Maid's woes

My maid Manju decided to finally stop working . She was pregnant . For the greater part of this winter , she would waddle in with her huge tummy , swollen feet and eyelids and refuse to take "chhutti". She got me a replacement girl from her native Bahraich , called Poonam . But refused to let go of the "Kothi ", as even humble abodes as mine are wont to be called in Punjab.

She had her Mom called in from Bahraich as well , and got her to do the dishes . This caused friction , in certain quarters. Poonam wanted the "Kothi" all to herself . Manju was not willing to let go . I felt like a prized peacock in my silverback years .

The day Manju's mother joined , Poonam , a relative of theirs , absented herself . She came later , with  a distant sister in law of her own , and promised to do all my jobs , never do "Naga"(Absenteeism ) , provided I chuck the Maasi ( Manju's mother ). This became a classical take -over-saga. In all this family political battle for secession , I was less like a pawn , and more like a virulent catalyst .

One day , Poonam sent a young girl called Shashi (another sister-in -law ) . She was wiry , pretty , teen and heavily bejewelled . She marched to the balcony , picked up the broom , and placing one foot on the railing , kept staring into the space . A perfect Jhansi ki Rani stance . What she did next was no less than a Jhansi ki Rani-ish thing to do . She spotted her hubby , a grown man bicycling to his daily wage labour , give lift to a female acquaintance . She burst in , sans broom , and authoritatively asked for my phone . I meekly handed her . She furiously dialled a number and proceeded to call her better half , berating him and calling him choicest of names while striding from balcony to balcony , making herself heard,amply, in the entire neighbourhood . Kids , pretending to study , in their studies , poked heads out , with raised eyebrows .

It was time to pass a law against sister in laws of all shades . Meanwhile , Manju delivered , without much fanfare, a baby girl , her sixth offspring.

Taking matters and dishes and brooms into her wrinkled hands , Manju's mother has been holding the fort for the past month . Never absenting , despite blinding fog and biting cold. Rock steady . She wears a saree , and a shawl . Shawl she proceeds to dump on the kitchen stool , pulls up her battered sweater on her skinny arms , and proceeds to make short work of jobs meant  for kids half her age .
We have learnt to remind her thrice about her tea getting cold , and to lie about the time . She will ask the time before she leaves for the next house . If you tell 930 , she runs in her flip flops, and  is likely to fall down the stairs . So we calmly tell her it is 9 and she peacefully ambles away.

She works  three houses each day and has thereby preserved all the "kothis " her daughter worked in . One month later when the baby is three months old , Manju intends to join too .  

Home for the holidays

“Where is he ? Has he even started yet ? Ma , you should really put that saucepan on . He is maybe reaching any moment .” My eldest is full of concerns when Papa is on his way .
The younger one is flippant . “Chill , guys , he has probably stopped for a samosa break . ”
“Papa doesn’t take samosa breaks without us . He drives straight home .” Stoutly loyal and comically jest , I love them both . Nodding from the stove , as I wait for ginger to steep into the ginger tea , I hear wars ignite again . “Ma , you just can’t agree to both . You have to take a stand , which side you are on ?” Hand on hips , argumentative now. 

I smile and waver . As I always have . A honks floats up. Adolescent shrieks, feet rush , doors slam and I sigh in relief . 

Papa is finally home for the holidays . Phew.

One lazy afternoon

 One particular afternoon . I sat near the trunk of an ancient peepul . The tree was wont to shake its leaves after every half  a minute or so , in a prolonged shivery , hissy way . All the new leaves shone in the sun , creating a blingy effect .

Like an aged Diva wearing her sequinned night gown , bought half a century ago , still shiny and very intimidating .

Two bulbuls flew over to a neighbouring , younger and shorter tree. They discussed the inappropriateness of Peepuls behaviour . The Peepul couldn't care less, and shook its head in mirth , rustling all over , glinting mischievously. 

The bulbuls flew further away in alarm .

 The branches were gnarled and large , with enormous holes , having hosted generations of squirrels , hoopoes and what not . It was a citadel , with a mammoth trunk . A grand old vizier , a city that has seen it all. 

A family of parrots roosted unseen , but raucous. Unseen because their green merged with the green of the fresh autumn foliage . 

Just like the small butterfly that landed on the brown shoot of a floor creeper and vanished instantly . The pale undersides of its folded wings merging seamlessly with the stem . It was seen only when it deigned to move , unfolding its wings and revealing wings of  brilliant  dark brown with pale yellow spots . Then it landed, " namaste-d" again and disappeared. A merry hide and seek. 

