The phone or the mobile

Yesterday , on a trip to the city, I witnessed a strange sight.

 A large car, gleaming in its opulence ( in Punjab, everything and everyone gleams with opulence - trust me ) sat idling by the road -side.The driver, a fair-skinned, goatee-sporting , spike-headed youngster was busy, you have guessed it right, talking on the phone.
 You may say, what is strange in that? No, the strangeness did not end there.
By the roadside, squatted a  turbaned seller of pink and cream colored candyfloss, one hand steadying the pole with the candy-packets tied to it like so many garish balloons,the other ,you are right, holding the mobile to the ear for a hushed discussion, face furrowed with concentration, right next to raucous traffic.
A little ahead lay the sprawling bungalows of the richie-rich.At the wrought iron gates of one abode, stood a lady, smiling at other , who was astride a scooter ( idling) with a child on pillion, impatiently pulling apart the upholstery on the scooter seat. Cute guy. My guess is the same as all sane human beings. One was visiting the other, only talking to each other; on their respective phones. I swear, on every single thread of ripped upholstery, they were  talking to each other.
It was as if I had entered a gray-zone of the future world , in a sci-fi movie. In fact, I half -expected Keanu Reeves to come tearing out of the bill-board in his metallic outfit, with a gas mask on, spraying bullets .

I hastily hurried on, and repeated an oft said prayer, nay, lots of oft-repeated prayers, to various gods, spanning three religions, and four decades of fearful existence.(hanuman chalisa, mool-mantra, and our father-to be precise)Followed by a general plea for forgiveness (Lest I offend someone's ego).

As if in answer, I spied a fruit-seller, his cart laden with  unsold papayas, picking his nose, with gay abandon.

I sighed with relief, and thanked the Lord(s) , for having saved us from possible alien invasion by mobile wielding automatons. Jai Shri Ram!Sat Sri Akal!Hallelujah!!

Thirst

Harivansh Rai Bachchan , the great poet , in his iconic Madhushala, write
"Itni pi jeene se achcha
sagar ki le pyaas maroon
Sindhu trisha di kisne rachkar,.
bindu barabar madhushala."

These words have bothered me for ages. They still do.
May I die with the unquenched thirst of an ocean, rather than drink this meagre drop.
Who gave me the thirst of a river ( Indus-sindhu), and  a drop of benediction, to quench my thirst .

It must be the creator alright, with his black sense of humor. He must be laughing his head off at the plight of us creepy-crawlies, scraping the dust for years(khaak chchanna) to get to a drop of nectar.

Very apt. A succinct commentary on our existence. Driving home the futility of it all, with ruthless force.

Suresh

"Suresh kuthe ahe?"
"Suresh kuthle gele hote?"
Where is Suresh?Where has the bugger gone off to now? Our warden would enter her office with these words.They constituted a morning ritual, and no one strove to answer her.If someone happened to be in the pantry at that moment, the person, just looked up ,mildly alarmed, from whatever one was doing, and continue forthwith.
She was unpopular enough to expect no greetings either.   She would proceed to keep her large , full-face helmet on the table, shake her golden mane free, and fish her spectacles from her ample purse. Pulling up her chair, she would put on her glasses and peruse all the various books kept in front of her.
The milk-account book, the bread account book, the egg account book.All with the day's entries duly made by the home-sister."Hmm, hmm,hmm.One hum for each book. Read and slammed shut.
Now her blue eyes would scan the pantry again.
"Suresh kuthe aahe?"
She would ask no one in particular. And no one answered.


Suresh, meanwhile, would have rested his sorry backside on a stainless steel covered three legged metal stool( lend from some bankrupt OPD) folded his cracked heels underneath him,and wrapping his fingers around a large steel tumbler full of hot, syrupy, tea would be regaling a motley crowd of fellow mess-workers with the details of his latest exploits. With the adroitness of a master story teller, he would weave a story, punctuated with violent movements of arms(to the perils of other tea tumbler holding hands),and full throated guffaws.

Tea-session in full swing in a secluded corner of the kitchen, would be interrupted by a bellow from the pantry,"SURESH"

People would scatter, justifiably alarmed.

 In her shining golden mane and piercing blue eyes , Warden could look pretty scary.

Muttering curses and expletives under his alcohol-and-tea laced breath, Suresh would materialise at the creaking wire-mesh door, mouthing an innocent(faintly piquant)-"Kai?" what?

