter panic, Geeta rushed to the pile of old newspapers and searched for it. It had fallen on the back side of the big heap. Geeta wiped the envelope, looked at her name on it with satisfaction and once again brought it to the living room. The males had got busy watching the World Cup Football. Passions were running high. There was no chance even a shout would register. Geeta took the envelope and put it in the kitchen shelf, a little disappointed.
The next day dawned bright. The memory of the envelope gave an extra spring to Geeta’s gait. She went about her job briskly yet again waiting for a chance to tell her family about the prize. But so self-effacing was she that talking about herself felt odd. She thought she would wait for a more relaxed time. Morning tension was hardly opportune for sharing such a momentous piece of news.
Morning changed into noon and evening and the envelope lay lifeless, gradually getting smeared in kitchen colours, soaking up a bit of oil too. In two days it had still not budged. Nor had Geeta as far as sharing the news was concerned. Then she thought she would wait till the cheque (in flesh and blood) arrived. It would be the first one ever to be issued in her name.
When Jaya saw her the next day, she asked Geeta about it and she told her she would need to open a bank account in her name to deposit the cheque. Geeta was tense.
And sure enough in three days another envelope arrived, similar to the last one, with Geeta’s name on it.
Now there was nowhere to hide. Ironically when she was at the peak of success, Geeta felt utterly diffident. She could not foresee her family’s reaction. Of course they would all be proud of her resourcefulness, of her capacity to learn computers at this age, of her innovative use of her knowledge. Chances were they would rush to call Minu then and there and share the news. She imagined the big flutter of happiness in the house. Her younger son, the favorite of his maternal grandfather, would rush to his house to announce the news. Geeta’s parents-in-law would thank the pantheon of Gods for this wonderful gift. Geeta’s husband might not exhibit too much emotion before others but in the privacy of their bedroom, he was sure to go gaga. Geeta blushed at the thought. He would then tell her that they would go to the State Bank of India the next morning and open a joint account to deposit the cheque. He would wish her more such successes. Minu would yell in joy ‘ How COULD you, mummy?’. Then she would reveal to the others how they had exchanged e-mails and the whole household would go silent in disbelief. Geeta hoped Jaya would drop in while all this was going on so that she would be spared the (happy) pain of describing it all to her later. Jaya was sure to ask her for a treat; oh oh…she better make some kheer before they all demanded it.
The next day was a Sunday. Geeta made the best kheer of her life and placed it in an attractive bowl on the breakfast table. Let it set the ball rolling, she smiled to herself. Thankfully there was no football on TV. She would be the star this morning.
She placed the envelope with the cheque next to the bowl of kheer. She wiped the plated and bowls and put the spoons on the table, eyeing the envelope every five seconds. There they come trooping, she said to herself, her heart going thump thump. Let me make a dash to the gods and make the first offering to them, rather a wholesome, nutritive, delicious thanksgiving, she chuckled.
‘Kheer, wow’ exclaimed the younger son, ‘yummy mummy’.
‘kheer on a Sunday morning. What a change from drab toast!’ commented the elder son.
‘I have diabetes and you usually do not tempt me with sweets. How come you have broken your rule?’ asked her husband.
‘kheer for breakfast would be too heavy for us. We will take a sip later’ quipped her parents-in-law.
The kheer refused to set the ball rolling, let alone kick a multilateral felicitation ceremony.
The envelope lay ignored, unsung.
The doorbell rang. Jaya made a welcome entry.
‘some kheer, Jaya’ said Geeta. She hoped her friend would cut the ribbon.
‘I have just made breakfast. Yet to have it. I won’t disturb your family. I just came to borrow a cup of sugar. Thanks’ she said.
When Geeta had lost all hope, Jaya suddenly sensed her friend’s dilemma. She saw the envelope on the breakfast table and in a flash understood the situation. She had to intervene.
‘Hey Geeta! Did you tell everyone why you have made kheer?’ she asked in a loud voice to offset the others. When everyone looked at her and then at Geeta, she picked up the envelope and took out the cheque.
‘Attention everyone, see what Geeta has won!’ she fluttered the cheque . In the pin drop silence that ensued, Geeta wished she could just vaporize into the kitchen chimney.
‘What is it?’ everyone asked in unison.
‘Geeta has won Rs 1000/- for a short story from a popular English magazine’
‘WHAT’!
As Jaya went into all the details right from the beginning, eyebrows went up. Chairs were pulled, people exited as if in a protest rally. There were murmurs, from numb to uncertain to downright outraged. That Geeta had left the house when they were resting was what struck the parents-in-law. What if one of those evil men, posing as a salesman had barged in and murdered them both? That their mother had trusted her friend more than them irked the sons more than anything else. The younger son was doubly hurt because he always shared everything with his mother and believed it was reciprocal. That his wife could pull a fast one, after so many years of utter trustworthiness jolted the husband like an earthquake.
Minu was scandalized that her mother could use all the inputs she gave to weave stories about her acquaintances and her life-and to win an illicit prize to boot. So this was her mother’s motive to send her to New Zealand!
Jaya had gone.
The bowls of kheer lay in ruins.
A sudden gust of wind threw the cheque to the ground, like a fallen hero.

A sense of duty





Shyam was a 8 year old boy. He lived with his mother and a four year old sister in a small house. His father had died two years ago. Shyam’s mother worked in people’s homes as domestic help to earn some money. Shyam went to a corporation school nearby. Shyam saw how hard his mother worked and he hoped to be of help to her once he grew up. For now, he took good care of his sister when his mother went to work and he studied well.