A robin was building a nest in the safe contour of a window .Between the AC box and the boarded up window . It picked twigs and pecked for insects/ seeds , at the rate of thousand pecks per minute. It rushed  over , in alarm , towards me , and inspected me , an intruder , from a safe distance . Satisfied with my slothful appearance and non-movement , she retreated back to her business. Must have dismissed me as some quirk of nature .

I shut my eyes against the warmth of winter afternoon sun . And instantly , my world was peopled with squeaks , shrieks , whistles , chirpings , twitterings and warblings . There were thousands of birds , up in the tree , invisible , but audible to me .For a fraction of a moment , no human sound could be heard . Then , a trill of a distant telephone added to the medley and I opened my eyes . 

It was a revelation, of how populated the planet is , despite and inspite of us , conceited human beings . How busy and noisy , even without us . 

Hope and a ball of yarn

1. What goes down
   comes up
   what goes round
   comes around 

   What keeps the
   old clock ticking
   what keeps the
   heart beating 

   A sheep bleating
   A mind thinking
   A hand tinkering
   My mom knitting 

   At 76 , she knits and knits
   for neighbours and grand kids
   For strangers and family
   for kin , kith and all merrily 

   joints frozen with arthritis
   immovable wrists
   uncontrollable bladder
   She grows older and younger 

   woollen socks , mufflers
   cardigans and sweaters
   She has decided she must give
   of her gift , freely , be alive 

   On hope she thrives
   On thanks she survives
   While others await futilely
   She knits furiously 

   Making her hands work
   While her legs do not
   She has abundant hope
   and has found pluck
   in Two needles and a
   ball of yarn.

   
   

Two hours at the Goddess's Side

1315 hrs
 The flames rise as the priest puts in a generous ladleful of ghee into the sacrificial fire. There are men in kurta pyjamas sitting next to the havan fire . The priest makes them repeat after him, "for peace , for wealth , for sons ". Seriously , I came for this !! My doubts rise , as the spiralling thick smoke .

1332 hrs
 A newly made friend comes and sits next to me . "A van has been organised to take the faithful to the pandal on Guru Nanak Mission Chowk , was I interested ?" She whispers loudly into my ears , above the pundit's chants .She smells of new handloom saree , fresh from the looms of Bengal ,  perfume , and ghee smoke . I almost say yes . The I say"No". I too must have whispered loudly .She appears crest fallen . I wonder if I should go . But I am already late for many chores awaiting at home .

1350 hrs
 The slow moving fan on the ceiling makes things worse. It scatters the column of smoke . It curls up into the courtyard , where cooks from Bengal stand stirring pots of chhola dal with narkel , fried rice , and frying large platters of begoon and potol bhaja.Their eyes smart. The courtyard is blessed with a mesh covered roof . The smoke dissipates into the blue autumn sky , and they thank the Durga Ma. Stirring , frying .

1416hrs
 The kitchen hands are setting up folding tables and people are queueing up to take their places . I sigh . This is going to take a long time . I wonder if my kid is already back from school . Maybe they were right in refusing to come . The sweet acrid smell of ghee smoke is slowly filling the hall roof . i wonder how long the havan is going to take ? I glimpse my neighbour giving me a once over . I wear salwaar kameez , a northern dress. I wear my hair short , no sindur in partition . What am I ? She is baffled . So am I . I can't tell her that . So I turn to my pretty , red and white and gold friend , and show her a whatsapp forward of a Durga Pandal in Delhi . She beams , a smile wrinkling her sindoor smeared face .She whispers , loudly "Forward it to me ". A dark mountain of a lady , clad in a green saree , red and gold border , smelling of the east too, to my right , leans dangerously close , peeking . I show to her . She too demands "Send to me too."

1440 hrs
 Medley of conch shells blow , ululations bring ladies to their feet , the smoke is rolling its choking tongue towards us . People step back . Cotton pallus cover eyes , mouth . I still donot have any phone numbers . First course , fried rice and dal has been served . A tall athletic man holding a basket of fried brinjals , salutes the Goddess with his basket and all , as he passes by . My new friend , having gone two paces ahead to do the "ululu", leans her thin frame back and whispers hoarsely into my ear "My husband , swimming instructor " , She gestures in the direction of the basket of fried brinjals , the distributor having been swallowed by the hungry crowd. She is still smiling . I take the opportunity and save her number . She tells me , and quickly turns her  back to me .Two seconds later , her phone pings . She checks it and turns back ,beaming at me .  Someone has started beating a drum . A white crest of feather shivers with each beat . An ancient tattoo. My friend is busy showing my forwarded pic to conch blowers and ululers.