"I will tell you what, you good for nothing loafer, there are milk packets to be counted, milk to be boiled, girls are coming down to breakfast, if you do not come down this moment, you are fired."

"Never let a man finish his tea". Suresh would mutter as he sauntered off, wiping his hands on his grimy apron. They all were issued ash coloured uniforms by the mess,but months of wearing them in and around the kitchen, and never once washing them, would convert them into a shade of brown, stinky, and a fly-magnet to boot.

Even now a whiff of stale toddy and a cloud of flies entered the pantry with Suresh as he approached  the pantry .

Directly in front of the warden office, stood a light blue fridge, with rusted walls and a handle too grimy to be described. It had a glass front(probably gifted by pepsi/coke companies in a fit of misplaced benevolence),and was packed with umpteen packets of milk. All one litre, all embossed with the words," military farms" in green, all frozen. The sheer numbers threatening to open the fridge, it was locked with a padlock joining two loops of a thick metallic chain .

It was warden's Fort Knox.

The key was handed to Suresh, after much glaring and Suresh proceeded to drag an enormous 'patila'(vessel) to the much dented aluminium table, with as much ruckus as possible. The padlocked chains opened with a loud clang,and few frozen packets rolled off to the floor.Suresh emptied the fridge(Till warden, hawkishly counting, would scream-"Bus'(enough)),expertly slicing the polythene and letting the frozen milk mass fall with a thud.

The noise would be jarring and very disturbing to somnolent breakfasters.But was music to Suresh's ears.

Upon being reprimanded "Suresh tumi kai kartos!! Asa karu naka!!" ,(Reduce the din ) the noise would double. Slash, thud, jangle. Slash,thud, jangle.It would continue, ad-infinitum.

Just when the milk and tea drinkers would have given up all hope of getting a hot beverage on this day,Suresh would plonk a tray laden with steaming hot cups of milk on the dining table. Next , an oversized steel drum full of tea would be hoisted onto the table top followed by a huge basket of washed, wet, gleaming  stainless steel cups.

Girls chorused-"Thank you Suresh",and he would blush and wave us off, like some newly elected politician.

Miraculously, all this happened within the impossible span of ten to fifteen minutes.

Suresh was a life-saver, rascal and drunkard, all rolled into one.And indispensable  too, as he proved , every day , at almost every meal.

One fine day, Suresh disappeared.All hell broke loose. A cook had to be cajoled into counting and the old Atmaram , who usually was seen trying to do some grass cutting on the outer periphery of the mess- lawn at this hour, was coaxed in , to , do the boiling and serving.

Result, great deal of sploshing of milk, less sugar in tea, and delayed serving.

Even in his perpetually inebriated state, he was sharper and more efficient than his sober counterparts. He had been found sleeping his booze off in some grassy patch, and was sacked.

But this was nothing new for Suresh. He knew they would come looking for him when things heated up , real bad, and he would be reinstated; with full honours.To his throne of the bearer of the girls' mess. Till then, he would bide his time, and keep off toddy-if that was possible.

Death/destruction/deviant nature

Unspoken questions
resentment bubbled
inside
and turned
the insides into
a
frothy
smulch.

The
finitude
of knowledge
thoughts
scares me,
as I am surrounded
littered
with
the detritus
of human
thinking

An unuttered
word
a thought
not recorded.
how wasteful
the nature
could be
as to be
scattering
such
invaluable
gems

Others fill
their
worlds
with mansions
clothes
gems
I filled
mine
with words
and more words
information
crammed
to the rafters
only
now when it is all
to go waste
that
I realize
how greedy
have I been!!

There is
no time
neither
opportunity
nor
possibility
of
regurgitating
all that
one has learnt
in a lifetime

what a shame
what  a waste!!
I wish
I could lick
my plate
clean
and depart
with
a clean
fresh
slate/soul/mind.

Scriptures
tomes
recipes
quotations
algebra
trigonometry
shakespeare
going
up
in flames
in a
whiff
of wispy/curly/relentless/inevitable
smoke

Every
death
is
such
an
awful
squandering.

It is almost
akin to
burning
down of
whole
libraries.
a crime
of epic
proportions/
unthinkable

The Transition

At some point in my teenage years, my father decided to take me under his wings , and got me admitted into a school in the city.

It was a wake -up call. From the cloistered and protected environs of a convent school in the backwaters of bihar, where swear words and dirty 'thoughts' were as alien as the unicorn amongst a herd of water -buffaloes, I was thrown into the rough and tumble of the 'real' world. Whether that was a good thing to happen or not , is not for us to decide. But , it was definitely, not a pleasant thing.