Shyam was an intelligent boy. He listened carefully to what his teachers taught. One day the science teacher spoke about the uses of plastic. When she asked the children to name things made of plastic, everyone had an answer. From colourful toys and lunch boxes to raincoats, parts of aeroplanes and computers, plastic is simply everywhere. But when the science teacher spoke about how plastic bags and plastic objects were polluting the cities, choking drains and making animals sick, the children fell silent. Shyam was distressed. Not only cities, even beaches were full of plastic bags and used plastic cups which got thrown into the sea. A huge island of plastic objects had formed right in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Plastic does not rot like wood and so it will only go on collecting.
Shyam looked around him while walking home from school and indeed he saw plastic everywhere. In a huge pile of rubbish, a cow was busy looking for food. She was biting into a plastic bag which contained thrown away food. He thought about it the whole evening. He wondered what would happen if the world got crowded with as much plastic as people. That night he had a dream that he was living in a plastic filled city. It was hot like a furnace and he could not see a single tree or even mud. There were plastic bags flying everywhere. Then, like the cow he had seen at the garbage bin, he also swallowed a plastic bag which came flying to him. He tried to scream but his voice was choked. Shyam was terrified. He woke up and ran to his mother. Thank God it was only a horrible dream. Then the cow came back to his mind. Would she not have also choked? Or would she have suffered from stomach pain and died?
Shyam saw people going into the big supermarket on their road and returning with huge plastic carry bags with the shop’s name on them. They looked good no doubt but it worried Shyam. People bought things in these bags and then just threw them away.
The next day, during craft period in school, their teacher taught the students to make carry bags from old newspaper. She showed them how to punch holes and put in handles made of used bits of rope. Shyam was excited. He made a nice big bag with a newspaper and ran home to show his mother. She was very happy to see his effort.
Shyam thought of putting the bag to use. He went to the big shop carrying it. He waited outside. When the guard got busy with a customer, Shyam quietly slipped inside the shop. He was astonished at the variety of things stacked in the supermarket. He was only used to buying things for his mother from the dusty little corner shop owned by an old man. He weighed and packed things in bits of old paper. Here everything was neatly packed in shiny plastic. People pushed carts and simply collected the things they wanted. Shyam observed them going to the counter and paying unimaginable amounts of money. A boy put all the things in a bright big plastic bag and gave it to the buyer.
Shyam waited near the counter. He looked at each customer. There were smiling women and stern-looking men. They were all well dressed. Shyam looked at himself in an old shirt. How could he talk to anyone here? Shyam felt afraid and thought he could be thrown out by the uniformed guard. He decided to quietly slip away.
Then the cow choking on plastic came before his eyes. She seemed to beg Shyam to do something for her. He decided to be brave and make an effort.
When a fat smiling old woman came to the counter with her trolley full of purchases, Shyam meekly went up to her. ‘Amma’, he said, ‘our teacher told us how harmful plastic bags are. They hurt animals and they spoil the city. They go into drains and when it rains, all roads are flooded. Amma, I have made this bag from an old newspaper,’ he held it up to her, ‘can I give it to you to put your things in?’
The lady was too astonished to reply immediately. Meanwhile the employees of the shop also heard the exchange and the manager came. ‘who are you and why are you troubling this lady?’ he asked in a gruff voice. Shyam was too frightened to answer. ‘get out’ shouted the manager, pulling Shyam by his arm.
Everyone was looking at the scene Shyam had created.
When he was almost pushed outside, the lady called. ‘One minute’ she told the manager, ‘this child is so sensible. He has a much better sense of responsibility than you and me. Here child, give me your bag. I will pay you a rupee for it.’ She took the bag from Shyam, removed her things from the plastic bag and put them into it. There was stunned silence everywhere. Shyam felt too afraid to look up. The lady came near him, lifted his chin, patted him on the shoulder and gave him a shining one rupee coin.
‘I am proud of you’ she told him, ‘make more bags for me. I will give my friends some too. Come to my house to collect old paper and bits of rope. I will get you the gum for sticking the paper. You can ask your friends to join you and all of you can earn some money while doing a wonderful social service.’
The lady asked the manager if he could keep the paper bags near the counter and let Shyam and his friends be there by turns to tell people about their effort. Those who wished could buy their bags to carry their things.
The manager agreed.
Shyam was delighted. He promised to go to the lady’s house the next day with two of his best friends. As Shyam raced home to share the news with his mother and sister, he saw a puppy trying to eat something which was tied inside a plastic bag. He shooed away the puppy, took the bag and emptied it. As the puppy came back for the slice of stale bread which had been thrown away with the plastic, Shyam felt happy that he had saved a small animal just once at least.
By
Meera Balachander
24th May 2010

Tini's adventure


Tini was a small squirrel. She lived on the huge tamarind tree in front of a big house. Mili and Babli were her best friends. They had lovely brown furry skins with dark stripes on them and gorgeous bushy tails. They had lived here for the last two years. They ran about the whole day, chasing each other, talking in their shrill voices. They would sit on a branch when tired or hungry and munch on delicious tamarind leaves or its tasty fruit. Their tails would stand up like question marks. Mili and Babli were happy with their life on the tree but Tini was more adventurous. She was also a little greedy. She said she wanted to go into the house and see what was in there. Her friends told her it was not safe to leave their tree and look into strange places.
But Tini was a stubborn little squirrel. She was very intelligent too. So she decided to sit on the branch closest to the house and observe the people living there. She noticed that there was a little girl who ran about in the house just like Tini in the tree. The little girl had a shrill voice too. Tini felt she could be her friend.