1500 hrs
 The green lady has picked up a bell . A brass plate and a wooden hammer , that go bang , bang . My heart thumps . Probably in my mouth . i don't remember such reaction in my childhood . Probably all those schooling /teaching years , in between . The gong sounds like the final school bell. Disappointments of home works to be corrected , and despair at classes having ended , surge back , needlessly . I scold my self . The green lady is tall .Taller than most of us . She is gasping. Smoke inhalation . She makes a beeline for outside . I follow her .

1515 hrs
 The crowd has thinned somewhat , thanks to the thick smoke . The green lady takes huge gulps of sweet fresh air . I do the same . Her hands are still automatically clanging the bell. We are outside the hall ,twenty feet from the Goddess. I touch her hand. She stops . Smiles sheepishly. Her phone pings too . She checks it , my forwarded pic has reached her .She beams at me . I smile sheepishly back . Throngs of fed devotees emerge,  hunting  their slippers . It is our turn now . We return triumphantly. 

Favorites

Favorites are few now . Once , I had a favourite teacher , classmate , pop singer , movie , food , drink etc.etc. the list was endless. Now , I am not so sure ,anymore.Some icons have fallen from grace , others have passed away . Everyone else appears good, all singers sing well , and most of the foods taste the same .

Most of the newspapers too , deal with a story in a similar manner . Same things are said . Cliches. Maybe I am old enough to recognise repetition . Or more forgiving now , of people's flaws , now that I too have seen some in my own self , or , extrapolating , in my "favourites".

My kids display the same passionate , vociferous display of territorial pride that I once did. Perhaps they too will learn to see themselves in others, as time passes . Or recognise  their authors , boy-bands elsewhere too . We had Beatles , they have BTS.  Wonder if I have got it all wrong , and that their world is more inclusive than ours . We could recognise lyrics , they just applaud the heartfelt subtitles. 

Flood

The words come thick
and fast
the ideas \
took a long time
all
paradoxes in life
the eyes
and the hands
just cant keep up
with the mind



                         #########################
Mind that lay dormant
for a long
drought ridden summer
when the
vultures encircled
and the humans
wrote it off
as useless
irredeemable
is when
the rains began


But that was before
the floods
and the top soil
all gone now
human
ego
and short sighted ness

Fresh rocks
jut out
for another
bout of centuries long
erosion


                      @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

In between mindless
chores
ant like
running between depots
hoarding
accumulating
an occasional gem
shines through

I live in spurts
other times
I just
breathe



                    @@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@


Who said living
was easy
Living is easy
if you silence your mind
castrate
thoughts
muzzle ideas

Since that has proved
impossible
time and again
nature
has proved

Life isn't easy
was
never



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Memory is slipping
arhtritis sets in
solidifying
joints , bones , thoughts , opinions
yet
young we must
remain
flexion
must be retained
lest we
are consigned
to flames
as dead
wood


              #######################################

Hasty
outpourings
are the best
why ?
One ,
it is short
Two,
it is Pithy ,
Third .
You do not wait
for pity
to be offered
as a bitter
pill
to swallow

you
are
as it is
wallow (ing)

Fall cometh

With a swish and a gust
night time rustle and first
lights go out
total black out
giant trees sway
drunken this way
and that
pit pat
some reluctant drops
hammering stops
all of a sudden
there's the sun
a mischievous smile
"anything I miss ?"
No one utters
a word
the auto putters
world
resumes breathing
as if nothing
has happened

...........

lights end
mighty winds
torn blinds
tell a different story
each day, must be wary
of what lies behind
and what is ahead
like a cut diamond
there are facets unfound
each reflecting
a different scene
telling
a different mean (ing)

Waqt guzar gaya

कहीं पढ़ा और
कुछ दोस्तों से
सुना
कि
समय गुज़र
रहा है
तेज़ी से।

अपने सफ़ेद
बालों से
पूछा
तो पुख्ता
हुआ

घुटनों ने भी
हामी भरी
और याददाश्त
बड़ी नज़ाकत से
खांसी

चेहरे की झुर्रियों ने
कहा
"तो क्या ?"
हम तो फिर भी
हँसेंगे।

गौर से देखा
तो आईने से
देख रहे थे
पिताजी हमें

और मुँह खोला तो
माताजी की
बोली निकली।

अब पता चला
वक़्त का छलावा
आने से पहले
बुलावा

हम पूरी तरह
अतीत में
ढल चुके थे

हम अपने
माँ बाप में
तब्दील
हो चुके थे। 

Aprakaashit kavya (Unpublished poetry)

जलते हैं कुछ लोग
कहते हैं
क्या लिखते हो ?
पन्ने स्याह
करते हो ?
कल गुज़र जाओगे
तो इन्हे कोरा
कौन करेगा ?
इतने सारे
शब्दों के रंगों को
गोरा
कौन करेगा ?

