Sunday 27 September 2015
Tuesday 22 September 2015
Rain
The rain had gathered momentum now. Large raindrops, slapped sloppily against the windscreen and a sheet of water steadily seeped from underneath the overworked wipers. They were spraying the raincoated pedestrians , with formidable waves of puddle water.
The crossing appeared as a shimmering lake, with a foot of water. The traffic policeman stood at his post, an island amidst impatient , honking traffic and water sloshing around his wellingtons.
“We will never make it.” He waved his arm despondently at the 2km long line of vehicles, slowly snaking past , all wipers furiously at work.
His breath fogged the glass immediately.
She took the piece of cloth, hanging from the hand brake, and mopped the glass.A silent prayer to the Lord , to please let the school gates be open.
The watchmen were likely to shut the gates and disappear into their foxholes, blind and deaf to fog lights and honking even.
“We will be the last parents to pick our child up.”
“I am sure there will be others , thanks to the rain.”
Near the locked gates, a small figure hunched in the rain, drenched to the skin,wrapping her arms around her.
“My baby!! ” She shrieked as he braked hard.
The crossing appeared as a shimmering lake, with a foot of water. The traffic policeman stood at his post, an island amidst impatient , honking traffic and water sloshing around his wellingtons.
“We will never make it.” He waved his arm despondently at the 2km long line of vehicles, slowly snaking past , all wipers furiously at work.
His breath fogged the glass immediately.
She took the piece of cloth, hanging from the hand brake, and mopped the glass.A silent prayer to the Lord , to please let the school gates be open.
The watchmen were likely to shut the gates and disappear into their foxholes, blind and deaf to fog lights and honking even.
“We will be the last parents to pick our child up.”
“I am sure there will be others , thanks to the rain.”
Near the locked gates, a small figure hunched in the rain, drenched to the skin,wrapping her arms around her.
“My baby!! ” She shrieked as he braked hard.
Monday 21 September 2015
History is boring
My daughters too voice the same sentiment.
"History is boring", is the common refrain. I think the fault lies in the way it is taught. There is a greater stress on memorizing the dates, rather than see events / stories of ancient world, from a modern viewpoint . Once the stories , their fall-outs and their relevance , is understood, it will definitely seem less boring.
Quintessentially, all history is story -telling, with a difference; these are true stories.
Whatever happened yesterday, last week ,last month,last year,last decade,last century, is history now.
It may be colored with the teller's biases, but we are all humans , aren't we? We all bring our own baggage and biases with us.
We are flawed, and therein lies our beauty.
"History is boring", is the common refrain. I think the fault lies in the way it is taught. There is a greater stress on memorizing the dates, rather than see events / stories of ancient world, from a modern viewpoint . Once the stories , their fall-outs and their relevance , is understood, it will definitely seem less boring.
Quintessentially, all history is story -telling, with a difference; these are true stories.
Whatever happened yesterday, last week ,last month,last year,last decade,last century, is history now.
It may be colored with the teller's biases, but we are all humans , aren't we? We all bring our own baggage and biases with us.
We are flawed, and therein lies our beauty.
Wednesday 16 September 2015
Eye of the needle.
Jim Corbett, the great conservationist , had this story to narrate of rural Central Provinces, during the British Raj.
A village chief, a friend of Jim’s , was known for his unconventional methods of healing people. Once , a man-eating tiger attacked another man , who was gathering honey in the forest, and was left for dead on the forest floor.
The family and friends of this man came running to the village chief, to his hut where he sat smoking his hubble-bubble.
The chief went over to the clearing in the forest , and found the victim , on the forest floor, his guts spilled, from a gash in the abdomen, gasping and bleeding like hell.
Legend says this chief, stitched his abdomen up, right there, using a thorn for needle,and green tree bark for thread.
There was , of course, no eye in the needle.
The legend also says that there were twigs and dead leaves sticking to the intestines, which the chief did not bother to remove. They were all stitched up the way they were.Amazingly, this man, lived for another ten years, hale and hearty, without any side effects of the gory event and equally unorthodox treatment.
A village chief, a friend of Jim’s , was known for his unconventional methods of healing people. Once , a man-eating tiger attacked another man , who was gathering honey in the forest, and was left for dead on the forest floor.
The family and friends of this man came running to the village chief, to his hut where he sat smoking his hubble-bubble.
