Avian bullies in the joggers park

A parrot flashes its,plumage green
 swivels its  neck of scarlet sheen
And plunges from rooftops lone
screeching with  express scorn


A crow , silent
ever vigilant
open beak,
glistening black
cocks its head
eyes of  bead
stares puposefully
caws reproachfully

The lapwing frozen
one leg in air, brazen
One eye at worms, squiggly
one at you ,walker, giggly
It can stalk you
attack you
 deafening  screeches
far out reaches.


The gregarious lark,
the  lone sparrow
the bulbul in park
sitting in a row

Are all waiting
for you to leave
huffing and panting
so they can live

in peace, and talk
in chirps and twitters
of you who walks
and gives them jitters

Sunset

The sun was about to set. she had been aware of the growing darkness around her , but  was  walking as a zombie. Lost in her thoughts. In a different world . One by one , the street lamps flickered to life. The faint yellow glow , mellowed the life around them . Life didn't seem so harsh any more . The yellow light bathed the rain puddles in a yellow gleam. The dirt every where vanished . Even the beggars seemed happier. It was a magical transformation . This sunset.

No one looked at her any more. She was just another lost soul , in a city of lost souls . Buses still screeched , stopped , disgorged tired men , women off to the pavements . People who had somewhere to go to , hurried past her . She was invisible . She might as well have not been . But she was . As some one had asked "Do you matter ?"

She had , during the course of last several months , asked herself "Do I matter?"
She had seen people , children , families survive through worst possible fates . We survive even sunsets , don't we ? When we can survive death and deprivation on a daily basis, who or what is indispensable ?

We surround ourselves with happy things , objects , memories . Like kings of yore , who kept court jesters. And smile and laugh futilely , like the insane. Meaningless, hollow , joy . It rings with falsehood, hypocrisy.

What stays , like the night after the sunset , is grief. Undiluted , unmixed. Hard hitting , soul -less.

She had reached her destination . She had walked all this way to be here . Now that she was here , she was not so sure anymore . She stared at the brick stucco wall  shrouded in the darkness of the night , bathed in that eerie glow from the lamps . It was dark , there was no one around. A small niche had a statue of Mary with baby Jesus , in her arms . A blackened diya burnt reluctantly inside the glass walls , blackening the glass, smothering the statue in waves upon waves of vengeful smoke.
She smiled . It was so akin to what was going on inside her , right now . Smothering , choking blackness.

She had to come up for air.

Someone poked a head out in the dark. A faint glow was visible through the open doorway.
"Yes?" A slightly irritated voice spoke in the dark . She was jolted to her senses. She had rung the bell , without being aware of it.

"I want to meet Mother Superior." Her voice shook , she felt a faint shiver go through her . It was not the weather , definitely.

The voice , chewed on something, for some time. Trying to place her , or already did, so she thought.

"You'll have to wait for sometime." The voice said, swallowing. It ( the voice sounded feminine) looked doubtfully at her . She could sense the doubt in the voice.  A faint sound of cutlery reached her ears. A faint aroma of food reached her , and her stomach growled . When was the last time she had a meal ?

The door closed itself.Too silently , for such a large door. She sat on the steps . Waiting for fate to open the doors. They didn't , and it began raining. At first , she thought she would make a dash for it . Hide in the alleyway, rush to the convent . She did no such thing. She kept sitting. The raindrops beat on her , mercilessly. Relentlessly. She was filled with self-pity. She felt like the dog whom no one wants , and has been turned onto the street. Water dripped from her locks on the forehead, mingling with her tears. So absorbed was she in venting her angst , with racking sobs , that she didn't notice a kind hand extended to her in the dark , underneath a dripping umbrella .

The hand beckoned . It was a hooded some body . She shivered as she got up. The wet stairs protested , and pulled her dress , stuck  glue like .

 A mighty thunderclap split the sky open , lighting up the streets , in a vivid flash of blue light . It was Mother Superior. She had probably said - 'come '.But she needn't have .

She followed her like a puppy . As trusting , equally blind . Squinting in the wet dark .

Mother didn't take her directly in. She walked along the pavement , till they came to a spiral iron staircase , a heirloom from the British times . Gleaming , slippery in the rain . Smelling of rust. Mother folded the umbrella , lifted her habit off the ankles , and deftly ascended , waiting for her to follow . This was getting mysterious. The steps groaned , creaked . She stepped gingerly.

Mother reached into the voluminous folds of her habit and extricated a key. A door unlocked in the dripping darkness. A room bathed in warm yellow glow of a lone study lamp . Warm and inviting.

A small cot and a bedside table with a picture of  Jesus, a large , well-thumbed bible and a rosary. The lamp stood on top a bookshelf  which was crammed with books . A laptop with its charger occupied one of the top shelves.

This is how she liked it . Spartan and practical.

She hesitated  on the door mat . It had the picture of a woman with her bangled arms folded in a namaste , steadily getting wet from her dripping hemline.

Mother materialised with a large fluffy towel and took her bag. Then she motioned her toward the bathroom , having handed her what looked like a nightie.

Having changed into a dry nightie , and warming her fingers around a cup of coffee , that had been summoned for her by mother , from some place magical , she sat staring at Jesus, bible  and Mother , in turns .

"Why did you come looking for me ?"Mother was , as always , to the point , focussed , economical with her words .

"I want to be a nun ."

She blurted out , before she changed her mind . A deep silence fell , like a blanket. Even the clock on the wall , ticked in muffled gasps. She saw a fleeting shadow cross Mother's face , like a passing worry . Thankfully Mother didn't ask -"Why?"

For it would have involved a tirade for answer, and Mother knew her hysterical propensities, not to mention her histrionic abilities .