मैंने कहा
कुछ पन्ने
रंगीन ही सही
कुछ सवाल
संगीन ही सही

हर किश्ती
किनारे लगे
ज़रूरी तो नहीं
हर बाग़ में फवारें लगें
ज़रूरी तो नहीं

कुछ चिड़े तो
यूँ ही गा कर
गुज़र गए
कितने महान
लोग चुपचाप
अपनी छाप
छोड़ गए

हर कलम
बिकाऊ हो
ज़रूरी तो नहीं
हर कलाम पर
नोट बरसे
ज़रूरी तो नहीं। 

Of Intruders and guests

Early morning , red vented bulbuls are known to warble sweet nothings to the early morning air and universe in general . Much like humans , they are not known to converse kindly with each other . Fly together , yes . Talk , not too much . Birds of few notes , you could say . Pairs have discreet nests ,and discourage neighbours , even of identical plumage . Again , one is tempted to lapse into human similes .

A few days ago , the morning was unduly quiet . No warblings , no sweet nothings. The earth seemed to be frightfully silent . Almost holding its breath . After what seemed an eon , a large shape fluttered out in the open from the shadows . A massive eurasian eagle -owl( nomenclature courtesy Salim ali's handibook)swooped down , and perched precariously teetering , on a dark , unlit balcony . The owls sure hate light. It could tell it was under scrutiny . After chafing for a few awkward moments , like a  celebrity hounded by paparazzi , it took off silently , and left the enclave , having beaten its massive wings just thrice , languidly . With nary a backward glance .

Almost promptly , you could hear the sigh of relief in the world . The warblings resumed . Full throated. 

             

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The munias are gregarious birds . Recently , I saw an entire group of them , some twenty odd tiny , black throated munias crowding a small monsoon herb . The plant had bent double under the weight of these chirping tiny birds , and seemed to enjoy their presence (It kept shaking with silent laughter , for a long time ) . They pecked on seeds and conversed some more . Chirping , chattering , flying in a cloud at the first human footstep. To watch them carefully is difficult . Thereby , one needs to really respect and thank birdwatchers who have patiently photographed , documented and watched these small, pretty , fickle birds .


                                                ####################################

The bottlebrush tree is a favourite haunt of all species of sunbirds . They sleep in the mornings elsewhere . A sunbird hungry for nectar wont waste its energies in futile utterances . It will emit a contented and sleepy-soft "cheep", once every few minutes ,that too , if you are blessed with an acute hearing . If not , you may never hear it .They too bend the drooping branches further , but being lighter than munia birds , and fewer in numbers , they appear as flitting shadows (fleeting enough to be confused with figments of one's imagination)and never , ever  shake the branches .

One day , the branches shook heavily , almost groaning . The shadows were large and feline. Two kittens were foraging for the small morsels of sunshine . The soft "cheep" was silenced .

For a long time , thereafter , no sunbirds (purple or otherwise ) , came to the tree. I , accompanied the tree in laying the blame squarely on the blasted kittens . Only recently , have the cheeps resumed . The tree appears happy , nodding its tufty drooping old head , in sage approval.


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Today morning , the parrots had the courage to argue with pigeons over prime perches. Usually they are silent , and glide through the morning air , without much argument .

But today was different . They are usually , a flock of rose ringed parrots . Today , they were being visited by a dignitary . The Alexandrine parakeet. A large parrot with a huge maroon splash on its wings , a tricoloured gash , blue pink and black , on its neck , and an enormously long tail ending sky blue . It has bigger beak and a harsher cry . It commandeers the forces like a general wearing pips . Hence the courage of the common parakeet and hence the early morning commotion.

The general departed , with his entourage , a little later . Leaving the colony to its peace and pigeons.

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The flood

Writing
now
in these
circumstances
seems more like
an act of
perfidy
or perjury.

In solidarity
should
voices
silence
themselves
in a companionship
of grief

Or one should
defy
convention
and speak out
loud
for the sake
of those
suffering

To ask
or to
leave alone

To walk
a tightrope
of emotional
correctness
or to
remain silent
safely(?) perched
on a rapidly eroding
embankment .