The chief went over to the clearing in the forest , and found the victim , on the forest floor, his guts spilled, from a gash in the abdomen, gasping and bleeding like hell.
Legend says this chief, stitched his abdomen up, right there, using a thorn for needle,and green tree bark for thread.
There was , of course, no eye in the needle.
The legend also says that there were twigs and dead leaves sticking to the intestines, which the chief did not bother to remove. They were all stitched up the way they were.Amazingly, this man, lived for another ten years, hale and hearty, without any side effects of the gory event and equally unorthodox treatment.
Friday 11 September 2015
THE GOLD HEIST
The Gold coins tumbled out of the oblong metal box , and lay
in a glittering heap, slipping off the mound of higgledy-piggledy piled
mountain of bank notes. Ananth was tilting the” golak” , and now he gasped .
The smooth shiny roundels continued to slide off the metal walls till the last
of them rolled out with a clatter. There was a long moment of pin drop silence.
You could hear the ticking of the clock.
“Hey bhagwan!” Head clerk Tushar exclaimed, breaking the
stunned silence. “So many gold coins !Where has it come from ?”he asked ,
voicing all thoughts.
“And who would donate such a thing ?”Ananth always raised
practical doubts .Assistant manager Ghorpade, the bank nerd, knelt and placed
one near his spectacled face , sniffing it slightly, like a bloodhound.
“ Mudras”!! He exclaimed”Gupta era , Chandragupta , 320 BCE,
Brahmi script“ Ghorpade wore a aura of smugness around him. Looking around
triumphantly, he added,”Belongs to some museum, price may go upto several
crores.”
“Haan, haan , woh sab thik hai , but what do we do with all
these gold coins ? Kahan ? Where do we keep this hoard?”The manager Mehta
shifted in his seat.
All looked up at him , askance . Eyebrows raised at the
mention of the word “hoard”.
”Sir, yeh khajana nahin hai . This is called “Prasad”. Tushar
Mishra’s moral compass always pointed north. Neither did he hesitate to speak
his mind . Even to the boss Mehta.Profoundly religious, Mishra always sported a
large red “tika”on his forehead, spoke in a language liberally peppered with
Sanskrit terms, and wore his no-nonsense attitude on the sleeve.
In sharp contrast,the boss Mehta was always sloppily-dressed
and ill-kempt, foul mouthed with a phenomenal temper,and also went by the
private nick name of “mehetar Mehta “(the untouchable Mehta) in his junior’s
circles.
Ananth quickly
disappeared in a small back room, and emerged with a smallish-gunny sack. He
quickly separated the infernal coins from the heap of other normal donations,
piled it into stacks of ten, and swiftly counting them (100), placed them in a
jangling unceremonious mass, in the bag.Tying a swift knot at the top, he held
it at an arm’s distance, as if it was dog poop, and asked, turning towards
Mehta” Now where do we keep it? What do we do with it?” Ananth, a practical man
adept at his job, did not believe in dilly-dallying.
He had been counting donations from the golak , for donkey’s
years now. A weeks’, or month’s collection could be sorted out within minutes.
Needless to add, a months’ collection often ran into tens of crores of folded
and crumpled banknotes, hastily shoved into the “golak” by distressed
devotees.
$$$$
The’ pir baba mazar’
was located on the bank premises. Situated bang next to a Government
Hospital, partly owned by the bank. That explained the presence of bank
employees at the quarterly counting of donations, from the golak or the
traditional donation box.
Strange things, besides hefty amounts of money, were known to
surface. Gold jewellery and traveler’s cheques were common.
But this was unprecedented.
It almost seemed as if someone was trying to get rid of his booty in a hurry,
as Ghorpade rightly pointed out.
Now, everyone was in a fix. A natural oath of secrecy was
reinforced with constant reminders, not to leak this information in the bank colony,
lest fake claimants turn up in hordes, and the press/police is dragged in. The
sack of coins was kept in the same metallic safe, as the rest of the money;
triple locked, sealed, and the key handed over to Mehta.
$$$$
Far away, thousands of miles across the country, there was
hectic activity on foot, and those very same Gold madras were giving sleepless
nights to authorities in the Regional Museum of Arts in Patna, Bihar.