Rani was the little girl. She was 3 years old. She was as active and talkative as a squirrel, her grandmother said. She went to a nearby school in the morning and came home at noon. In the evening, Rani would sit in the big sit-out close to the tamarind tree and do her school work with her grandparents sitting near her. Tini would also wait for this time. She would leave her friends and come close to where Rani was sitting. Tini would observe her writing with her pencil.
One day Rani too noticed the squirrel looking at her. She jumped in excitement. Tini was a little scared. She ran away from there and in no time she was in the highest branch. But the next day she again came down and sat looking at Rani doing her homework. The third day, Rani brought a biscuit. She bit a part of it and threw one at Tini. Tini was so scared she ran away. But she came back in some time and slowly took the biscuit with her paws. Rani was excited.
Soon it became a daily happening. From eating only leaves and fruits, Tini was now used to eating unnatural food. They tasted yummy! She boasted about her new food to her friends. Then she grew more confident and one day when Rani was holding the biscuit in her hand, Tini ran up to her and snatched it from her. Rani was a little afraid but she was thrilled to have a pet squirrel. She told everyone about Tini. Soon, whenever Rani called her, the squirrel would run up to her. Then one day, when Tini saw Rani sitting on the dining table eating her food, she sprang to the window. There was a nylon mesh on the window. When Rani saw her, she called her name. Tini could not resist the temptation and she simply bit through the nylon mesh, making a big enough hole to push her slender body into the room. By then Rani was screaming and her parents, grandparents and servants all came running. Tini grew nervous in the ruckus. She climbed up a big shelf and from that safe height she looked down. Everyone was talking and shouting and staring at her. Some were shooing her away, some ran to get a stick. Tini’s heart beat fast. She was still eyeing the food on Rani’s plate. In one moment she jumped down from the shelf, grabbed a piece of roti and when everyone began chasing her, she simply ran helter-skelter in the room and then into the next room and when everyone followed her there, she hid behind a table and began eating. Very tasty, she told herself, I should come every day. This house is so interesting. It has many nice places to run and hide. I should call Mili and babli too. Meanwhile the family lost track of Tini and they thought she had run away from the back door. Tini quietly came out of her hiding place, and looked into the next room. There she saw Rani sitting on a chair with her dolls. No one else was there.
Slowly Tini crept up to Rani’s chair and from there jumped on to the table. Her eyes were twinkling with joy at being so close to Rani and she uttered a small shriek of happiness. Rani was at first scared, then she recognized Tini and with her small hands she tried to hold her. But Tini ran up the wardrobe and then she leapt over to the fan. ‘Don’t be afraid’ Rani told her ‘I won’t harm you’. Tini jumped like an athlete from the fan to Rani’s bed and in another elegant hop she was on Rani’s table. This time when Rani stroked her gently, Tini only shook her tail in joy. She had truly turned a pet squirrel. Rani began to talk to Tini as if she was a close friend. She told her about her school, about that bad girl Megha, about the chocolate she liked best. Tini listened. Suddenly someone opened the door. When Rani turned to see who it was, Tini disappeared under the bed. It was Rani’s grandmother. It was 9 o clock and time for Rani to go to sleep. Rani excitedly told ger grandmother about Tini coming to her table. Grandmother told her that she was happy but then she warned Rani to be careful. Squirrels have sharp teeth and they can bite anything. She told Rani not to give the squirrel things to eat. She explained that Nature had taught animals to search their food and it was wrong to give them food they are not meant to eat. Rani was a little disappointed to hear all this. Soon she fell asleep.
Meanwhile Tini was still under the bed. Somehow it did not feel cosy like the tamarind tree. Though Rani, her new friend was sleeping close by, she missed Mili and Babli. She missed the fresh air on the tree. She wanted to go back at once. But the air conditioner was turned on. The door was shut tight so was the window. Tini became desperate. She tried to bite the door but it was too hard. She ran here and there and she felt acutely hungry. There were neither leaves nor fruits and worst was there were no biscuits anywhere. Then she saw that the door of Rani’s wardrobe was a little open. She went there and managed to push her body into the cupboard. It was dark inside. There were clothes and books and Rani’s soft toys but no biscuits. In despair, Tini bit Rani’s costly teddy bear. Then she bit Rani’s favorite yellow frock and tore it to shreds. Then she put her nose into her school bag and bit Rani’s neat homework notebook. But Tini did not find anything to eat and she could not sleep too. The room felt cold. She felt like crying.
In this unnatural place Tini could not understand when it would be dawn. Up in her tree, it was as if Nature has put an alarm clock into her system. She and her friends would wake up exactly at 5 am but here it was all confusing. Tini thought she would die.
The next morning Rani woke up and went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. Tini watched her from a corner. The bathroom seemed like an exciting place to explore. When Rani went to the kitchen to drink her milk, Tini quickly ran into the bathroom. She found a tube of toothpaste which she bit into. It was so yummy! She ate some more, smeared some on her face and let the rest of the paste fall down on the floor. Then she bit into the soap but didn’t like the taste. She saw a bucket of water and climbed on it to see inside. She saw her reflection in the water and wondered who it was. That was when there was a loud shriek from Rani. She had opened her cupboard and seen all the havoc inside. She cried so loudly that everyone came running. They were all dismayed and began looking for the squirrel here and there. Rani’s father came with a wooden ruler and looked into the bathroom. He saw Tini sitting on top of the bucket. Whack, he hit her. Tini was frightened out of her wits. She had never been hit before. She fell plonk into the bucket of cold water. How awful it was! Rani’s father asked the servants to take the bucket out and throw the rascal squirrel out.