Mother didn't answer immediately . That was characteristic of her . Unlike bengalis , profuse speech didn't keep gushing out of her , spontaneously ; another trait of Mother that was much admired .

 It made each of her words more precious , treasured almost , like nuggets to be clung to, gospel to be mulled over , again and again.

Then Mother said , in a decisive tone , as if she had taken the decision on her behalf , "Gather your things , your father is coming to pick you up."

There was a stern look around Mother . She didn't ask any more.

Morosely , she went about her task of gathering her wet clothes , now slightly steaming , and her bag .

Outside, darkness had deepened. Rain had stopped . A stiff breeze blew still. Her nightie hugged her ankles. She felt naked , in more ways than one . She had exposed herself, and nothing had come of it .

On the landing , as she made her way to the waiting ambassador, throwing yellow , throbbing streaks on the revered brick red walls and infant Jesus, she turned to Mother -" I will return the night gown tomorrow ."

In the cars headlamps , she caught a motherly look in Mother's eyes , protective , like a parent.

It quickly passed , like a lost thought.

"If God wants you to be a nun, he will send for you , again . "

Mother spoke , almost to herself , when she was on the last step of the stairs . If she hadn't been paying attention , she wouldn't have heard it over the din of the old car purring.


Then , as she slid on the reccine back seat , plonking her wet load next to her , she started at the sight of veiled face of Mother next to the car window. She quickly lowered the glass pane down .

"And remember , everything is not what it seems to be . "

She had whispered and melted into the darkness . She was talking in riddles , like Dumbledore , again . She sighed . Only if she had half the intelligence of Harry Potter.

The moment the car sped ahead , Baba began scolding . All his bottled up worries coming tumbling out .

"How irresponsible of you ? You could have at least told your mom . You were missing after school hours . Everyone is so worried . I , personally , went to all your schoolmates houses, asking for you . Your mom is roaming around like a madwoman , barefoot , asking for you . We almost lodged an FIR at the thana..........."

"Welcome to earth " thought she , smiling , in spite of herself.


" Thank God Mother Superior rang us up . Or else I don't know , what would have happened today . You are the eldest child . You are expected to have the decency............."

So Mother rang up . She wondered why ?

As they neared home , apprehension crowded her . What if there is a full blown drama ? Several what ifs started bothering her . Consequences she hadn't thought of before "running away "

Grandmother stood at the gate , unprecedented . Her pooja abandoned , saree crushed , face crestfallen . When she emerged from the car , She was hugged , tearfully , silently , and thamma went in , wiping her eyes silently . Baba , Maa gave her hurt looks .  Maa kissed her forehead and said nothing . That was most bothersome . No one asking her , shouting at her . The lack of the usual , expected drama.

Toton came running into her room , asking details . He was shooed out by Shampadi , the cook, who got her hot tea , another unprecedented event at 9 in the night . All stayed up for dinner with her . She did not utter a word . No one pestered her .

When she went to her room , Maa came with her agarbatti . She waved it thrice over her head , as she always did , before sleeping , and kissed her forehead again . She could tell , she had been crying .


Suddenly she got her answer to the question that had bothered her so immensely -"Did I matter ?"


Then She got out of her bed and ran the length of the verandah , barefoot, her" dhub-dhub" footfall, rousing the household. When she stopped at thamma's door , she turned and saw everyone standing outside their doors , baba in his pyjamas , specs and national geographic in hand , toton grinning mischievously wanting to make a dash after her , making it into their favourite game of chase , held back by stern looking Maa in nightie and open hair , kali-type . She now knew she mattered .

Smiling with relief , She stuck out her tongue at Toton , who immediately stuck his out , back ; a universal language of contempt between siblings.

Baba shook his head and went back to his Serengeti national Park , Toton was put to sleep ,with great deal of argument , and Maa lingered in the hallway , like an after thought.

Snuggling into thamma's soft bed , smelling of talcum , cloves and agarbatti , She understood , when thamma repeatedly smoothed her hair , while chanting inaudible mantras, what Mother Superior meant when she said -"everything is not what it seems to be."

Flying Dragons

“How to train your dragon “. 

When I first heard the title , I wondered what kind of a DIY movie is this ? That too animation .

The girls were mad . The TV was switched on even before official permission was given , the best comfy chairs and vantage points on the sofa grabbed. I knew it must be something good to capture the kids’ attention so . 

As is my wont , i sat with them , with some interruptions to fetch supper and make tea .

It was brilliant. it still ranks as one of the best movies ever seen . I recommend this movie of flying dragons , oversized vikings , and puny children with colossal courage to adults too. Even those who raise their eyebrows , and give me a look reserved for the mentally challenged, and ask “Kid’s movie?”

Insomnia

take a bath, and for a notion

apply on your palms, a potion

Pop some pills

 drown your ills

with a short swill

 feel well, you certainly will

I was, time and again told

I dutifully subjected me to cold

hot . lukewarm water

in turns , no matter

nothing worked, you see

I even switched on the AC

I gave up, at last , the fight

and made friends with the night

After a bath , I take

a chukker of the house

I eat a piece of cake

in dark,quiet as a mouse

I chuckle all alone

as I watch news drone

in mute animation

sheer fascination.
I pad from pillar to post
like a cliched ghost

I do not crave for sleep

not that I have no more cares

but I would rather have it creep

on my eyelids ,  unawares.

Tabassum

Tabassum means smile .

One look at her reminded one of " Alice  in wonderland ", when she sees the cheshire cat -" I have seen cats without grins , but this is the first time , I am seeing a grin without the cat."

She occupied the first bed , right next to the nursing station .That meant she was ill , as in seriously ill , and needed to be watched at all times. Rheumatic heart disease had affected her little heart so badly , as to cripple her . Her unused limbs wasted away like dry twigs.