Mr.Verma my boss, the archaeologist and head of management of
the Museum called me to his office, one wintry evening, when all had headed
home. After office hours,only a small yellow bulb burned in the foyer, in the
silent, desolate building, when I , Pratiksh Bal, a junior archaeologist, and
an expert on numismatics was summoned. Pandeyji, the night watchman, sat on his
rickety chair , rubbing tobacco on his lime stained palm.
“Kahe bullat rahin bade sahib, pata badon?”He jumped up and
breathed his tobacco breath into my ear, scanning the ghostly verandahs, this
way and that.(Do you know why have you been called?)
I took a step back.” Nahin. Aap batayiye, pandey ji!!”I
crossed my arms irritatingly.
“Kono chori ka mamla badon. Bahut badi chori!!” He whispered
loudly and spread his arms to emphasize. I caught a glimpse of his filthy,
hairy underarms, from inside his checked blanket.(It is about a big heist!!)
I had seen enough. I
dodged him and sprinted to the glass door with Verma written on it with cheap
red enamel paint.
Verma ji sat pensively, with his back to the door. A room
heater glowed at his feet, and a half drunk cup of tea lay on the table.
I cleared my throat, Verma ji didn’t respond. Something was
not right. Mr. Verma was a small man, highly strung and was known to jump at
every small noise. As I went and swiveled his chair towards me, he lurched and
fell into my arms, cold , dead weight, head lolled to one side , eyes glassy,
unseeing.
“Pandey ji!!” I screamed.
He was declared brought-in-dead, by the government hospital.
$$$$
The police conducted routine queries. Statements were
recorded, the body was handed over to the family after autopsy, and the cause
of death was written down as cardiac arrest.
That was when I
decided to pay a visit to Pandey ji, the night watchman, who was so terrified
of sitting alone in that massive building, that he had taken a few days off.
His wife, with a large
ghoonghat, covering her face, lurked in the doorway.
I put my cup of sugary tea away, and confronted him. Shaking
his shoulders, I looked into his rheumy eyes, and asked –“How did you know of
the theft, pandeyji? That is all I am asking.”
“Pulice hamar ke bahut marab , sahib.Is liye hum nahin
batab.Hamar chot-chot bachcha badon.”(The police will beat me to a pulp, if I
tell. I have my kids to look after.)Pandeyji grabbed my feet. The ghoonghat in
the doorway, nodded assertion.
After I promised not to tell anyone, and he made me swear on
his “Janeyu’(sacred thread), he leant his face towards my ear, darting looks
this way and that. The wife shook her ghoonghat with violent negation.
$$$$
Early morning, next weekend, found me sitting in the office
of the Bank manager, Bank of Bharat, Mudgaon, Maharashtra.
Sipping the espresso from the bank dispenser, I sat listening
to the various banking woes from Mr. Mehta, the tall, gangly unkempt and
scruffy bank manager of the bank. After a while, I asked the question, I had
flown all the way here for –“Mr., Mehta, do you in your bank have an employee,
by the name of Mr. Ravikant Ghorpade?”
Mehta went pale, beads
of sweat appeared on his brow, and he stammered-“Wwwhhho?”
I had already read Ghorpade’s name on the bank employee of the month board
outside.
After few gulps of water, Mehta composed himself, and rang
the bell, “Ghorpade ko bulao.”He asked the boy in khaki who appeared. After a
few moments, the boy reappeared; looking very agitated, and whispered something
in Mehta’s ear.
Mehta turned pale again. Turning slowly towards me, he said
haltingly, “Ghorpade is no more, Mr. Bal.
We will resume this talk later.”
Leaving me open-mouthed, he shook my hand stiffly, shut his
briefcase and marched out of the office, his hairs bobbing up and down.
The bank employees had broken ranks, and were whispering in
small clusters. All clammed up at the sight of me, and followed me with
accusatory looks. Word must have emerged, that I came looking for Ghorpade, all
the way from Patna.
I stopped by one particular group. The speaker was a portly
man with a red tikka on his forehead.
“Hari, hari, very bad. His skull was smashed by the very
books he was reading. Vidya se hatya?”
“Ghorpade was sitting,
nay sleeping, lying on top of his books, when he was found today morning by his
Landlord.”
“No, family, Ghorpade never married.”
“Hey Ram! History was his life.Even on his death night, he was
found reading about Chandragupta and Brahmi script.”