When Tini came out of the bucket, she was a funny sight to see. Her fur was wet and she looked like a little mouse. The usually bushy tail was like a straw stick. While Tini was trying to get to her feet Babli and Mili came there. They could not stop laughing at Tini. While they were rolling about in laughter with their eyes shut, Tini raced past them and reached the highest branch. In five minutes, she has shaken herself thoroughly and in the wonderful sunlight she was again the fluffy squirrel with the bushy tail.
‘You will never believe what a great adventure I had’ she shrieked for the whole world to hear!

talkaholic

I am at a dead loss. All because of this unstoppable jabbering machine I have for a husband. I have heard of alcoholics, shopoholics and workoholics but talkoholics? Which makes me a stoppoholic, by default. The one word which is always on my tongue is ‘enough’. But it is hardly a deterrent. So carried away is he by his own gift – rather curse – of the gab that he refuses to be even remotely remote-controlled by me. I wish I could put up a board outside our door saying ‘watch your ears’ and ‘mind your mind’.
It was my wedding day, a typical Indian arranged one. I did not know my husband from Adam so to say and he did not know me from Eve. Like the X of a quadratic equation, suspense was woven into the floral decorations of the wedding hall. My friends had raised the bars by assessing his good looks – including deep grey eyes, a perfectly sculpted nose, a very becoming stubble (so they said) and a dimple on the right cheek - and his ‘sociable’ nature. He was not stuck-up like Asha’s husband, they quipped, nor boorish like Lekha’s. He had charmed them with his smiles and easy-flowing words. They showed me visions of a lifelong fun companionship. On our first night together, I got a taste of this companionship. He started by offering me a chocolate. While I told myself ‘how romantic’, he had taken off. No, no, not anywhere physical, but on a conversational jaunt. The whole night – or so it seemed to me - as I sat dazed by his baritone stream of words, rather a verbal volcano, I grew desperate, if not for some appropriate action, at least for an appropriate pause somewhere, just to let out the much stifled yawn. But everything said that he was happy to have his own licensed audience for life. Finally shedding all inhibition, after the yawn noisily exited, I just fell asleep, right before his wide-open eyes and wider-open mouth. I must have broken the Guinness record for a bride’s sleep on her wedding night. I woke up the next morning in a daze, dreading repercussions of a vague crime I had committed; equally dreading the deep-throated day-time onslaught. To my surprise, my husband did not say a word. I had failed him as private audience-period.
Though immensely relieved, I wondered how to rectify the starting hiccups of our new relationship. If not for myself, I needed to show friends how fun-filled indeed my married life was. I tried to recollect at least bits of the topics he had hopped the whole night, err…till I had fallen asleep. Cricket, college, colleagues, cookery, Congress, curves…all starting with C? Did he go alphabetically each day? I decided to confront him with his own weapon the next night. As he sat reading a magazine on our bed, I sat near him and started with a C topic, not knowing exactly what it would do. He was polite in his answer but went right back to his reading. Serves me right, I told myself. Now I have to draw him out, but keep the reins firmly in my control. I abandoned C and decided to be more organized than he was. So I went to A. Words refused to come. I cursed myself for not ever having opened the dictionary my father had got me on a birthday. I should ask him to send it soon. Even as my husband of a day immersed himself into the business magazine (uggh…), I looked for clues to begin a methodical conversation. A for …of course, there was Africa, America, Australia, Antartica. How about honeymoon in Africa? Or migrating to Australia? Did he have relatives in America? No…nothing worked. Instead, it was total action in total silence!

Then four boys happened. Who would have thought it possible? And at such mathematically precise intervals? Between their bawls, brawls and demands, the dictionary that my father had forwarded to me was torn to shreds. There was no time or need for it any more, nor for my husband and me to miss each other, in fact no time to even know each other, except as parents of this unruly brood.

The four of them grew up in no time and went away from home and it was back to the two of us. Looking back, I think I now know when the type II ‘talkabetes’ struck my husband. It was when the last boy left home for university in another city. Number 4 takes strongly after his father in looks and in his liveliness. He is the father’s favorite too. By then retirement looked at us from close quarters. As we settled down in our own flat, my husband let loose his tongue, like an unleashed dog. I became the official muzzle, when he is within muzzling distance that is.
Like a multi-role actor, my husband slips effortlessly into different roles. He turns engineer, teacher, tourist guide, chef, health consultant, marriage counselor and so on. His sole tool is his tongue. The beneficiaries of his self-education are the residents of our building, visiting relatives and strangers on the road, in the bus or anywhere. I think even the idols in the temples he is forever visiting are not spared.
He takes off right after breakfast. Like a doctor doing the rounds, he greets the neighbours, with a little more than a good morning. Some duck, some dodge, some dupe while some succumb to his banter. His unit of conversation is an anecdote. He can pull out short stories, novellas and more from his mind…err tongue, like a magician a rabbit…he walks down the road, enticing known and unknown humans with his (still) charming smile and then he hooks them on or is it webs them in? What does he talk? Well, anything and everything. It may be about the merciless heat one moment, about fake Godmen the next, real estate deals or lower spine surgery, the wickedness of the Chinese. A jack of all trades, is he, and master of none? Who cares? He in the least.