For the lull
is deceptive
as always

The roar
is distant
but not
inaudible

The deluge
inevitable
for it has
rained
countless
days

The moistness underfoot
is
ominous
The flood
imminent . 

The cycling revolution

 For the last year or so , a small revolution of sorts has started in our colony .

People have taken to cycling . On the streets . It all started with an extremely energetic , driven and focussed army officer taking up cudgels against the unsightly rolls of fat accumulated around his midriff. It , as per his own admission , also was raising his blood pressure to "interventional" levels . In other words , he disliked eating his pills . Hence , cycle.

We shall call him Col T . He starts cycling at wee hours of the morning , when ordinary people are still negotiating the rickety path between REM and non REM phases of sleep. Pigeons watch him from inside slits of their closed eyelids , it is formidably dark , and the Granthi in the nearby Gurudwara , is yet to remove his wet footwear , at the entrance door.

The watchmen curse him , under their breath as he breezes past , speeding at tight turns .

 His desire for speed , hampered during the daytime , by playing children , who display inexplicably suicidal behaviour by running right into the path of a speeding cycle ; by pet dogs , that wish to be petted; by staid matrons , walking and gossiping in two's and threes, corpulent enough to reduce a broad road to a minor gully.; not to mention fellow retirees , who wish to slow down the racing old man with an exuberantly cheery "Hello , Kiddan ?" (how are you ?) . Courtesy demands an answer , and a simple nod wont do . Interruptions . Hence, early morning .

Another contender is a former professor , who along with his wife , trundles along on two separate bikes . Pink for her , green for him . Hers has slender tyres , his are transplanted with monstrosities borrowed from a motorbike. For the first few weeks , they cycled sedately , charming the world with the sight of greying bonhomie , smiling at all , and conversing quietly . Then one day , she suddenly called it quits . "Excruciating back - ache "was quoted , and tut-tutting sympathy gained , as she joined the lowly ranks of gossipy matrons , much to her chagrin and their amusement.

The man , however , got himself a green track suit with matching helmet and knee pads , and decided to challenge the Colonel. Now , they both race . In two different directions . One  clockwise , the other , anti clockwise . They meet at two different points of the colony , and breeze past each other , each loath to acknowledge the presence of the other.

The colonel , in his printed turban , long johns and shorts , the professor , in his leprechaunish get up ,long white hair and flowing grey beard , something out of fairy tale books .

One young lady in her 30s decided to join the fray too . She wears her incredibly long  hair loose , and loves flowing garments . Needless to say , it hampers her movement . So , she squeaks slowly past , absorbing the air , conversing with doodhwalas and waving at all school kids waiting at sundry pick up points. She is visible and movie star-ish . People make a point to stand in their balconies to watch her cycle past , as they pretend to read newspapers or drink their milk tea.

A fat matron too , bought a bicycle . She cycles every morning and evening . She too ,began with flowing palazzos , till one of the legs of the offending garment was caught up in the revolving tyres . Now she wears a weird combo of t shirt ( a size too small), capris , knee caps , socks , and shoes , with payals . Yes , that's right . Payals . Those tinkly trinkets, worn at ankles, that tear holes into your socks , if you wear them outside . If you wear them on your skin , the tightness of your socks , and movement of your legs are likely to lacerate you badly.

Having forbidden ethnic wear , for practical reasons , this was the last vestige of tradition, which she could cling to .

Kids there are aplenty. A fat kid with Canadian accent , an NRI boy who does nothing but cycle around in circles , dawn to dusk ,"never enters the home " complains a disgruntled grandma. Apparently , forced to return from London , where his mother and older siblings still reside , after a messy divorce of his parents . He has decided he has nothing to do with his father or dadi , and their home.

The most dangerous thing one can encounter on the road , after sun down , is a bicycle, hastily abandoned in the middle of the road , by careless kids ; and entirely invisible to a heaving, panting , racing ,portly, middle aged woman with poor eyesight, which would describe me in my own feeble attempts at joining the "cycling revolution ". Albeit , after sun down , in dark solitude.

I once rammed into a bicycle , half the size of mine , and its tiny front trye entered the spokes of my bicycle , and stayed there , jammed , unable to move . The owner of the bicycle being as invisible as the bicycle itself , I dragged the duo , to the road side and was trying to dislodge one from the other , when the Colonel whizzed past . Wide eyed , flush faced , all he had to say was ,"Okay , so now we are riding two bicycles ,simultaneously , are we?"