“He was such a good soul, who would murder him?”He tut-tutted
loudly, and the group resumed work, as the snaky queues of customers had grown
restless.
By noon, I had gathered enough information about Ghorpade,
the ex-convict, turning a new leaf as a bank employee in a remote town. He had
been jailed for a heirloom heist, from a rich widow’s locker. He served five
years and had been released six months’ back, for good behavior. A numismatics
expert, he was being consulted by Mr. Verma two days before his death, the
conversation overheard by Pandey ji, the nosy watchman.They were trying to put
a price on the booty.
If Ghorpade was the
thief, Who had murdered him? Who stood to gain ?Where was the loot?Was Mr.
Verma an accomplice too? This was a deeper and darker mystery than I thought. I
had a sinking feeling.
I was lost in my reverie, sitting on a bench, in front of the
pir-baba mazar, when someone shook my
shoulder. It was the tika-clerk from the bank.Reeking of paan, he lifted his
face and talked, as the red spittle built up in his mouth.
“Are you related to Ghorpade?”
“No, why do you ask?”
“Das ko Tushar Mishra
kehte hain?”He folded his hands dramatically.I namasted in reply.”You were
asking about him in the bank today, that is why?”
“Where have you put up? Why don’t you stay in my home?”
I smiled back at his hospitality, when I suddenly became
aware of a person looking intently at us.
Sitting on a low stool next to a clerk, I had noticed this “human
counting machine”, whose lips and hands moved like an automaton, and left the
eyes to stare and brain to think. Weird!
Mishra followed my glance and said-“That is Ananth,” our
money machine “. He laughed, and moved to the roadside to spit the paan-spittle.
I suddenly felt certain malevolence in the stare.
$$$$
Over swollen hot rotis and fragrant dal, Mishra told me about
how he came about this job. His house was on the bank colony premises. He was
overtly religious, no doubt. After the meals, he laid a charpoy for me in the
courtyard, and said he would come back, after his routine obeisance at the
“Peer-baba” ka mazar.
I took the opportunity to accompany him half way through, in
the dark. Gathering courage, I asked
him, “Mishraji, do you know anything about a theft of gold coins?”
Mishra stopped abruptly in his tracks and turned to face me.
I could not see his face in the dark. But he was furiously chewing his paan ,
as if keeping the truth from spilling. Then he spied someone over my shoulder,
and told in a very loud voice –“God (pointing the mazar) will tell you all
truths.”
I turned back as Mishra made away hastily, and almost ran
into the person he had spied. It was the same counting machine from the
bank-Ananth.He was almost chasing Mishra and the two began an animated
conversation, the moment he caught up.
I must have dozed off for good three odd hours, when the bell
of the mazar started ringing dole fully, at regular intervals.Mishra’s wife
came out and informed me that he was not back yet, which was unusual.
I immediately grabbed a torch and set off in the direction of
the mazar. The ringing became louder.
It was coming from the sanctum-sanctorum, which had to be
accessed by crossing two doors.
As I struggled with my footwear, I hastily made
a phone call. In the dark, I saw a man
swing a lathi, at me. Then the world went dark.
$$$$
When I came to, a deafening sound filled my head, the temple
bell ringing. It was swaying right in front of me. The gong of the bell was
tied to something, a human arm! Mishraji lay face down, while his hand swung to
and fro. I tried calling him, but no sound emerged from my dry lips. I was tied
by the wrists and ankles.
I tried freeing myself ,that was when, a shadow in the dark
spoke out.” It is no use, you can’t undo it”. The man, thrust out a lathi and
stopped the macabre bell. I was inside the sanctum, with Mishra draped on the
holy tomb, dead, hand tied to the bell.
“He was always ringing the truth, the bastard! Thought I
should let him ring some more.”He chuckled, I saw the face; it was Ananth, the
money machine.
“So, it was you.”
“Yes, me . The loyal, unspeaking servant. Who always counts
money and never owns it.”
He spat on the Holy ground, with vehemence.
“But, why Ghorpade?”
“Ghorpade started
studying the coins, the bloody padhaku.He would have leaked our secret, sure as
hell, sooner or later.All I asked him was to lie low with the coins , till we
smuggled it out of the country.But he panicked and poured it into the golak,
fool!! He was better than me in studies,
father always said-“He is the better one .” Till he ran off, with the widow’s
money, the rascal.”He chuckled here, and then suddenly went silent.