When we go for a drive, he is at his best, at back seat driving that is. If the car is on a smooth fast ride, his talking goes proportionately fast. Why should vehicles rush, he analyses, why is the world in such a maddening hurry? He is not at a loss at signals either, nor does he come unstuck in traffic jams. No, he is not stuck for words. The pattern changes that is all. He has the whole comatose world around us to comment upon and the driver feels doubly dumbstruck as my husband trusts him as a reliable listener and trains his cascading words on him. Today, as we drive to the hills for the week-end, I wish the poor chap good luck silently and take leave of my muzzling duties.
The four boys are now married. By coincidence all the boys have found jobs in our city and we are once more a confederation of high strung, high decibel individuals. The first brought home a slender little talkative thing, his colleague belonging to another community. My husband was instantly at ease with her and she with him. He asked her to teach him her language. And in a short time there were language classes every hour in any situation-on the dining table, in the lift, at the washing machine, accompanied by much mirth and merriment. It suited the ever-busy son fine. The second son looked up to me to find him a bride. I thought I would balance the prevailing ruckus with a silencer. So I searched high and low and found a silent, unassuming girl, who would have nothing much to say, at least nothing to enthuse my husband’s spirits. Instead he passed on his infectious communicative skills to her too. The language classes now have two students! The third son’s wife, his childhood sweetheart, has known my husband for donkey’s years. She deftly avoids him, while flashing innocent smiles at him. But it may only be a matter of time before signs up too. The last son – well it had to happen some time in such a broad-scoped family– married the wrong girl. It was almost printed in the wedding invitation that this was a mismatch. Much above us in social status, the bride thinks no end of herself. She was palmed off to us as an act of revenge, or so an afterthought suggests, by a victim of my husband’s stories. Even I got fooled by the family’s show of decency. She holds our whole family in contempt especially my husband for his friendly overtures. She is the truly stuck-up sore thumb of our family. She manages to ruin all the camaraderie and bonding among the others. Just like the wicked women in TV serials. So venomous is her tongue that when she is around everyone simply shuts up. My husband has been the last to learn that shutting up could ever be a solution to anything. Then he learnt to live the pangs of silence painfully.
You would think that I am happily relieved of my muzzling duties now that a policewoman has come home to roost. But strangely, I weep silently for my talkaholic partner. I miss his free spirit, his guileless charm, his natural friendliness. Not stuck-up like Asha’s husband or boorish like Lekha’s, not one bit.
I break into sobs, and tears flows down my cheek.
Heyyyyyyy! What is THIS?
As the car swerves wildly before hitting the median and coming to a stop, I come out of my strange daydreaming. Since when did I turn a dreamaholic? But the tears are true.
I have cast away the muzzle forever. I simply let my husband rave and rant about the wrongly built median and the crazy ways of the world to the whole listening world which has collected around us. A dream audience!

The presence
Anu felt desolate. Neither her down-to -earth, logical mind, nor her ability to learn fast had come to her rescue when she felt let down by life itself. After her third miscarriage, when it started becoming clear that she would never get a child of her own, Anu cried her heart out. Her husband was there with her, holding her hands, trying to console her. Time would heal her, he hoped.
Time flew by. Instead of giving her a healing touch, it left her more aching. Being childless is not like not being a millionaire. Millionaires don’t cross your path every day. But, wherever Anu turned to escape the deep gash in her, she saw children. Smiling children, weeping ones, chubby ones, sickly ones. But it hurt most when she saw them in relationship to their mothers. From ads on TV, magazines to reality shows, botched motherhood haunted her. Mothers carrying their little kids in uniforms to the school bus, mothers waiting at the pediatrician’s with their sick babies, mothers rushing to Parent-Teacher meets…mothers beaming alongside their children who had topped exams, mothers shopping for their children’s weddings. Mothers proudly showing off gifts from their children, mothers on long calls…the flower seller fanning her little daughter sleeping naked on the pavement, the beggar woman blackmailing the public with pathetic demands for her nursing baby…
Ten years into her marriage, Anu was still distraught. Her younger sister already had two kids, a pair of the naughtiest boys on earth, she boasted. They were brilliant too. They demanded this and that, and fulfilling those wishes had become her sister’s goal in life. Anu found it difficult to sustain conversations with her kid-centred sister. She did not even wish to meet her anytime soon. On her husband’s side, there was thankfully no one to bother her. Anu almost felt grateful that he was an only child, orphaned early in life.

Anu’s husband, a well-qualified executive in a company, was her sole support. He was as heart-broken as Anu was when the verdict was out. He had known loneliness from point-blank range and had wished to have a fulfilling family of his own. Unlike Anu, however, he came to terms quickly with his reality and found ways to compensate the barrenness. He gave Anu his best: as a spouse, a friend and an anchor. He was never harsh, ever receptive and inventive in showing his affection. He thought of surprise week end getaways, candle-light dinners, treks, adventure sports. He ordered whatever was new; he kept the apartment looking forever fresh with changed decors, the latest fittings and plants. He encouraged her to read, shared his knowledge and shared her house work. If there was any virgin territory between them it was in the most delicious curry she made – he said it was best left as her mysterious speciality – and the vaster domain of his speciality: investments and finances. She shrugged away when he tried to educate her in those. She found him sexier with expertise beyond her grasp.
Twenty years into their marriage, Anu was marginally better. All those repeated one-sided takes of hers on motherhood had helped her heal. For all her bragging about her children, her sister murmured copiously about her husband. He didn’t bother to help the kids with homework, he never attended their school functions. He complained of the disorder in the house and held the mother responsible. Anu listened in silence but now she knew where her trump card was. She had an exemplary husband and holding on to him was her route to salvation. They would live like two peas in a pod, or like two humans held tight by an emotional rubber-band. Her husband welcomed the embrace.
