Patriot

Out in the white cold icy world
A child cried or so I thought
And I thought of my son
The mountains loomed
Hiding the threat beyond
The danger
I can't move my foot
Ton heavy
An itch in my nose
Don't sneeze but
A shout brings
Avalanches and gunfire
Don't scream
Be the cheetah
Hunt by stealth
Or be hunted down
You are a rabbit in your hole
Out there polar bears prowl
What am I doing here?
My arms heavy
In my sleep I saw my
Wife bring me hot tea
And succour
Give me sleep
Endless sleep
Take your guns and avalanches
Bury me
In a land of cold bliss.
I have had enough.

The Visitor

Shalini rushed from the kitchen where she had been scrubbing the pots and declared at the sitting room sofa, panting,
"She has come!She has come!I told you she will come back.She has fought with her bahu
.I am telling you.!!"
"Who?"
"Huh?"
Her children sat with their brains fogged with Shahrukh Khan . It was too much information for them to assimilate.
Shalini wrung her hands , spraying water and soap suds everywhere ,and stood blocking the TV.
"Listen to me. Punditayin has returned to her home."
"What?"
"No!"
"Mom,you're imagining things!Aur ab hato, you have made us miss the best part of the song!"
Leaving her zombied kids, Shalini went back to her pots,grumbling.She craned her neck,and saw through the kitchen window,a light in one of the rooms.And a shadow moving around.
But something didn't seem right.Where was the usual hubbub associated with such an arrival?
I mean,why wasn't the driveway lit?Where was Punditji with his loud mannerisms and TV at loudest? Why didn't she hear the taxi?What if she has fought with her bahu and come back alone?
What if it is a burglar? Hey Bhagwan ! She didn't think of that?
By the time Shalini finished with the kitchen counter top,and soaking rajma and setting curd for next day,she was convinced that it was a burglar. The Pundits could never make such a quiet return.

"Sunte hoji" Shalini shook her slumbering spouse.
"Mm mm" Paras mumbled incoherently.
"I think we should go and take a look at Punditjis house."
"Kyon,bhai?" Paras dawdled,raising himself on his elbows.
Shalini told him.
"What is ze time? 1115pm? "Paras squinted at his mobile."We will go the first thing in the morning "
He announced,quickly pulling covers over himself,and started snoring the next moment.
Shalini sighed. No one believed her. But she had seen a light at the window,didn't she? Shalini hated it when people doubted her.

Eyes wide open,Shalini tiptoed to the kitchen,and peered out of the window into the dark. Pundit house was shrouded in darkness. Not a single light. Suddenly the sitting room was awash with light and a shadow moved past.Shalini covered her mouth to stop from screaming. Then the light went off and the world was dark again.

Heart hammering hard,Shalini came back to bed and quietly laid down,scared to wake up slumbering husband and children. She didn't know what to make of the light.It seemed to be signalling her. But what? For the life of her,she could not fathom.Reciting hanuman chalisa,she rested her head and tried to sleep.

"Rrrrrring "
Shalini's eyes flew open.She looked at the clock.0230 hrs.
"Who could it be? Or maybe I just imagined things."
She shut her eyes and tried to sleep.
"Rrrrring."
There was definitely some one at the door. The rest of the house seemed to be slumbering.
Paras was snoring,on his side. The kids were quiet too.
Shalini got up and pulled her shawl around her shoulders.