“He was your brother, wasn’t he ?”
“Half-brother. He was born of the witch my father brought
back home, one night. My mother and I were given the servant quarters to live.
Overnight, I changed from son to servant.”
He continued bitterly, half to himself.
He continued bitterly, half to himself.
“But I still kept a look out for him, got him this job here,
when he was out. The coin theft was not his idea. It was fathers.’
“Whose?” I could not contain my curiosity.
“Your boss, Mr.Verma’s.I just had to pay him a visit. He took
one look at me and conked off, the poor sod",he snorted in disgust." Now, I will take your leave.”
“Wait!! What about me?” I had to stall him.
“You can tell people how you killed Mishra.” Again , the mirthless , scary chuckle. By now, I had
freed my hands.
I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was
running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and
started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven,
six, five, four, three, two and one”. The door opened and in stepped Mr. Mehta,
in the full police uniform of a Sub-inspector.
“Well done Major. Thanks for your timely phone call,we have recorded
your conversation, and you”, he looked at Ananth”, are under arrest.”
Ananth, for once, was stumped.
“You are …”He stammered staring at Mehta.
”S.I Mehta, in charge, of investigating the gold coin heist and he is”
Mehta finished for him and, jerked his thumb towards me, “Major Bal of Army Intelligence.”
Tuesday 8 September 2015
Me, Ahilya
(Hindu mythology talks of Ahilya, the beautiful consort of sage Gautama, who was desired by Indra, the God of Gods . One day when Gautama had gone to the river to perform his ablutions , Indra took the form of Gautama, and made love to Ahilya. Rishi Gautama happened to catch them "in the act". Enraged , he cursed Ahilya , and she turned to stone , while Indra fled the scene.)
For centuries I stood
in my doorway
waiting for you
to suddenly appear
walk along the now
moss filled path
and look up from your reverie
look at me and smile
your warm smile
You didn't come
the doorway crumbled
claimed by termites
and ants
the house buckled
bowing to that
awesome force of
nature , that destroys
everything
to rebuild from scratch.
Everything and everyone
I loved , cherished
passed away , vanished
in front of my eyes
like a movie
like the rattling wheels of
the moving train
that shakes shudders
the world around me
twice , in a day.
My love , me , I remained
frozen , rooted
waiting , condemned
to watch the tandava
of creation , all around me
and not be in it.
I paid for your anger
I paid for my folly( if you can call it thus, I still think I was duped)
I paid for God's deceit
I, the moral ATM
to masculine whims
I paid with the loss of life
loss of many lives
a loss so colossal
you can't even
calculate
A spectator hood
thrust on my soul
for no fault of mine
Ask yourself my lord
If I was in the wrong
or was I wronged
Ask me my thoughts
as I stood in sleet , rains ,
howling wind
and blinding sun
ask me if I thought of you with hope
when the sun rose
and what shade was my despair
when the sun set
in a panorama of flaming gold
ask yourself
if your vengeance was
misplaced
Ask me how
it feels to be denuded
by the nature
to be subject to
thousand violations
everyday
to itch and not able to
scratch
to think and not able to speak
to feel and not able to scream
to cry and not able to howl
to perceive danger and not be able to run
ask yourself
if I was worthy of your wrath
or i just
"came in the way"
And the "God "
who did the deed
why was providence
so silent on him
I am not upset
that you
abandoned me
for a jungle to grow
around me
My Lord ,
you will be amazed
to hear that
the cowardly me
no longer fears
the fiercest wild animal
The ones I fear
are those whom the world worships
the "Gods"
For centuries I stood
in my doorway
waiting for you
to suddenly appear
walk along the now
moss filled path
and look up from your reverie
look at me and smile
your warm smile
You didn't come
the doorway crumbled
claimed by termites
and ants
the house buckled
bowing to that
awesome force of
nature , that destroys
everything
to rebuild from scratch.
Everything and everyone
I loved , cherished
passed away , vanished
in front of my eyes
like a movie
like the rattling wheels of
the moving train
that shakes shudders
the world around me
twice , in a day.
My love , me , I remained
frozen , rooted
waiting , condemned
to watch the tandava
of creation , all around me
and not be in it.