Then Anu thought of making the embrace fool-proof. She asked her husband to resign the job and start a consultancy at home. They were well off, had decent savings, a farm-house and of course no daughters to marry off or sons to educate. Their apartment was large enough to accommodate an office and they would be with each other 24x7. The gnawing anxiety she felt when he was late would go. Her husband thought of the idea and what it would mean. He could not aspire to the highest posts which were but a few years away from reach. Missed perks and travels were comparatively minor losses. Starting a consultancy needed expertise and lots of self-confidence. Finding and nurturing a clientele was a challenge. He thought about it, welcomed it as another opportunity to paint life in the colours and desires of his wife.
In six months he was a success. In between her housework Anu would peep into his office, with a glass of fruit juice, a crunchy snack and a naughty little hug. Or she would come in with a flask of steaming coffee and pour it in two mugs which snuggled close to each other. She glowed with pride at the prosperous look of the place. After all even the wall hangings and flower vases were her choice. He was only too glad to see her aglow with love and contentment.
And then one day she came. A young woman, in her early thirties. A consultancy cannot of course say ‘for male clients only’. Anu saw her husband open the door. Anu saw an elegantly dressed woman with neatly trimmed short hair, a trendy bag in hand. Anu saw her husband smile at the lady. Anu froze in the middle of the tune she was humming.
It seemed like hours when finally the wafting perfume faded.
Anu waited with a fast beating heart for her husband to come for lunch. He came, ate as heartily as he always did, helped put away the dishes, paid her compliments, sat next to her on the sofa and fed her dessert. Anu remained silent. He shut shop as usual at 7 and was by her side, looking for his cup of tea.
After many years, Anu was in turmoil again. She did not know what to make of the visitor. The newness of the situation gnawed into her. A typical feminine insecurity overcame her. Her husband’s silence aggravated it.
Then during dinner Anu asked him who the woman was. He said cheerfully that she was Rima a very knowledgeable, well-qualified financial expert. She had heard of his consultancy through friends and had come to check it out for herself. Rima had sounded impressed by his work.
Anu grew restless. Neither her husband’s nearness nor his embrace removed her uneasiness. She hoped this learned woman would leave them alone after the compliments she had paid her husband.
But in the following weeks, the fragrance of the heady perfume only grew more familiar. Anu even dreaded the sound of the lift door opening. There were discussions and more discussions. Rima smiled at Anu, spoke to her gently, she appreciated the coffee Anu made.
As the crisis deepened within her, Anu had nowhere to turn to. She could not stretch her hand for her husband to hold. He spoke of Rima with respect. Her knowledge and work ethics were impeccable. She had the instinct for making the right contacts. Their association promised to bring his consultancy good name and good money. One day Rima could want to become a partner too, he said.
Anu cursed the day she had asked him to resign his job. If he had female friends, at least they had not been within her view. Their perfumes hadn’t lingered in her nose and mind, driving her frantic. Anu wished she had let her husband educate her in the subject. She could have been his working partner too. What was she to do? As ignorant about business as about motherhood, Anu wondered if professional closeness could mutate into something malignant. Tied in knots, her stomach brewing a soup of butterflies and fear hammering her mind, Anu gave herself a month to think it all out. This was the first time in her married life that she was keeping a problem to herself and she could not predict if she had the ability to solve it by herself. If she continued to be miserable, she would ask her husband to tell Rima he could not associate with her. Anu knew he would not refuse her request. This extreme possibility quietened Anu’s mind somewhat. She decided to live out her insecurity and hurts during the month without running away from them or feeling victimized.
Anu did not talk to her husband any more about Rima. If he referred to her in the course of a conversation, she listened carefully but did not react.
And then, on one of the many sleepless nights, Anu found her way. Like at the last step of a steep climb, she willed herself to let go of her crippling emotions. It felt lonely up there. Then she unfurled her plan to herself, slowly, syllable by syllable. ‘If Rima is so amazingly knowledgeable, good for her. If her association with my husband promises to work wonders for him, good for him. All these years he has given me his very best, without a thought for himself. It is my turn now. The niceties of motherhood and the intricate realities of investments might have eluded me but surely I am qualified enough to recognise magnanimity and give some back’
She would make adjustments. She would make more space for him; no, it would not be difficult, it would be like removing some furniture in the living room for more freedom. Or was it the other way round? Moving some furniture to accommodate one more? Whatever…’More coffee for Rima too’, Anu tried to force a wry smile.
‘She makes great coffee’ smiled Rima to herself. ‘the guy is a gold mine waiting to be explored. Even at 50-50, we could simply have a ball for life. Let me give it a month to formally propose partnership.’
‘I am lucky Rima came my way. My, is she passion-driven in her work! It is exciting to think where we could reach. Let me give it a month to give it all a final touch’, thinks he.
Like an ant staggering out of a spoonful of water, Anu recovers in a month’s time. Or maybe she has resigned herself to the inevitable.
The next morning Anu wakes up to a new consciousness. The butterfly storm has subsided, the head feels uncluttered. She is once more able to hum a tune without breaking down midway. She will make extra strong coffee today without any bitterness in her. As she makes her routine cleaning round of the office, she stops every two minutes. She is able to spray the delicate pine-scented room freshner after a month, while having her little chat with the Laughing Budha. She has brought a few coloured flowers to place at his feet. She touches with the utmost gentleness the new soft money plant leaf climbing up the window, and opens the curtains wide. She is Anu reborn. ‘this is not only an office, it is a place which breathes and lives love. And the presence of love allows no room for insecuirty. I was foolish to go through all those awful emotions. In fact Rima’s coming has like cleared my mind of all the misgivings and complexes of all these years. I should thank her.’