 I also saw a new breed of people from the close quarters, the anglo-indians.They were mostly hot-headed bullies, over-age(for they failed at least once in most of the grades), and illiterate. They were mostly good at two things, viz, bullying and sports. They made most of the house captains, and were boarders. Over the span of two years that I spent there, my emotions swung from awe, fear, disgust to frank pity. Of the many dregs that the british raj has left behind, this is the most poignant one . These girls , mostly fair and robust, could speak the vernacular (hindi and bengali) very well. But insisted on talking in their own lingo- which was a pidgin version of the queen's language that had been bequeathed to them.

They had parents who wore last century's clothing. Flowery frocks and dull- coloured suits with bow-ties. You could tell them from a mile. When the parents arrived, it was almost as if , a fancy -dress ball was under way.A great show of affection ensued, but you could tell there was no genuine filial affection; at least not measuring up to  Indian(bengali) standards. For starters, most of them lived in the boarding (free for the anglos), despite having homes close by. Some were dark, almost Indian complexioned, others were pale pink, turning to red when they had to "fix" a junior.

All the english expletives that I know, can be traced to these enthusiasts.

I saw waxed legs, done-up eyebrows, tank-tops and condoms from close quarters. Things I had only heard/read about, hitherto. I also learnt that fear of "God " and "God " himself , was a fictitious concept, drilled into your impressionable minds by god-fearing nuns.I saw teachers being abused , behind their backs( and in some commie/ anglo cases- right in front), and people getting away-scot free.I also learnt sexual innuendoes and overtones to normal conversations.

I also learnt not to trust girl-classmates'(kaal ke kichchu podi ni'-"I didn't study at all yesterday,' the class topper will lie to you on the morning of exam finals, batting her eyelids innocently). I distinctly remember a classmate, who got top marks in all papers; used to guard her papers/notebooks so jealously, that no one was allowed even a peek inside .She made it through to MBBS Entrance- a coveted position then and now, and was known never to smile( had uneven teeth). I can imagine her examine patients, in the  unsmiling  gloom of cold efficiency. She had only one friend in whole of the class, and she was the class' moron'/outcaste.; someone who would /could never compete with her.

Then there were mothers. Overprotective,ubiquitous, omnipresent.Bengali mothers are the worst breed of mothers on the planet earth.(My mother too, is a bengali mother. But she never smothered me, and I thank her for that. I may have not become a doctor; but , at least, I am not a human bonsai) They have no idea of personal space.I know of one particular mother who used to drop her fat bespectacled  daughter(an only child) in the morning, and patiently wait outside the school gates (doing what? chatting up with the gatekeeper probably),be there with hot tiffin at lunch-break, feed her morsels while the scholar daughter consulted her books or gossiped with her cronies; and again at the off-time to pick up her darling daughter and escort her home safely. She practically lived and breathed her daughter's life. Heard later that the pampered girl made it to the hallowed shrine of IIT in first attempt.(probably the mother accompanied her to coaching classes too, after school; patiently sitting under a tree , doing her knitting, as her daughter grappled with calculus). But what happened to her mother? Did she shift residence to the banyan-tree-outside-girls'-hostel- of -IIT Kanpur? In any case, she would have to abandon her child's side , sooner or later. I mean, how can a parent camp outside her married daughter's bedroom door? May be this lady can. With a coffee percolator in hand, she may appear as a genie in the middle of the night, with a steaming cup'o''joe in hand.

 It was overwhelming, scary, and disquieting.

 It also put me off studies in the two crucial years of my life. (class 11 and 12 ). I had entered the hallowed portals of the competitive times and chose to remain shut-eyed /deaf to the incessant chants of IIT/JEE carrying on all-around me.To top it all, I had been given science in class 12, with both maths and biology(another recipe for disaster).

It was an ostrich like response to too much stimuli in too little a time.

Manika (mania)

"Maniaa"
"Maniaaa"
"Maniaaaaaaaa
Piercing the early morning fog,a cry rising  in pitch and amplitude , emanated from the window. reaching a crescendo, and threatening to drown the drone of the water-pump.
A door on the outer periphery of the courtyard opened with a bang, the small chain latch continuing to dangle and clang noisily long after, and a short , squat figure shot out across, bare chested, hastily tying a knot on his lungi, almost tripping on the doormat, as he entered .
This happened everyday.
We would gleefully snort at his discomfiture, like little devils  that we were.He was a laughing stock for various reasons. One of them was his overwhelming vanity, at his good looks; second his pathetic education and english , in that order.