She had a huge grin , framed by perfect teeth , and brilliant red lips . Then she had large, almond-shaped eyes , kohl-lined , full of mirth and mischief.

When she spoke , her voice was honey . Her laughter tinkled like cut -glass chandeliers swaying in the breeze.

She kept lying most of the time , with her coverlet pulled upto the neck . Neck downwards , she had wasted. Her skin was transparent , taut . You could see the blue lines of her veins and the whiteness of her bones , through the skin . Her elbows and knees stayed together, comforting each other in their knobliness. Folded legs and arms , like a pretty origami , crumpled,pale . Little exertions , like toothbrushing , or moving around in the bed ,left her breathless, blue and panting . It was heartrending.

Her bones would project from her skin and made her highly uncomfortable , lying on the bed . She had to be constantly turned , her pillows fluffed and two mattresses , instead of one, lay beneath her.

She was our pampered princess and the pea , but she was dying , and she knew it . So did we . But so brilliant would she appear when we arrived , like a ray of sun in the gloomy world of first year nursing , that we would dispel all thoughts of death to some deep , dark corner .

It was in this state of denial that we learnt about her. Fourth child , a daughter , and diseased , in a family of feudal Lords and fierce mustachioed farmers from the Hindi heartland. She was a blot for she was a daughter , and a blemish , for she was blue ,mostly .

But , there hasn't been a more prettier blot , or more beauteous blemish than that. 

Right from her birth , she couldn't run like other kids . She would turn blue . "Sky blue !" She would recount joyfully , giggling and hiding her face beneath the coverlet. Turning her misery into a joke.

Once , a relative , probably , her father , left some boondi-ke -laddoos for her . She , as usual , saved some for us . By the time we arrived after our afternoon classes, the box of sweets was overrun with ants . We were distressed , she wasn't . She grabbed the sweet box and placed it on the bed . The ants ran in all directions , all over her bed. Horrified , we shook her bedsheets , coverlet , free of the pests.Undaunted, she hauled  herself painfully up by her elbows , and blew on each individual laddoo . till it was ant-free. Then she offered us one each .  We squirmed , took the laddoos and looked away . She smilingly ate her own share. 

She wore a pair of salwaar kameez , at all times . It was not required . She was covered neck down most of the time , and it was hot inside the ward . But Tabassum , she of the dazzling smile , insisted . A simple cotton frock would suffice . The parents were told so . But neither they , nor she ,showed any inclination to change the attire. It was made of polyester , gaudy blue , with pink madhumalti flowers printed on it . Perfect five petalled , pink flowers against sky blue .

Every weekend , Sundays , would be her hair washing and grand bath day. Her salwaar kameez would be washed and put out to dry outside , on the sunny verandah , while her hair dried . We took turns in oiling , combing her hair , chatting happily . She would allow , us to dress her in the loose hospital gown , for those few  hours , which for Tabassum was sheer agony , for she behaved as if she was naked. She would relax and apply kohl on her eyes , only when she was dressed back in her favourite (and only ) blue and pink dress.

This , bothered us , first years , a great deal . We put our heads together , and decided to buy two more salwaar -kameezes for her , of similar material , and gift it to her . She was almost our age (late teens ) and we couldn't bear to see her so ill-provided. One of us , more sartorially informed , took the cloth over to the tailors , and gave her minimal dimensions , as Tabassum had shrivelled to the size of  a largish baby.

Then , one day , out of the blue , we came to find the bed empty . A new bed sheet had been stretched onto the grimy and stained mattress ,the extra mattress removed, the locker emptied of Tabassum's belongings , and no Tabassum anywhere. The ward hummed with activities of other patients .

Then , one of us noticed . In a large bin , on the corner , the beloved blue and pink salwaar kameez lay , crumpled and hastily rolled , thrown in . It was accompanied by large number of hastily broken vials , ampoules and syringes. Tabassum had lost the battle , some where , around  midnight , the ward report told us . 

The new clothes lay with the tailor , unused. 

Even today , when I see Madhumalti clusters against a blue sky , I think of the girl , with a smile for a name .

Forgetfulness

last evening ,
I returned from walking
pressed the elevator button
got in , pressed another button
the door closed
fan came on
I smiled at myself
in the mirror
checked myself
from the front and rear
made mental notes
on hair cuts , weight loss
smiled again , ruffled my hair
the fan was blowing gusts of air
then realized
the lift had not moved
In my happy stupor
I was still on ground floor
Having forgotten to press four .

Laughter

Laughing out aloud was forbidden. Especially for women and girls. We were told it attracted the evil spirits. Only simpering giggles were allowed. This was enough fodder for laughter. Some one at the back of the room would try to suppress a hysterical giggle, while the chastising session was on, and the laughter would seep like an infectious gas, from in between fingers of a hastily clamped mouth, and the group would erupt into helpless mirth that refused to die down.

My daughter's generation laughs loudly . The elder one executes a mini bhangra step of joy , when she barks with mirth. The younger one has a air hungry, ascending crescendo , not unlike a horse -neighing. A friend of theirs' spits out laughing (actual gobs of spittle flying here , I am told,), and other brings out chaotic joy in bouts of constipated whoosh , as if laughter was being thumped out of her , in spurts ,  by Heimlich's manoeuvre.

To be able to laugh out aloud is a gift . I have met people who don't laugh . They cannot guffaw . 

A pretty cousin just twirls her locks and gives a sad smile , even when watching Jim Carrie's antics . As if She feels sorry for him .

Another grumpy , fat individual ( great potential for a belly wobbling , red faced laughter here ) just shakes her head at Kapil Sharma . Occasionally sticking her tongue out at him , when no one's looking , but no grimace even close to a smile .