The Fall

(For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. Romans 3:23)

A lovely morning .Bright sunshine, chirping birds, clean and crisp air.
Rent asunder by a howl from Mishraji’s pooja room. He fiddles with the burning wick , a small spark lands on her lap , and instantly blazes up. Mishraji stands watching, smilingly , as Mishrain howls in pain , rolling on the floor.

A figure rushes in from the door , grabs a doormat, and beats the flames dead . Just in time . Mishrain lies on the floor sobbing , Dolly and Daisy , her daughters , fly to her side , Babloo the rescuer , stands glowering at Mishraji , the singed doormat in his hand ,letting out wisps of ghee scented smoke .Mishraji, half amused , half contrite, turns his back, resumes the aarti.

Mishrain is led out , limping , by her daughters , while Babloo puts the doormat down , and composing his face joins Mishra ji in his aarti.

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“This is too much “, screams a young girl in pyjamas , as she paces her bedroom . “he was smiling as she was burning ,lying on the floor , didi”.

“Calm down Daisy “, an older girl in jeans T shirt , says while packing her bags .

“Today at lunch , when she was serving him food , he asked why she was limping.He knows very well , why ? She had burnt her thighs . “ The younger girl had plonked herself on the bed . Her eyes smouldering with rage .


“Relax , this kind of anger is not getting you anywhere , Daisy . “ Spoke a mature voice , sitting on a wooden box , draped with a spare curtain . It served as a mini settee. She was older of the two, but with a slim body , doe-like eyes , and long,black, straight hair .

Daisy retorted , continuing in her passionate tirade . “ He replies “jali ho , mar nahin gayee.” (You are burnt , not dead ). It would be better if she was already , poor thing.” Her voice choked with emotion , she gripped herself and rocked , to and fro .

The elder sister left her packing and hugged her younger sister. Daisy clasped her elder sister around the waist and wept . Dolly , the elder one looked helplessly at the eldest lady on the settee.

“I dont want to live here, anymore Didi. I want to go with you. Don’t live me alone with this monster.”

“Shh, Shh” Dolly comforted her , wiping tears , and genuinely fearing for the safety of her outspoken sister .

“If he once again throws hot tea at Ma , I swear , I will break the cup on his head .” Daisy found comfort in this small act of imagined vengeance.

“Come , you musn’t be late .” Said the stranger on the settee , while Dolly wrapped a cotton” chunni” around her face , leaving just the eyes.

Dolly studied in a far off college, and was going to join her classes after holidays. She had a bus to catch .

“Just six more months , then you can be with me .” She winked at her sister. Daisy smiled and waved , tears still on eyelash.

Mishraji was carefully studying the visage of his dear departed first
wife ,staring down at him from a height on the wall. Mishrain one was a fabled beauty with brains , and an inveterate paan -eater . All these were highlighted in this commissioned portrait of hers . Clad in a varanasi

saree, thick , black flowing hair till waist, she stood , looking out at the world with her doe eyes. A silver pandaan stood next to her on a stool. Mishraji was busy lighting the aggarbatti at the marble table .

“Arrey , sunti ho , bhagyawaan , where is the matchbox ? “ He hollered and stopped short at the sight of his daughter with a stroller.

“Aap kahan jaa rahin hain?”

Dolly was caught off guard . Her escort , the older girl , a senior from her college , who lived nearby , just melted in the darkness of an alcove.

Mishrain appeared with kitchen lighter , having given up , quickly , looking for match boxes.Snatching the lighter from her hand , absently , Mishraji asked again “Ain?” Which meant answer me pronto, or else.

Dolly fumbled and Mishraji read out a quick , new, fatwa . On the spot .
“From today onwards , no college-shollege for you . The boy party comes next week. To see you . You will get married and then go.”

Dolly stood stunned , rooted at the spot . 

                               $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Manvinder Mishra was the local MLA and a builder with a penchant for pocketing most of the government contracts. He was nearing re- elections , and what better way to cement political factions , than to get your pretty , nubile daughter engaged to the son of the local don .
“Killing two birds with a stone .”


He has built this four storied mansion , with his wealth , amassed through dubious means.

Many relatives of Mishraji from his native village , come and live here at his mansion . Feeding off his generosity and greed for fame. One such is 
Babloo , the graduate , who handles all his paper work.

The first Mishrain was pregnant with their baby , when she met with an accident at the Vaishno Devi shrine . Everyone had advised her against this trip. But she was adamant . She was , as Mishraji , in his rare moment of grief said,”Pulled by the forces of death.”

She was a beauty , and the second Mishrain, was small ,dark and subservient .” Nothing like the first one “, as Mishraji would say , time and again , his paan stained teeth bared in a diabolical grin .