Her husband has been building castles in his own private pockets of air. Sipping coffee opposite Rima, in a moment of relaxation amid hectic business talks, he thinks: The way things promise to go, I will have to find newer tax-evading techniques- Jokes apart, I wonder what I will do with the extra roll of wealth. All for Anu of course. I should plan a real grand surprise for our next wedding anniversary, like say…a round-the-world cruise on a luxury liner or a polar expedition. Cover her in what’s the name…Swarovski crystals…or…maybe Rima can give me some good clues about the latest jewellery. She has great taste.’ Incidentally the coffee is tasting real great too and …the familiar fragrance in the room is reminding him of a missing presence. A touch, a glance, a peel of laughter. ‘I will make up for it on the cruise’ he promises his slightly flustered self.
.
While delicately sipping the best cup of Fresh and Ground filter coffee yet, Rima lets her eyes wander around. For all the brisk business which is happening in the office, there is a presence here which wafts along with the coffee vapours. The fragrance of pine, new to her, disturbs her slightly. She gazes at the single life-size picture of a couple in a fisherman’s boat on a calm river. He is oaring. She is throwing a handful of water at him. Her eyes are dancing with joy. He looks totally enchanted. The setting sun in the background makes it a striking picture.
As Rima looks around some more, she feels the presence everywhere. She can even hear The laughing Budha’s side splitting laughter. The Feng shui bamboos, the bright red and gold wind chimes, a well-opened window with a lovely view outside, curtains of sheer white lace, small memorabilia from many voyages arranged tastefully, a delicately embroidered table cloth on a side table with…two identical coffee mugs with ‘Mickey and Minnie’ written on them, a suggestive single seater wicker swing…things you don’t find in an investment firm or a consultancy office. So carried away had she been by business prospects that she had missed it all. How could she?
It’s never too late to learn, Rima tells herself. This place speaks of an investment I have never known.
It’s time to quit.

थे लिंगेरिंग taste

Phew! What a day! Don’t get the tone wrong. I meant to convey that it has been a super-duper fulfilling day. I have had a fabulous final round of interviews in a top class firm. Everything indicates that I had done my homework exceedingly well. The smile on the faces of all bore testimony to the fantastic impression I had made. Then I met two of my college seniors over lunch. They are both working in this company. We had a hilarious time recalling our college days and our crushes and pet peeves. They gave me a ringside view of the working conditions in their (soon our) company and said they could not wait for me to join them. We would rock like in our college days. Now I am at the railway station, waiting for the goddam train to chug in. Why train you many wonder. Indeed I could have cleared every interview on the phone itself. I just felt like hanging loose for a day. Just getting out of the Metro and chilling in a different city. Already my mind is working out the finer details of the life I will be leading in this city.
It is 6 pm. I loiter near the book shop. Not that books interest me. The books mostly found in railway bookshops are thrillers or those feel-good types. You know ‘how to become rich’ ‘how to live in peace’ ‘the path to nirvana’ etc. These books are for the naïve. I dislike thrillers; they are simply hot air and hocus-pocus. Then there are books on spirituality, the other great reigning raining fraud. I don’t mind cookery books. They are at least in the realm of the real. Baking in fact fascinates me. I always loved those melting-in-mouth cakes my mom baked at home. Maybe one day when I settle down in this city, I will get a ‘Bachelor cook-book’ and prove my prowess in this area too.
The platform is just coming alive. Fat people dragging their suitcases noisily, hawkers running about as if it is Do or Die. Suddenly there is a cacophony in a thousand different pitches. The AC coach is not far from where I am. With my light back-pack and my smart Nike shoes, it is just a hop for my tall, athletic frame into the compartment. I brace myself for an evening in the company of a family of yelping kids and adults on a non-stop eating binge. But strangely there is no one anywhere near my berth. I have the whole place to myself. My thoughts expand like the free space around me.
A bit about myself then. I am Ajay, 27, engineer by profession. From my school days, I have known only success, more often roaring than just ordinary. I have always been a topper and the family’s blue-eyed boy. The medals and trophies on display in the front room of my parents’ home catch everyone’s attention. I got into the college I wanted, into the science branch in which I wanted to qualify and later specialized without any hitch. A stint in an IIT gave me the final sheen needed to make heads turn in my direction in the professional world.
Even in my school days, when our grammar teacher taught us the affirmative, comparative and superlative forms, I respected only the last. The first two are for the mediocre. And all this talk about ‘simple living and high thinking’…what deceitful words! To me it is simple. Simple living is for simpletons. High thinking on the other hand reflects in a person’s style and bearing. Clothes do make half a man and the other half – or just below that – is made of the accessories that go with the clothes. A plush wallet, a sexy smartphone, a telling perfume, for example. Telling indeed what the man before you is totally worth. If you have it, flaunt it, is the great adage by which I go. I am of course not advocating hollow posturing. Flaunt the genuine without embarrassment is my mantra.