My neighbour downstairs , has a booming  cannon ball laugh. The sort that shakes walls and cobwebs.He is not a very substantial looking person , but his laughter is audible all over , and makes everyone smile. A lady , I knew , in my childhood , Mrs Mitra,  My father's boss, laughed like that . Entire boardrooms , conference halls would fall silent , as they waited Mrs. Mitra to stop . Like waiting for a storm to pass over . 
It would silence all squeaks  of protest , whispers of gossip , and futile low-volume conversation . She would whitewash all auditory resistance . Being hard of hearing herself helped , and last I heard , she died with a smile on her lips , in her sleep.

If

( Apologies to the great poet Kipling , whose "If " is and shall remain un-matched )

“If ” denotes postulation
if means speculation
If asks questions
uneasy propositions 

If it could happen
this way or that
If one could contain
a word and a spat 

If I could intervene
change the scene
Empty words, actually
Ask -Would I really ?

I explore possibilities
thus spake the bull
I gore to please
and pause in the lull

I seek satisfaction
from all my  action
even if people die
the crowd is happy

"He is so brave
but so naive
 his blood is real not fake
he died for our sake"

If indeed he was brave
himself he could save;
would he be honoured ?
or be labelled a coward?

Ladies' Club Meet

With frills and twists
at the pudgy wrists
with a bunch of lace
framing her fat face

"You look like an old King"
the child yelled out of joy
having forgotten the toy
Now all giggling -smiling

She took serious offence
At the word "Old "
As if dead and cold ,
Shoo-ing and making a face

said she -"King! No chance"
"Louis XVI of France "
the kids chanted
ran as they panted

The lady sat and muttered
curses aplenty stuttered
It was a fancy dress show
no doubt about it now

The ladies had met
to drink tea and chat
the thin and the fat
to frown and fret

to hum and haw
to chirp and caw
to decide what to wear
when the VIP comes here.

Who dances
who sings
who prances
who pulls the strings

What is to be said
what is not to be said
what to drink and what to eat
which  juicy treat which meat

Every single movement
words ratified , approved
big lady benevolent
 beams"much improved "

She exclaims as she sees
long red ribbons in Chinese
script gibberish , hanging
from pristine marble landing

"How do you improve
a shining marble floor "
The ladies' strove
with colours and flour

With flowers and festoons
colours and balloons
 ruin the simple beauty
of a house of antiquity

The evening walk

Walking in the evening metamorphosed from a simple exercise in health , to a full blown fashion show. It was long skirts with short tops , a high bun with a lilac flower stuck into it , and a pair of sandals on one day ; to flared bottoms with those silly flowing kurtis , which billowed endlessly in the evening breeze , and a pair of kolhapuris . Now , which serious walker walks in kolhapuris ?
It was an excuse to parade one’s sartorial preferences and the entire wardrobe . The fault lay with the choice of home . She had chosen to live amongst fields and mooing cows , where a simple breeze became a wind , rustling the fragrant basmati ears and whoohooing in a ghostly manner at the windows . There were no discos , red carpet events , or parties . What would she do with the endless array of clothes she had bought .
Go walking , of course .
It became a daily spectacle. Old women bitched and rubbed their arthritic knees ; masculine jaws dropped mid -sentence when she passed by , gliding on a cloud of expensive perfume , her alabaster skin in great contrast to her blood red lips.

All conversation would cease , when she made her appearance . Occasionally , she had two ill- dressed cronies , flank her , giggling at her jokes , giving soppy admiration-filled looks , or she would go solo. Either way , she hogged the lime light . Like a good show-person , she would not even throw a glance at the various porticos , verandahs , balconies , where people would gather in the evening , to enjoy the breeze , and comment at her dress. 

"Kamaal hai ! she hasn't repeated a dress for the past three weeks ." 
Mrs. Khurana would say , furiously fanning herself with a fragile Chinese fan , her face resembling a wobbly bowl of raspberry jelly. 

Old Mr. Khurana ,tone -deaf,  squatting on the floor  mat , would stop mid - kapaal bharti , and peer through his money-plants . 
"Naah ! Yeh to kal waali jooti hai ." ( Shoes the same as yesterday ) he would comment loudly.

"Shhh!" Mrs. Khurana would hiss. "Sun legi" Playfully poking her husband's yoga strengthened back with her frayed fan .
She would begin a hysterical giggling all the same , and the raspberry jelly would wobble violently. That was a cue for Mr. Khurana to laugh too, and Oh, Boy! Did he laugh! 
A loud booming would ensue from behind the dense green jungle , which was the Khurana's balcony , and the money plants would quake in fear.

She would sail through ,  either unaware of the seismic side effects of her presence , or thoroughly enjoying it , or pretending not to notice .  She became the prima donna , the colony diva , the undisputed fashionista. The envy of all women worth their mascaras , and a drool-worthy item for all men , irrespective of age .

Step-mother

Evening has fallen. I can tell from the way outdoors comes back in .

 She has brought in the laundry , mostly my dry clothes and is folding them. Everyday , she  carries armloads of dirty shirts , pyjamas, under wears, bedsheets , stained with colour of rifampicin (orange) and reeking of vomitus -saliva -urine . By evening they are magically restored to their crisp, white fragrant former selves . I wish , and maybe she too, if she could , wave her magic wand  and revert me back to my disease -free , trekking , writing , excelling -in-academics -former self .

 The evening duty nurses have gathered like a flock of geese in their white attire , cackling and chattering , for their evening tea . The aroma of tea and samosas hit me , as I lie , in my misery , hoping to merge with the bed clothes .