I paid for your anger
I paid for my folly( if you can call it thus, I still think I was duped)
I paid for God's deceit
I, the moral ATM
to masculine whims
I paid with the loss of life
loss of many lives
a loss so colossal
you can't even
calculate
A spectator hood
thrust on my soul
for no fault of mine
Ask yourself my lord
If I was in the wrong
or was I wronged
Ask me my thoughts
as I stood in sleet , rains ,
howling wind
and blinding sun
ask me if I thought of you with hope
when the sun rose
and what shade was my despair
when the sun set
in a panorama of flaming gold
ask yourself
if your vengeance was
misplaced
Ask me how
it feels to be denuded
by the nature
to be subject to
thousand violations
everyday
to itch and not able to
scratch
to think and not able to speak
to feel and not able to scream
to cry and not able to howl
to perceive danger and not be able to run
ask yourself
if I was worthy of your wrath
or i just
"came in the way"
And the "God "
who did the deed
why was providence
so silent on him
I am not upset
that you
abandoned me
for a jungle to grow
around me
My Lord ,
you will be amazed
to hear that
the cowardly me
no longer fears
the fiercest wild animal
The ones I fear
are those whom the world worships
the "Gods"
Sunday 6 September 2015
I hope
In the midst of blistering summer noon , I hope for rain,
In the thick of wrenching sorrow, I hope for no pain,
When confronted with insurmountable loss, I hope for gain,
Faced with poverty and famine, I hope for riches and grain,
And when forced to race , I invariably pray for a sprain,
Air travel sickens me , I always hope for a ride by the train,
My chaotic verses resemble a defunct or a derailed train
The thought processes have refused to soar,
I had hoped for a great earth shaking roar,
But , look at me, I ended as a deadened bore.
In the thick of wrenching sorrow, I hope for no pain,
When confronted with insurmountable loss, I hope for gain,
Faced with poverty and famine, I hope for riches and grain,
And when forced to race , I invariably pray for a sprain,
Air travel sickens me , I always hope for a ride by the train,
My chaotic verses resemble a defunct or a derailed train
The thought processes have refused to soar,
I had hoped for a great earth shaking roar,
But , look at me, I ended as a deadened bore.
Wednesday 2 September 2015
Please remit
Your life was loaned to you
for a finite period of time
After you have lived
please remit.
for a finite period of time
After you have lived
please remit.
Your kids were given to you
for few years , to nurture
feed, comb , and clean
enjoy their company
and then
please remit
for few years , to nurture
feed, comb , and clean
enjoy their company
and then
please remit
Your spouse
Your job
Your health
Your vision
Your limbs
hearing
movement
agility
clarity
everything is loaned to you
time bound
please remit
Your job
Your health
Your vision
Your limbs
hearing
movement
agility
clarity
everything is loaned to you
time bound
please remit
Hunger
Hunger is the name
of the pot bellied boy
who rolls down a worn tire
by the stream every morning
clad in tatters
scratching his straw hair
with grimy fingers
of the pot bellied boy
who rolls down a worn tire
by the stream every morning
clad in tatters
scratching his straw hair
with grimy fingers
Hunger is the name
of the woman who has given birth
to her umpteenth daughter
whose breast milk has long
dried up and where even hope
has shriveled into an ugly
howling fistful of life
of the woman who has given birth
to her umpteenth daughter
whose breast milk has long
dried up and where even hope
has shriveled into an ugly
howling fistful of life
Hunger is the name
of the old bunch of bones
who squats, hunched at the
entrance to rail station,
leaning on a lathi
for life-support, as the avalanche
of humans at rush -hour
sways her, to and fro
like a reed in monsoon
of the old bunch of bones
who squats, hunched at the
entrance to rail station,
leaning on a lathi
for life-support, as the avalanche
of humans at rush -hour
sways her, to and fro
like a reed in monsoon
Hunger is the name
of the wrinkled face
that looks up at the blatantly
blue sky , bereft of benevolence
parched tongue , beating heart
in requirement of a respite
sanguine agonies of the mind spilling
out through porous eyes
Your crop needs moisture
o farmer , not your saline tears
Hunger is the name
of the lush verdant crop field
reduced to a cracked desert
in two seasons flat
when the rain Gods turned their
backs on us
Hunger is the name
of the dwindling last sack
of rice , kept for "Beej"(seed)
but which was opened in
one inauspicious moment
of a wailing infant and
a chullah gone cold.