It is not mania as in madness(english), it is just an irreverent tag of the syllable "aa" to what was , actually a beautiful name-mani(jewel).It belonged to a much mocked relative. An uncle of sorts.Actually, he was the second son of my grandmother's youngest brother,"Laal-Dadu'.

 Being a poor and ill-educated relative, Mani ka was taken under my grandmother's wings to secure  some form of "living". As he was younger, he was called' mania ' by my grandmother. Seizing the opportunity, we quickly set matters straight by calling him 'mania', behind his back , and out of my grandmother's earshot.

He called himself "Gulaab-khaas" ; a moniker invented by himself , for himself. A silly name, meaning "a special rose".To us , he seemed neither , but a fool and a caricature. He was finally employed  at a prehistoric family welfare clinic, as a compounder. A compounder was a nomenclature meant for  a doctor's assistant( person who' compounded medicine -or pounded various mixtures-during the pre historic times), the name and position continuing till date, in accordance to all things old that perpetuate in our country, due to sheer inertia.

Amazingly, he managed to make a decent enough living out of the archaically named job. He belonged in a formalin jar. Or in a museum, lined up with dusty boulders of coal or granite, with fragments of fossilized fern sticking out of his ears .He was something straight out of a pre-british census book.

He could barely write his name, but took great care to groom himself, was against education of all types,(that is, didn't  have much regard for the educated types) Considered women as inferior beings, and himself married a nubile 17 year old daughter of an impoverished farmer, who was dazzled by the mere sound of his 'sarkari naukri'.

He was known to gift people flowers(phool) when having been made an' April Fool'.When being sent to fetch us from school, some pet phrases like ,'good morning', how are you?''where is ....'would be taught to him hastily , by my grampa,to avoid tight situations. He would still manage to make a perfect fool of himself (I am sure he spoke all the wrong sentences, in the wrong order),and stand grinning like a baboon , while we were summoned. Sister superior would be red in the face , with suppressed laughter, and we looked away, beetroot red with embarrassment.
At that point, I wished I could say that I didn't  know this man. Man, did  we blow it up when we reached home!!

Now, in retrospect, we realize, he was just trying to help, and obeying orders. Nothing more.

The Precipice

(On learning of the passing away of yet another acquaintance, an uncle of sorts)

Each passing day
you are coming closer
to the
cliff face
first
the pebbles
scatter
then come
stones/rocks
When the
boulders
start
rolling, know this
you
have
reached
the edge.

My shoes

My first power joggers. Woodland. Dark brown, suede, with really long laces. My beloved shoes. My second skin.

 For ten years, we raised two children together, running to bus-stops,walking to stationery stores for endless school supplies, climbing umpteen stairs hewn onto hillsides of Andamans to reach a really disappointing mud-volcano crater(“It is just “mud” mama”).

Then, on daily evening walks with the man I love, my better half, quickening to a semi-jog when kids’ exam revisions are due, granny is waiting for her hot meal, or a call from the hospital emergency room crackles on the mobile for my doctor husband.

Endless taking off and wearing them ,outside monasteries in Leh, cave temples in Ajanta -Ellora, Pir-baba-mazars to beg the Gods for good health. Wearing them through rain and slush, mud and macadam, on pavements and dirt-tracks.

I love you , my shoes.But it is time for me to give you away. The laces are caked hard from constant muddiness, the soles worn thin, the body wrenched apart from the seams.We have had good innings. Goodbye.

Philanderer

So lost was I , in a stupor of glee;

like an overdose of things sugary

Sweetened world in a pink haze

of happiness and glossy glaze

That woke up one fine day 

With my IQ in the way

asking me to look into eyes

I saw only the smile freeze

on the lips from the last joke

but the man had thrown his yoke

And had sped across , away

cleared all hurdles in his way

He wasn't there at all,mon ami

though he sat right next to me

I had lost him ,like many others

have before me, wives and mothers

pretending that their hearts and soul

so pure and alien to thoughts afoul

Shall keep love and the one loved

forever enshrined and enthroned 

Not knowing ever, with the ebb and flow

time does eventually mellow, and how

time flies, hearts change, bells w(ring)

destined to stand at doorstep and cringe

As the cuckoo flies the nest,eastward

and the cuckold leaves too, wayward

Growing old

All that you cribbed about, appears nice and rosy.
Every crappy note scribbled , seems pretty prosy
Every struggling rhyme ,sublime poetry
Every common person is a veritable gentry

Your textbooks, school, your songs of old
you are still , completely out and out,  sold
What are you? Some peddler of fool's gold?
Methinks you ought to stop , you should

Every age has its day
You have had your way
Now let the lads today
Have their own say.