 It is one thing to lapse into one act of  indiscretion. It is another to have it tattooed on your forehead , and be paraded naked , for the rest of the world to pass comments and be judgemental  about you. Like having caught robbing a bank . You are not rich , and the humanity spits on you .

Except she . The moment I landed here , in Military Hospital Pune , she flew to my side. As if her being here would save me from extinction , obliteration . She was my life buoy , for the better part of my meagre , meaningless existence . She couldn't be, any more . I had burnt a hole in my life - jacket, I had torpedoed  myself. I had contracted AIDS when in College , due to reason which was apparent to all ,but her . She steadfastly refuses to believe my reports ("galat hoga") and refuses  to reflect the disgust-resignation in doctor's eyes/verdicts( "Unko kya pata").

"It is not fair. "

A fair skinned , cheerful sister has taken to ribbing me .
I looked up from my laptop , the sister was wagging an admonishing finger at me . Again . To my raised eyebrows ,I was too tired to speak , she answered -" Your mother here is slogging for you , and you are writing-shiting." She pouts and places a fistful of pills on my outstretched palm , taking care not to touch it . She breathes heavily into her mask and smiles , her eyes crinkling. Untouchable , always , hereafter.

"She is not my mother " I want to say , but the words die in my throat . Ground up by a huge lump.


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"Kya likh rahe ho ? Hisaab ?"

She would stop in her mid atta-kneading , cloth-washing , room-sweeping , and lift her face to ask me , "What are you writing ?Calculations ?"
She probably meant mathematics , but she always said "hisaab". For her , all studies were maths. Like millions of Indians.
I would rudely turn my back , not answer , and continue with language , science or history that I was studying . Like millions of ungrateful children , I took her for granted . Her benevolence , her unquestioning care , her soft hot rotis , her brilliantly lit lanterns and her habit of sitting by me and fanning me as I grappled with calculus and newton's laws , on long nights and days of power cuts.

My uniforms would be starched and pressed every morning , magically as it were . Several nights , there would be no restoration of power supply , still the uniform would be pressed . I came to know the answer , one midnight , in high school , when I got up to have a drink of water and saw her heating "Lota" (a round -bottomed brass pot for holding milk/water ) at the dying embers of kitchen fire , and painstakingly pressing the pleats of my shorts. She was embarrassed , and tried to hide the lota, burning her fingers, with a hiss.

"Hisaab ho gaya , lalla?" She would ask kindly , when she brought my food.  Throughout my childhood , she treated me like a king , and It was lost on me .

I thought of my struggles with numbers , dates , facts and figures . Immune to any knowledge of the struggles she had to undergo , to feed me , clothe me , and put me through school , and later college.

She was illiterate , and was insanely proud of my academic achievements . My report cards were treated like holy grail . She would keep special soap for washing her hands ,  then wipe it on a white dry linen ,before she  pressed her thumb on the stamp pad kept in the puja ghar, for her thumb print in the "guardian" section. She had kept all my certificates , in a neat bundle , on a high shelf , covered in a thick piece of holy saffron cloth , and an oil cloth, next to her Gods and Goddesses , whom she propitiated every morning with noisy bells, smoky diyas and a red vermillion mark , which she pasted on my forehead , before I left for school.

I was a butt of joke for all my classmates, who would laugh at my "tika " in middle school . In high school, I simply picked up my satchel and walked off, before she could open her eyes after her prayers. If she was hurt , she didn't say it . We never spoke ,like other people. I never told her of my troubles , she , in turn, never told me hers .

She always wore coarse cotton sarees , white in colour . Though very devout , I had never seen her going to any temple . We rarely had visitors . Once in a month , the "munim"(clerk) of my father's  department would come to give us cash. My father's pension. He would stand just behind the door, and clear his throat.
 She would immediately drop everything she was doing , pull her pallu over her eyes , and stand at the door with the wretched stamp-pad, dutifully . He took a couple of thumb prints in two sheets of papers and handed her over some money , which she would touch to her fore head , in a gesture of thanks to the Goddess Lakshmi , who sat smiling a plasticky smile on her pooja shelf.

I hated the munim. I had run into him on couple of occasions when his arrival , coincided with my departure , to school . He would smile , displaying his rotten incisors , asking "Kaise ho lalla?"

I would nod furtively , in his direction , and would begone , before he even contemplated the next question . On one occasion , I ran all the way to school , too scared to wait for the bus at the bus -stop, lest I meet him .


                                                                             @@@

The night duties had taken over from the evening duties . One of the night duties  poked her head in , covered  with the mandatory mask , and asked me if I needed anything. I shook my head in negative . The nurse lingered on , drumming the cubicle door with her gloved fingers , and staring at her sitting on her mat , mending one of my pyjamas. She looked up from her stitching , eyes unfocussed , due to strain , and smiled in the direction of the door , the nurse smiled a half-pity back .

"You are lucky , to have a mother like that ."

I nodded . She left , softly shutting the door.

"She is not my mother ," I strangulated the words in my throat this time and allowed myself to be appalled at my sheer ingratitude .

In the world of AIDS patient , there are few safai karmacharis willing to clean your shit, piss , vomitus . Even when done , it is done with double gloves , reluctance and great deal of resentment .
She is illiterate , but she can sense this . She doesn't ring the bell ever for me . She  does all the dirty jobs herself . Without being told , without any qualms , or gloves . Neither does she expect my gratitude in return . She embodies the teachings of Geeta , Buddha , and I , the sinner, keep  sinking from one deep chasm to another .

                   
                                                                      @@@


When I was four , my father , the zamindar , had a full -blown love affair with a maid in his kothi.