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The night air was thick with the fragrance of ripe mangoes. One odd fruit eating bat rustled in the leafy boughs, unseen. Somewhere an owl hooted . The light in the kerosene lamp, grew dimmer with each passing moment.
Suddenly Bhiku jolted awake with a jerk, at the whiff of an unknown danger. As if someone had shook him awake at his post.
He sniffed the still night air,like a dog. The crickets had fallen silent. Something was not quite right.
“Fire!!” His semi-somnolent brain screamed.
“Fire”!! He shook his slumbering companion.
“Where ?Where?” He was instantly awake, grabbing a lathi, the duo ran in a northwesterly direction, from where a wisp of smoke crept lazily , skyward.
Fire in the peak of summer meant disaster. A thick layer of crisp dry leaves , carpeted the orchard floor, waiting to be ignited.
Panting, they reached a small clearing, and stopped.
A naked yogi sat in the centre of a ring of fire , ash -smeared, murmuring chants, eyes closed.
“It is a yogi.” Whispered Bhiku.”What do we do now ?”
"Two years ago, the master..
"the master, you mean to say the owner of this orchard..."
"Yes!! The master," here Lakhan laid down on the cot, lifted his arms and folded them under his head, pillowing them.He took a deep breath and continued" two years ago, the master caught Madan red handed while stealing mangoes."
"But he can afford to give away some , he has so many , "Bhiku interrupted naively.
"It was not `some ` !! Madanwa , in his greed, brought two large trucks and had his men strip the entire orchard of all the mangoes, ripe /unripe."
Lakhan paused for effect.
"He literally ruined the crop, that year. The orchard took two years to recover, the pillage ."
"The master," he continued" set his dogs on Madan "
"Dogs!!"
"The police and the goondas"
"Oooh! I see!!"
"To save himself , Madan turned fugitive and had disappeared , till last night."
Here, Lakhan suddenly raised himself on his elbow, looking beyond Bhiku`s shoulder, and loudly said -"Arre bitiya , there was no need for the tea-shea."
Bhiku, swivelled around to see The master`s daughter standing with two flunkies carrying trays of fragrant , freshly made parathas and a kettle of tea with a couple of clinking cups.
He sprang to his feet, and made his obeisance, while the flunkies set the food on the cot.
At another gesture, the two flunkies moved a distance away, while The lady, wearing a pink , silk salwaar-kameez, pulled her net dupatta over her head, and touched Lakhan`s feet, in a time honoured tradition, that transcends class distinctions too.
"Thank you Chacha."She murmured in gratitude.
Visibly discomfited, Lakhan said-"Saubhagyawati bhava."
Quietly,she turned and walked away, accompanied by her flunkies.
$$$$$$
"But why ? Chacha ?"Bhiku was stumped. Chomping his third paratha, Bhiku spoke between mouthfuls.
"Why what ?" Lakhan asked absently, holding his cup in hand , which was rapidly growing cold .
"Why this sudden benevolence from the Master?"
"This kindness is from the daughter , not the father."
"Achcha !" Bhiku was incredulous.Digesting this piece of strange of information, he took a long sip of tea.
$$$$$$
As the duo walked back home , after the daytime watchers had arrived ,Lakhan was striding ahead, Bhiku ran ahead and caught up with him-"You didn`t tell me the rest of the story."
"What?"
"Why did Madanwa try to rob the Master ?"
"Because he holds an old grudge ,against the master."
"What grudge ?"
"Madanwa eloped with Master`s daughter. He set his dogs at them,dragged them back,separated them , and got Madanwa arrested for false charges."
"****" The surprise came out in expletive form .
"But the daughter is equally adamant. She was pregnant with Madanwa`s child , then. She gave birth to the child, is bringing him up , in her father`s house . She continues to do "karva chauth", and still considers the mad man as her husband ."
"That explains the sudden kindness."
"Hmmmm " Lakhan was suddenly taciturn.
$$$$$$
"But how come you know all this story and I don't. No one in the village does , I guess."
"Yes , it was all hushed up.No one was allowed to talk about it. "
"How did you recognise Madanwa despite his disguise , and weight loss etc."
"You can recognise your first born everywhere, can't you ? Specially if he is chanting nursery rhymes instead of the mantras."