Look around your ankles

(Written when needled by my daughter's accusation that 'mama, you don't even have an opinion of your own!!)

As you stepped
So did I
I was not
ever
in doubt
about
following you
not only
blindly
but
dumbly.
Neither did I
see
where I
went
nor did I say
anything
I had silenced
my
senses
and taught
myself
to dream
your
dreams
think
your
thoughts
loyal
in all
ways
possible
you couldn't
even
see me
as you
stood
straight
and tall
for
I
resided
somewhere
around
your ankles
sitting
like a
patient
dog
waiting
for
scraps
of
attention

The bus ride from Gurudwara

"Just because there is a free bus ride doesn't mean we have to avail it."
My daughter won't let go , of the thread of argument which began outside the "langar-hall" , the communal dining hall.
All packed and dressed for  travel, we still had to cover our heads with cloth, as technically, we were still in the gurdwara precincts.
No one replied her as we busied ourselves, hauling up the strollers and duffel bags onto luggage racks.
A large man in dirty white kurta-pyjama poked his large black bearded head in, with a worried look on his face, and almost shouted-"Is this the bus to the station?"
Not trusting my fluency in punjabi, I just nodded my head in assurance.
He gave me a look of disapproval as he took in the jeans-t-shirt-on - a -middle-aged-woman-in -the gurdwara look and disappeared.
Soon we heard him announcing loudly, "this bus is to leave for the station."
Minutes later, an entire group of salwar-kameez clad women crowded at the entrance.
A lady in pale green took charge. Scores of bulging suitcases, bags, and duffel bags were loaded onto the bus. None made their way to their rightful place on the luggage racks. All were stacked up on the seats, piled up on the passage way, higgledy-piggledy.
I could sense a storm of protest brewing up in my husband's throat.
Impulsively, he grabbed the nearest duffel bag; stuffed to the point of bursting; and shoved it unceremoniously up , onto the empty luggage rack overhead.
'Na,na paaji.'
Came a mild protest from the green salwar-kameez.
Then the ladies boarded.
Reeking of ghee and sugar, wearing unwashed clothes, the group of arthritic pilgrims,all in their mid-forties, stood awkwardly, some sitting on seats with legs splayed atop bulging bags.Some sat on the sea of bags itself , on the aisle, too tired to lope their way to the seats.
The bus driver, another bearded and saffron turbaned Sikh,  hauled himself in,took a look behind him, and started the engine.
"Ruko, ruko,!!!""Preeto nahin aayye halle"
A cry of alarm arose from multitude of female throats, almost simultaneously. Wait!!Wait for Preeto!!
Disgust, disapproval and impatience writ large on his face, the driver turned back, still revving the engine,threatening to take off any moment, Preeto or not!
"Kithe gayi Preeto?"(Where is she ?)
Someone gave words to a pertinent query.
"She was buying sweetmeats!"(Gurpare kharid rahi sigi)
Someone ventured to reply.
A vision in yellow and orange fluttered at the footboard.A pretty, nubile girl made her way in, a small brown paper package clutched to her chest, silencing all and sundry.Preeto had arrived.
She was immediately followed by a couple of young men with backpacks ;who steadfastly refused to take their eyes off her throughout the journey.
Preeto was gently chided by a few elderly ladies.
The driver adjusted his rearview mirror, focussing on Preeto's face , and roared off, full throttle;scattering stragglers, beggars, and rickshaws .
As we exited the massive gates of the Gurudwara, the driver bellowed in joy-"Jo Bole So Nihal!!"
The motley group in the bus was joined by pedestrians in answering-
"Sat Sri Akal"
(Blessed is he ; who takes the name of Lord)
My eldest daughter hid her face in her hands; embarrassed beyond words ,by this sudden show of religious fervour.