Tongues wagged ferociously. I remember my mother , a frail , porcelain -complexioned brahmin girl just out of teens ( she was just 15 when I was born ) , would gather me in her lap , and would cry for hours . I remember that part , for some of her gut-wrenching agony must have affected me  too.

My father would stay away , and my mother eventually ate datura seeds ( a common and agonisingly slow suicide of olden days ). She died two weeks later .

Shortly afterwards , my father married this maid , in a simple ceremony , attended by very few people, among whom notable was the loyal "munim " , who still comes to us.

Within an year , my father , on a trip to the city , met with an accident , and passed away . People in the village called the maid , a "witch " , and a "sorceress". The munim sold the kothi , bought a small house in the town , and settled both of us , practically orphans , there.

I was told the entire sordid story , in bits and pieces , by munim himself . That was the reason , I hated him . In my frail childhood emotional roller coaster, I held two people responsible for my misfortunes. One , the lady , and two, the" munim", who,in my juvenile eyes, was a criminal just by witnessing the events unfold. One , I couldn't run from .  From  the munim , I could and did.

                                                                          @@@

Morning came, and the early morning retching began . My skeletal body heaved with spasms. She held the basin , in front of my mouth . Still , some orange coloured vomitus dribbled down my chest , which she quickly wiped with a wet cloth .

Spent , I sank on the pillow , panting . The angular stomatitis of the mouth burnt , as the acidic vomitus eroded the sores. I looked at the bottle of water on my locker. She quickly got the basin for me to rinse my mouth.

She would divine my needs . I was the cleanest AIDS patient in the hospital .

Others have google , journals, books to research the disease afflicting their near and dear ones. She just has her rosary. Prayers and non- stop service to alleviate pain and weird symptoms of my baffling illness.

And it shows no signs of slowing  or abating. If this was atonement , She was doing Ahilya's equivalent of remorse.

She doesn't need to . She has done enough for me .

But I can't bring myself to say this. How can I ?

What shall I say to her ? Go away . Go back to the village home. Leave me to die in peace.

Some times the most obvious , the simplest truths are hardest to utter .

She has aged , bent and greyed . She has just taken my basin out , to clean . And I can't breathe .

All my cumulative guilt , all my apologies , I must tell her.


                                                                          @@@

When she returned , a small crowd of gloved and masked people had gathered in the cubicle .

Through a gap she saw his eyes open , searching for her , locked on her face , frozen . His cracked lips moved inaudibly, then stilled. One arm was hanging by the bed , other they busied in injections.

Some one in the crowd , a doctor , in a white coat said - "Remember , no resuscitation for AIDS patients."

Some one else grabbed her by the elbow , and led her out of the room , gently , shutting the door after her .

The incident

The room blurred , whirled and darkened . I remember alarmed looks and some one screaming . I had fallen face first , and hit my nose on the hard ground . When I came to , a kind person was fanning me with her notebook and I was terribly nauseated . My head was aching , nose had bled a little and stopped ,on its own, as if ashamed . Some one forced a toffee in my mouth. I sucked on it and it felt good. That incident changed me forever. I was inducted into the college hall of shame , as a “fainter”. 

It didn’t help that in the past , I had always laughed at people who swooned , fainted and displayed any such symptoms of feminine weaknesses. I had thought , erroneously of course , that I was above such “nonsense”. 

What I didn’t realize was, my being a potential candidate for diabetes. I was just plain hypoglycaemic . I distinctly recollect drinking a cup of sweetened hot tea, which had instantly restored me .

Shower

Shower ! There were no shower heads . Those were things you saw in magazine advertisements and movies . To be sighed at , and drooled upon . As distant as the moon .

Water was laboriously pulled from the well . A pulley existed, a make -shift one , with a y-fork of a large tree as the pulley , and around ten bricks for weight . And did it creak ! Heavens ! You pull up water for wash after your big job, in the depths of the night , and the whole neighbourhood knows . Creak, creak ! There was one huge metallic bucket with rope tied to its handle , which sat on the “jagat”, the round concrete circle top of the well . It made a huge splash . The glug , glug , as it filled with cool , clear water from the depths of the well . The weight of the full bucket tugged the rope , the rope tugged the pulley , and it would groan with a creak audible one mile away.

Then you put your might to it . Heave , heave . It was an aerobics like none other . One bath and you have burnt enough calories for the day.

As the bucket splashed , jostled and banged against the brick wall , on its journey up , half of the water was lost , in transit . In case of kids , three fourths.

The kids used up less water , owing to less surface area. The adults needed more , so the arrangement suited everyone fine . A small cubicle with a wooden door , functioned as the shower stall , where people took baths , scrubbed themselves, and beat their clothes threadbare. Budding singers let loose their vocal cords , in its private confines. On one occasion , my sister dressed in nothing more than a hastily wrapped towel and lot of soap-suds came screaming out of the stall . She had seen a lizard on the wall. Braver members of the family, went in with brooms and sticks , looking for the offending reptile . The lizard was not found but it created a memorable story for family dinners. 

First Day At School

The bus crawled to a stop , at the  crowded bus stop.

The other kids were impatient , having slung their bags on their shoulders half an hour ago , and were attempting to steer the ungainly bus through maddening Calcutta traffic jams.

 "Dada ekto left chepe. Daandike , daandike !" (take the left, no right , right!!)

 The driver sat grinning through his yellow paan stained teeth.

I was aghast . Last ten years of my life , I had commuted in the small mini-bus of a convent school . The bus driver was the King , and we his temporary subjects , till such time as we reached  school . Such dastardly lumpen  behaviour would have earned immediate eviction and everlasting shame .