A small hunched figure stood at the door in the dark, away from the peephole.
Shalini tried the front door switch.It would not work.
"Hey Ram."
"Shalu" a wheezy voice called her by her childhood name.
Forgetting all apprehension,Shalini quickly unlocked the door.
"Punditayinji!!!Aayie,aayie!!! Arre !!! Itni raat gaye!!! You should have called me."
" Shalu, I need your help." The shadow sputtered and a fine spray hit Shalini. A dark puddle of water had collected beneath her dripping saree edges.
"Punditayin! You are wet, aap andar aayie." Even in the dark, Shalini could make out her wearing the same red bordered saree , She bought for punditayin , from kolkata.
"Nahin nahin, I am in a hurry.Chath, and all that.I have some dues to pay. Dhobi and the maali.Last time I left in a hurry, and forgot."
She thrust a small bundle of soggy bank notes into Shalini's protesting hands. Her hand was cold and clammy to touch. Shalini shivered despite the shawl.She moved her hand to wipe the face.
"One more thing. When Punditji comes back,he will give you something.A small gift from me for your daughters.Aakhir meri bhi toh betiyan hain"
She coughed and a large blob of phlegm flew across and stuck to the wall.
Shalini stepped back hastily, covering her face with the shawl. When she looked up,Punditayin had disappeared.
The porch light decided to come back on then,and Shalini inspected the phlegm on the wall.It was dark red and glossy. Blood mixed. She must remember to remind her to take antibiotics.Some infection!!
The puddle on the floor too seemed pinkish. Blood mixed or colour,she couldn't tell.Poor Punditayin!!!She was in real bad shape.

Overcome with pity and relief,Shalini slept like a baby,and got up late to the usual mindless mayhem of early morning breakfasts ,baths,lunch boxes and hurried departures.The bunch of soggy notes lay forgotten on the mantelpiece,drying slowly up.

At around 11am, Paras rung up. He seemed disturbed.
"Punditji rang me up. "
Shalini exclaimed,remembering last night 's events. But she let Paras finish.He didn't like to be interrupted.
"Punditayan is no more.She drowned in a lake,trying to do "Chath Puja". There is also a rumour that she fought with her' bahu ' and wanted desperately to come back to her home.The lake was dredged yesterday whole day.They found the body just now. Panditji is very upset.He was crying. He said,two days ago , she made him promise that all her gold jewellery is given to you for your daughters."
"And you know, Shaalu, she really loved you, she died wearing the red-bordered saree you bought  for her from kolkata."

Sarafuddin

He was a mason and a master story teller.
A word twisted into "My son " by my wicked classmates . for endless ribbing , which hundreds of flung-in-rage -chalk -stubs could not quell.
They had walked past my half built brick house , and had found me in deep conversation with this man with a shock of white hair, and whiter beard, perched atop a mound of bricks.
"Who is he ?"Idle curiosity.Should have shooed them away, instead I replied "He is the mason."

Sarafuddin told us tales from the Arabian nights. He was unlettered , apparently . But he knew the urdu alphabets , and taught us how to write our names in urdu, by drawing them in the dirt with a twig plucked  from the guava tree.

Terrible wars, strange pestilences, palace intrigues, loyal , armor-clinking warriors, and persian bazaars with hijab covered women, strange soothsayers and magical carpets came alive each day during his prolonged tea break.

Sarafuddin never had lunch breaks , unlike most of his workers. They carried their tiffin boxes full of home made sabzi-roti, he carried his bundle of bidis.Upon insistence , he would agree to tea.

Tales of Arabian valour, steeds that" flew not galloped" ,  men and women who could wreak magical havoc, flying carpets , all still linger with the aroma of stale tobacco, damp cement and slanting sunshine of the forenoon falling on ash- covered brick piles straight from the kilns.

He was different , yet one of us . It is difficult to explain, the one ness. It had to be experienced.

His ability to speak the same language , yet carry us to such different lands and times. That wove magic around us. He would sit hunched up, on a pile of dirt, his lungi tucked beneath him, haranguing a worker about cement - and' gara' mixing , while narrating mesmerising tales with infinite tenderness.

He, in short, was the architect of our houses , and dreams . Of veiled princesses, and kohl eyed princes .Every year, for the annual white wash, he would arrive with his tubs of limestone (Chuna) and the usual flunkies.

Five days later, he left the walls and rooms whiter, and our collection of stories richer. He knew every story in the elusive Sherazade series. The princess about to be murdered , and how she wove a magical spell with her fabulous stories .

Sarafuddin was our own Sherazade , bidi-smoking, lungi-clad, white bearded.

As our world veers today, dangerously towards intolerance and bigotry, one wonders what is lost in trying to prove one's point. A precious something, elusive, indefinable , mist-clad , like the lost treasures of Ali baba.