I come from

I come from seeing the blue sky darken with the portend of fulsome monsoon.
I come from smelling lush ears of long grain basmati ripening in the golden green fields.
I come from hearing a fresh cob of corn being roasted over an open fire, crackling, sizzling popping and hissing.
I come from tasting spicy pakoras with sweet tea on a wet rainy day.
I come from feeling the calloused palms of my grandmother as she soothed my fevered brow with balms and whispered prayers.
I come from a land that gave the concept of compassion, brotherhood, tolerance and nonviolence to the world

The secretary

She breezed into the room on a waft of an expensive perfume. All eyes turned towards her.
Clad in a knee length skirt and a chintzy, flimsy , sheer top with various georgette flaps that waved this way and that with her each movement; like the gossamer fins of a showy coral fish; she grabbed all eyeballs. Then her rose coloured lips,dripping with gloss, parted into a perfect, toothy smile. The entire hall sighed audibly.
Hugging a clipboard to her ample bosom, she clicked-clacked on her stilettos to our bench and announced-“Mr. Shaw?”
“Yes?”
The man sitting next to me answered. All looked in his direction.
“Humph!! Overdressed secretary!!” my sister audibly hissed in my ears.
I was not sure that she wasn’t overheard, for I saw the lady’s back stiffen.

The last time

It was a typical busy street , on a weekday morning.
The narrow strip of asphalt was choked with honking autos, carts laden with gunny bags, pedestrians, commuters rushing to catch buses, school children, scrubbed and dressed, ready to
board their school buses, hawkers calling out their wares.
Streetside chai-shops doing brisk business, as plumes of sickly sweet vapour arose from boiling pots atop kerosene stoves.
Then I saw him.
Stout, slightly unkempt , in his crushed white shirt, large baggy trousers,almost balding, a dark stubble on his chin,unpolished shoes, walking rapidly away from it all.
His eyes fixed ahead, almost robotic in his step.
He had said he was going for a walk.
He never came back home.
Deep down in my heart, even at that moment, I knew.
I was seeing him for the last time.

Double -trouble;Boil and bubble

"Where is your case-book?"
"It is on Ma'am X's table".The reply was muttered ever so timidly.Almost inaudible.
"Sorry!!."She cupped her right ear with her manicured hand, almost yelling. "God! I really wish I could slap her now." The girl thought and smiled  at her own private joke.
Wrong move.
"What are you smirking at?" Red painted lips glistened and quivered with an oncoming storm of rage.
"You!! girl!!female!!(she spat the words here), have the temerity not to submit your case-book in time , and smile at my face!!"
Alarmed the girl took two steps back, eyes wide with fear.
She was positively roaring now, breathless with rage, leaning across the desk,pointing one long quivering,red painted fingernail towards her face.


Every fourth year student had to face this quagmire.There were two teachers for the same subject,and both were equally demanding, hard task-masters. This produced lot of awkward situations like the one mentioned above,but had a pleasant fall-out. Our batch produced the greatest  number of distinctions in that particular subject, put as we were through twin grinds of endless tests and vivas, presentations and questionnaires, over and over again,by the two of them.

Matters were complicated by the fact that both couldn't see eye to eye. Both thought that she was superior to the other in her knowledge of the subject, both considered the other a first-class pretender and nincompoop.


No one asked our opinion. Privately, we all agreed; both were insufferable, blood- drinking vampires.

There were but several differences between them. One was a social butterfly, the other happily married (given her treatment of the girls, there were serious doubts as to the happy part).


The differences were glaring during parties. One loved to bat her mascara-ed eyelashes and pout luscious lips painted dangerously red: another, without much make-up or ado , stuck to her spouses' side, way taller than him, in her stilettos ,warily sipping her drink, keeping a lookout for batters -of -lashes and pouters-of-lips.

One was trying very hard to have a baby, the other trying very hard to get hitched.Their famous single mindedness coming to their aid, one ended up adopting a beautiful baby girl (after years of agonising fertility treatments), the other almost got hitched to a businessman(widower with two cute boys),who literally followed her around like a pup(who wouldn't);unceremoniously dumping him when the father raised the religion issue(devout christians versus brahmins).

Later,we would come to know that this wasn't the first troubled affair in her life.She was at the pinnacle of her career,she chose what she knew best. and that was how to 'sort out"erring students.

With alacrity,and no trace of heartache or remorse: she went back to her work and her rise there was phenomenal.

The other teacher went onto greener pastures abroad,where her husband continued to accompany her to stuffy parties, He became rotund,jovial and sported a beer belly. the wife turned thinner, sterner and continued to sip her wine with a hawkish air.

The daughter meanwhile blossomed into a pretty young thing herself. But that is another story altogether.