The bus was still inching slowly , towards the gates , and the pupils , jumped off the footboard , one by one , sprinting away , like frightened gazelles. The last one was a Commerce girl ,  of XI , my classmate  from the neighbouring highrise 13B. Anjani Debnath. Most people are known by the shortened versions of their names, she was known by the shortened version of her surname -Debu. In fact , her family comprised of lot of Debus.

 Debu was the last to desert me . Hopping nimbly from the  footboard , she turned back and gave me a worried grin , all her steel braces glinting in the morning sun .

"Better be quick , or else Biswas gets mad ."

I hesitated on the still moving footboard , and the "khalasi " (cleaner) kindly encouraged " Laafiye podo, ekhane daand korte debe na ."( Jump off, they won't let us stop here)

I looked up . Debu had disappeared. I closed my eyes , took a deep breath , stepped into thin air , and "splosh " , landed into thick black muck of Calcutta's street.

The khalasi hissed -"Ishhh". Shaking his head in sympathy and disbelief , he slunk away from view as the bus rounded off the corner .

I looked up and read the name of my school . It was the same as my last school.St.Thomas'. It couldn't have been more different. I sighed.


The corridors were empty , the verandahs too . Classes hummed inside rabbit warren like numerous classes in the three floors of the ancient but sturdy building. I was the only student out cold. A fierce looking woman , clad in a sari , paced on the ground floor corridor , a permanent scowl on her face . Despite all the warning signs, I walked upto her , squelching black mud onto the pristine cement , heart -in-mouth , and squeaked -"Good morning ma'am!"

"Humph!" She nodded , and gave me once over , still scowling , as if I were an eminently swattable fly who had dared disturb her morning reverie. ( She was the principal, Mrs. Biswas , as I was to learn later ). I could almost hear her scream -"Off with her head!" Instead , she said , curtly -"You are late."

"Yes , ma'am , the traffic..." She interrupted me with an upraised palm and a look that could guillitone . I hung my head like Marie Antoinette.

She waited, with her hand raised  . I waited too, teeth clenched, for the blow to fall . Then it struck me.
"Sorry , ma'am ." The hand fell limp to the side, trifle disappointed.

She dismissed me with a wave , and continued her pacing.

I strode a few paces in the direction I had been waved onto , like a dry leaf caught in breeze. And was hopelessly lost . The boards on top of the classrooms , were of middle school, class VA , IV B.

Peals of laughter emanated from a classroom , instead of the usual staid and prim noises. I was nearing the rear door. Two girls in blue tunics sat reading comics , carefully hidden inside their english textbooks. I slowed. One of them looked up . Rest of the class dutifully guffawed at some joke , being told by the teacher , in front . She raised her eyebrows, questioning.

"Can you tell me where class XI Science is ?" I spoke in the loudest whisper I could muster.

She pointed behind her and then gestured climbing on stairs , while mouthing "First floor."

I proceeded ahead . Suddenly , a voice boomed up "You girl!"

I turned back . A dwarfish , bespectacled ,fat lady in brown organdie saree , stood in the middle of the corridor, beckoning at me , curling and uncurling her forefinger,nail painted bright red. One hand rested menacingly on the hip. She peered at me from top of her  half -moon spectacles . I was in for another inquisition , I thought. As I hastened to her , I noticed , the two comic readers , standing at their places , rolling their eyes , at the sight of me , their comics probably confiscated.

A half -smile played at the corner of the fat dwarf's lips , and I noticed she had laughter in her eyes too.

"New girl?" She asked straight away, as I walked up.

"Yes ma'am ."

"Science , XI ?" Goodness, this lady was clairvoyant, how on earth?

 Later , I learnt , the classes XI and XII did not wear tunics , and wore skirts as I was wearing . A dead giveaway. Science stream got new admissions in the first week of new session . Others came later. All the same , she was sharp . I was to be impressed more in coming years , by this pint sized lady with an out sized heart . I just didn't know it then.

"Upstairs , first classroom to the left." She gave a benevolent smile . "I am Mrs. Lahiri, your english teacher." She stuck out a chalk dusted hand . I hesitated . I had never shaken hands with a teacher before. All you do was bind your hands behind your back and courtesy , that was what was taught to us . Mrs. Lahiri broke all stereotypes.

"C'mon , I won't eat you ." She was grinning mischievously, now.

I gave a limp and clammy hand , which she shook with gusto.

"Now , off you go . And I would wash my feet If I were you . " She gestured to a washroom on the corner of the verandah, where the stairs started. Observant too.

She was about to re-enter a now humming -with-girly-gossip class , when she stopped and said , "Next time , ask directions from the teacher , not sneaky back-benchers ." She tossed her head towards the two girls , still standing , one  promptly rolled her eyes again , and other was holding a tongue that wanted to be stuck out , in full view of Mrs, Lahiri.  Mrs. L guffawed and skipped back happily into her class .

"So girls , where were we ?" She boomed.

 I tried , ineffectually , to cleanse my feet of three centuries old grime . In the absence of such tools as soap , towel etc, I gave up   and came out .My new bata sandals were now squelching blackish water all over the 200 year old floor of St. Thomas'.

Squelch , squelch . As I climbed stairs, I met another girl , attired similarly as me .She was pretty . Long eyelashes , and a snake like braid sashaying on the hips.The sandals were hip and upmarket . I wish I could hide my squelchy ones . They actually made hissing and sucking sounds at every step, however gingerly taken . She was kind enough not to notice.

We burst into a room full of oversized skirts, perfumes , and wide -eyed giggly , shrill , high -pitched feminine vocalisations . All seemed excited , and  were talking simultaneously . Peals of laughter could be heard a mile away. Class XI Science was teacher less, and in throes of  boundless merriment.

"Shh. Girls listeeeen." My pretty companion took the podium . In the fraction of a second, the class descended into complete silence .I have never seen a more effective crowd control. Impressed and googly -eyed , I hovered in the doorway .