“thankfully ,”he would boast , “my daughters have taken after me “. Fair of skin , aquiline nose , and tall stature . They were indeed like the father , in looks . But they were sweet natured, like the mother .

                                   $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$


This morning , Mishra ji is being poured out tea , in his favourite silver cup , when Mishrain , stubs her toe on the bed post . She goes flying
across the room , as steaming tea scalds Mishra ji’s foot and he trips her over in anger, cursing hotly . Mishrain gets up , with Babloo’s help , tea stains all over , and goes looking for a mop. Mishra ji , meanwhile, is disturbed at the new development in Babloo’s behaviour .

Not only does he not snigger awkwardly , when Mishra ji curses , he also has the temerity to help Mishrain with great deal of compassion . He also can’t help but notice that both are closer in age . “This Babloo will have to be fixed .” Thinking such dark thoughts ,Mishra ji walks absently onto the balcony .

He leans onto the iron grill of the balcony , and sees his daughters talking to someone in their room , on the second floor . From here , he can just about see the sneakers and jeans .He also sees his wife , complete with tea stains and bruises. “What the...? Wasn’t she here

right now ?” The thought accompanies a sudden twist, and his dhoti gets stuck in the iron grill.Cursing , he tugs exasperatedly.

He leans just about a bit. Three things happen simultaneously , his dhoti tears up a bit , the grill suddenly opens up like the gate it wasn’t meant to , and Mishra ji looses his footing. He goes hurtling down , like a loose top at the end of a spring . Spinning. Babloo screams and holds the grill end of dhoti, and Mishra ji dangles like a yo-yo, infront of his daughters’ bedroom window.

For one moment of incredible clarity , he sees clearly inside the room . 

Their mouths are frozen open in silent scream, and the stranger , closest at the window , stares at him , coldly, composed. Terribly familiar . Her hair , straight , thick, and kohl-lined doe eyes . Who? What?

The navel knot gives away. Mishraji plunges from great height, in a series of sickening thuds and crunches , landing face first in a bed full of carelessly abandoned masonry. Rods , bricks , and clods of cement.

A wailing ambulance arrives on cue , and Mishra ji is airborne on the shoulders of people, in. The doors close and it speeds away even before the family can negotiate the various steps of the mansion.

                                 $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

The ambulance driver has had a busy night . The gurney guys are waiting at the gates of the hospital , as the ambulance wails into sight . First patient in . The intern ,eager to please, is quick to assess,”trauma , no pulse , multiple fractures , severe bleeding .”

Ma’am hollers from the dais “defibrillate “ , and ward boys sprint into action .

The ambulance driver is at the door , impatient “hey !There is one more .”

Gurney chaps are trundling another rusty thing and the intern , youthful , jogs along , his steth flying. “This one breathes ma’am.”

Ma’am screams back “ICU, Seedha”(straight to ICU)

Dabbing jelly onto pads , she yells ,loud enough for the entire sleepy corridor to hear,”Clear!!” The man in cotton chaddi, heaves and falls down , back limp.

Mishra ji’s SUV has just entered the hospital campus , spraying gravel, screeching to a halt.
                       
                          $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$


Mishraji wakes up after 15 days. Spraying sputum from a hole in the neck , One leg broken , other bandaged , chest hurting, and face a burning , stitched up mess.

He heaves himself onto the elbow , and finds a beggar-type boy . sleeping on the floor . Swiftly the boy gets up, and creeping up to him , bursts into tears “bauji , you are alive !!”

After third attempt , Mishraji makes himself heard. By blocking his throat hole. He asks the boy “Who are you?”


“Your Babloo , bauji. You don’t recognise me .” He breaks afresh into sobs , blowing his nose on a filthy piece of rag.

                         $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$


Mishra ji never liked travelling . Now, he is travelling under physically challenging circumstances. He can barely breathe without hurting his

chest , or walk without serious assistance , and here he was , sitting at this mofussil railway station after an arduous ambulance trip.

His head was shaved , and stitched at places . His left eye had a
patch , and he was tired of telling people that he was not “Lachhu Jha , 35, construction worker” . His discharge slip said that his construction company , “Dolly Mishra Builders” had waived all his hospitalisation charges as a part of the “retirement money “ ., before permanently laying him off.

In essence , he , alias Lachchu Jha was a pauper. A prospect made all the more galling by reflecting on the name of the building company , owned by Mishra ji, hitherto.