Where do I hope to reach with my road map laid out? The Mount Everest of the professional world is of course my goal. There is no dearth of role models. Right from those guys favored inexplicably by Lady Luck, to those chance innovators. Not that I overlook the Russian Roulette of Nobel Prizes. If President Obama can win the Nobel Prize for peace within a year of doing absolutely nothing peaceful, it is a hopeful sign for lesser mortals! Not that I believe in the comparative form, mind you. Let us say the Noble Prize is open to all. What about the other aspects of my life you may want to know. Though I dislike Nosey Parkers, I know a smart, successful young man kindles curiosity. I am single, by intent and by luck ha ha! I see my friends messing up their lives in the name of that ghostly, ghastly emotion called Love. They even begin to look and behave like poor flies trapped in spiders’ webs. Of course I am not averse to the tingle of feminine attention and adulation of which I have received plenty. I have wisely slithered away when girls have as much as uttered the ‘c’ of committed relationships. There are some girls who are as practical as guys like me and then our wavelengths truly match. So does our sense of fun. But then, a gold medal winner earning a five digit salary is not eligible to remain single and peaceful for long in our society. Those moth-like aunties are already hovering around me with earfuls of proposals. I simply win them over with an enticing smile!

I look at my watch. Just two minutes for the train to start and the compartment is quiet like a graveyard. The comparison is a bit unnerving so I think of opening my laptop, then change my mind and take out my smartphone. Whom can call to enliven things up a bit? As I scroll down the address book I stop at Rahul. A great friend if ever there was one. He would surely like to hear all about my day.
I hear footsteps. Not the heavy, trundling ones of a two ton middle aged couple but dainty, light ones. As I look up I see a slender young girl with arresting looks. Her high cheek bones and well formed lips sit prettily on a silky smooth dusky complexion. I am not used to describing looks eloquently but it is as if words are coming on their own. She checks her ticket number and puts her compact strolley beneath the seat opposite mine. She adjusts her jeans and top and sits down near the window. We do not look at each other.
Rahul answers my call. ‘how did it go buddy’? he asks. I begin at the beginning and tell him everything. The city, the fabulous building of the company, the great experience with the board, the questions I was asked, the hopes I have, the promises they have almost made, I do not leave out a single detail and of course about the lunch with the girls. Rahul is one great listener. All this while my eyes are shut reliving the day.
When I come out of my call, I casually look at her. She has a phone in her hand too and she is fiddling with it. It looks like she is sending someone text messages. It is already dark. There is nothing to see from the window except my own Greek profile. I wish I had some music. I get up, stretch myself, walk two steps, peep into the next coupe. A couple and a kid is all. I come back to my place and sit down, one leg on the other. Meanwhile the girl has opened her bag. She has taken out some sort of a notepad and is scribbling something in it. Then she takes her phone and makes a call. She tells her friend that she is nervous. Nervous? My ears perk up. It seems she is going to attend an interview and she has butterflies in her stomach. This is her first experience it seems. Her friend encourages her, or so it seems, from the blissful smile. Her lips are lovelier than ever. She puts the phone back and reopens the notepad, bites a pen and looks a little lost.
I am not given to talking to strangers, especially while traveling – you never know what maleware they may be harbouring. Just this once, my curiosity is aroused. A fetching girl, with bewitching lips, who is going to attend her first interview and me with all my roaring successes and confidence…I take the first step. ‘where are you going for the interview?’ I ask her. She appears surprised at my voice, blushes just a mild shade of peach and replies me. Her voice matches her looks, is my first reaction. We get talking. Slowly at first, then with greater ease, we open out to each other.
I give her vital clues for the interview. She is totally absorbed in my words. It is fun, tantalizingly so, to see her stare at me with so much admiration and awe. I play out various scenarios for her and induce her to more logical thinking. It is like we are playing an invisible game of chess.
It is dinner time. The railway caterer gets me my dinner. She says her mother has packed her some home food. I tell her I will go the washroom and be back.
Over dinner we talk some more. She talks about her family, her friends. She has never left her native city. Her father wanted to accompany her on this maiden voyage of hers but she said she would manage. Isn’t she glad she got an inspiring travelmate! I tell her about myself, my successes, my aspirations. The railway food is not worth sharing and I apologise to her for that. She is graceful in her gratitude and instead offers me some of her food. The chocolate cake is particularly sexy. It seems to have a melting middle which simply runs down your throat yummmm…It is a special recipe of her mother’s. With a pang I realize I have eaten a good three fourths of the cake and probably left her yearning. She puts the remainder in the box and tells me she will keep it for the return journey tomorrow. She gives me the most wonderful smile, a combination of naivete, nervousness, gratitude and who knows…maybe a desire to keep in touch. We will exchange mobile numbers and mail ids in the morning. Maybe I can drop her some place near her interview centre. With more reassuring words for the morrow I bid her good night and spread out my bedsheet. Strangely I feel protective towards her. I should get up in the night and check out if she is ok. I go to see if the doors are well secured.
The blue night light is on. The warmth of the blanket, the rhythmic movement of the train, the great experience of the day and the good vibes from the girl and above all the lingering taste of the cake in my mouth not only rock me but literally drive me to sleep in no time. I vanish into a dreamless world for what seems the stone, bronze, ice and stone ages combined.
‘Wake up, we have to clean the compartment’ goes a gruff voice. I feel someone tugging hard at my shirt sleeve. I am too drowsy to respond. Then someone throws some water on my face. When I wake up there is a crowd near me. ‘another case’ someone is saying. Case of what? ‘Did someone give you a biscuit?’ As I stagger up, with a strange headache, I look beneath the seat. There is no sign of my belongings, neither the laptop nor my backpack. When I feel my pockets, it is ditto. The smartphone is gone, so is the wallet, the watch and my ring. In fact all my superlatives are gone in one blow. As the crowd noisily works out the modus operandi of the biscuit bandit, I slowly walk out of the train with the still lingering taste of the cake in my mouth.