Eyes swivelled to me . Another round of whispers threatened to break out. The pretty girl hastily spoke.

"This is a new girl . Her name is ..."She trailed off turning to me .

"Manju." I spoke almost in a whisper , realising she was the first person to have asked my name.

In an instant , I was surrounded by girls . Shaking hands , introducing themselves . It was overwhelming. I was literally dragged in . Someone had relieved me of my satchel , and now it lay on an empty desk , where I was asked to make myself home. Some one asked me where I had come from . I said "St. Thomas' ,Bihar ." I didn't want to mention city , town etc. and confuse the city bred girls.I am sure they never heard of the place , least of all expect it to exist.

A fat south-indian looking girl ,tossed her head behind and reported loudly to some one , "hey , Bihari , she belongs to your place ."

The crowd parted and my pretty escort walked , nay, floated across.

"Really ? My home town is Chapra .Yours?" I couldn't possibly tell her the name of the village I was born and brought up in . She wouldn't know , this Greek Goddess, so I lied and told the name of the next  big city , closest to us . She nodded , looking at me doubtfully.

Next half an hour , I came to know the name of the pretty Bihari , Mahua Chowdhary . A bengali to the core , her only fault was to occasionally slip into her childhood dialect, bhojpuri , hence the epithet.(With her legendary crowd managing skills, She would be  the Head girl for two consecutive years , a record of sorts. )

There were few girls who did not participate in my welcoming melee.

 One was a tall , pale looking girl , who sat in one of the back-benches, far from the madding crowd. She had wispy , pale ,brownish long hair , and a short strand that kept falling onto her pale long face . She smiled weakly, albeit kindly , at me , and went back to her book.

She reminded me of those pale laukis that grew in shade in my grandmothers' kitchen garden. Deprived of sun , but endowed with terrific genes , they would grow tremendously tall, but pale and fragile . Her name was Razia, and her arms , palms were covered in henna prints.

Veena. the tamilian , dusky and garrulous, wearing two long thick black braids of impossible hair, whispered loudly - "Razia's parents got her engaged , last week . Poor thing , she is just 15." Razia pretended not to hear.

 Then in loud voice , Veena informed me -"Manju, meet Razia , our maths whizkid." Razia looked up from her book , gave a frown to Veena , smiled at me , rolled her eyes at Veena again , and went back to her book , all in the span of few seconds, without having uttered a word.

Another girl was a fat , squat , bullish faced girl , who didn't smile at me . ( I was to know later , that she was one of the most helpful girls I had ever met . She rarely smiled though) Ankita Growar was brought up by her grandparents (like me ) ,  studied in one the most expensive boarding schools in the country (unlike me ) , learnt horse riding at the age of 5, was on first name basis with movie-stars' kids , and was some thing of a snob . Hence the preferred isolation . She was in the boarding here too , along with couple of other girls. Another thing that separated her from regular girls ,which I learnt early , was to never mention her parents , or ask any questions regarding them . Otherwise , she was fine .


The recess bell rang , and there was a stampede at the stairwell. Older girls, such as us , were tasked with keeping  decorum , which was an impossibility, with blue tunics , racing down to the garden, the ample lawn , and the verandah . Free birds after enforced classes.


The girls' clumped together . Commerce , Humanities , Bio , Maths . I found myself sitting at the edge of the verandah, foolishly smiling at all those chattering girls' , whose back was turned to me .
I had just become aware of my misty eyes , when I felt someone sit beside me . Smell of paratha-achar filled my nostrils, smell of home. Razia was holding her tiffin towards me -"Le lo." She said kindly , softly. I gratefully accepted a piece of my childhood , from her tiffin . From a stranger , in a strange city. Life was strange.

"My grandparents live in Begusarai , we go every summer to meet them ." She said matter -of -factly.
"Really". My eyes popped out . She was more of a Bihari , and no one knew.
She gave another of her serious sad smiles , and went about munching . I ate one and a half of her two parathas . She picked at my "sondesh " and said , "you know , this white mishti always reminds me of "peda"(another bihari delicacy). We both laughed , at our private joke.

Veena , turned at the sound of laughter , like candle to moth , grinning , "What did I miss , what did I miss ?"

Razia playfully smacked her , and smiled . All loved Veena.

Rest of the day passed in a daze of more gossip. No classes . According to Ankita the monitor , know-it-all, "they are still figuring out whom to put where ". By" whom ", she meant teachers . This irreverence for authority was new to me , but not un-desirable . It brought them down from the God -like pedestals , and made them more human , more like us.

When the bell rang, Razia was the first to glide out of the room , her lanky frame reaching the ground floor and the gate before the rest of us could even say goodbye.

The reason became apparent as I boarded my railway bus.

A bearded man , muscled , menacing,riding a bike , came to a stop near Razia. He spoke to her briefly and a shadow crossed her face . The bike roared away the moment Razia sat on the pillion. She clung to the seat , her loose shirt fluttering,appearing dangerously fragile like a yellow leaf in a storm .

Debu had boarded and was peering out of the window.

"That is Razia's fiance. She didn't tell you? Some distant cousin who forced her parents to get Razia to marry him . I thought you were friends . Both hindi -waalis you know . He works in the dockyard .Some goonda , so people say."

She kept  blabbering .

"I hope you don't share her tiffin again . She is a beef-eater, you know ."

I didn't look at Debu , the brahmin . I kept looking at that corner of fluttering shirt on a wispy , willowy , pale girl , who offered me a memory , in a battered aluminium tiffin box, that afternoon , when all backs were turned. I also thought of her dreams of Mathematics Honours and IIT. The bike had just disappeared round the bend.