The declaration was signed by the childish , shaky hand of “Parvati Mishra “, the wife . Mishra ji had sighed at this strange turn of events .
He had overheard doctors explaining to his son,the fake Babloo , how , after severe head injury , people have total memory loss, or take
up ,”fake identities “, as this man deciding to masquerade as the MLA, Manvinder Mishra , the famed builder.

Mishra ji , in his present state , attracted great deal of attention . Lot of sympathetic souls enquired politely,giving up abruptly when he splattered mucus from his tracheostomy , while replying. Someone even gave a shawl , and some gave coins.

Suddenly , a giant TV screen flickered to life , and he was facing the same girl , who was staring at him , as he plummeted to his “death”.The same doe-eyes , sleek black hair , stern face . Mishra ji sat up , as if he had seen a ghost.

She was a TV news reporter , and she was reporting live from “Mishra Mansions”, where some sort of function was being held. Mishraji looked wildly around . Fake Babloo had gone to fetch tea . He had some coins

clutched in the palm of his un fractured arm. He hoisted himself to his feet and started hobbling towards the exit , as fast as possible .Amazing what an adrenaline rush can achieve!!

                         $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$


Mishraji paused beneath the photograph of his first wife. It had been shifted to the side , and replaced with his visage , paan stained teeth smiling diabolically. Now , nearly toothless, Mishra ji would have given anything to get those teeth back. Not that he had much left to give , 

Mishraji noted wryly. His glance fell on his reflection in the glass covering the portraits. with shaven head , eye patch , torn , lacerated , stitched body, plaster casts on two limbs, he looked like an alien . No wonder women were screaming in terror at the sight of him , at the railway station .
He is looking for a girl , who does not know , he exists, or the story that has brought him here . He has no reasons to be discreet , but still has to be careful .He is standing near the doorway, and surveying the golden banquet hall, which is filled with refined bodies in saris and jackets,and beautiful young women with straight hair ,who never make facial expressions. But they will soon . Any moment now.

He pushed the door open and all hell broke loose . Some one screamed at the sight of him , and it set off a chain of sorts . There was a virtual stampede. Above all the din , he kept wheezing ,”I am Mishra . main Mishra hoon . “

No one seemed to be listening . He was surrounded by perfumed and perfect bodies , in sharp contrast to his broken and bandaged one . Suddenly ,millions of camera bulbs went off in his face , a mike was thrust in his hand .He found himself grabbed by a firm hand at his good elbow , and steered out of the hall.

A stage had been erected upon one end . Posters declaring his wife as the new party candidate were all over the place.


Then , Babloo, real Babloo took the mike , and tried to restore order.

He found himself facing the girl he came looking for . She gave him a chair , and a glass of water .

“Who are you, and what do you want?” He could feel the heat of all the cameras in his face .


“I am Manvinder Mishra , MLA. I own this place “ , He wheezed ,placing a hand on his tracheostomy. Someone sniggered. The girl silenced them with a look , and loudly asked a man ,

“Mrs.Mishra ko lekar aao.”


Mishra nodded his head vigorously , of all the people , she will know him.


“When we went to the hospital , Mishra ji MLA, was lying dead in the casualty , being revived “


“That was not me “ Mishra shook his head violently.


“At the time of your fall , what was Mishra ji wearing “


“A cotton kachcha and the sacred thread. The dhoti was caught in the grill.”


“Everyone knows this story chacha,” Someone sniggered in the crowd, “the dhoti kept billowing on the TV for two days”, Others joined in the mirth.


“Time and date of accident “ He had done his maths .


“April13, 0620 hrs”


Someone thrust Mishrain into the crowd . She was freshly garlanded , wore an enormous tikka on the forehead . Mishra ji smiled at her and she fainted.


At this point , the security , his chaps , closed in on him and bundled him out .


Fake babloo was hanging at the massive wrought iron gates , screaming “baujee , baujee , “ with all his tiny might . The cameras swung to him , and a mike was thrust beneath his nose .

                                         $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

“It is believed that a disgruntled former employee of the “Dolly Mishra Builders “ had broken into the nomination ceremony of Mrs. Parvati Mishra . He claimed to be the MLA himself , who was declared dead , on April 13 at 0730 hrs , as a result of an accidental fall from the fourth floor of his home , Mishra Mansions . Foul play has been ruled out and the employee has been compensated as per his injuries , claimed Mr. Babloo, the spokesperson.

Mishra ji has kept this clipping with him , and reads it often , with his failing vision . The newscaster still bothered him . Where had he seen her ?

                                      $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$


One day ,there is great commotion outside his hut . A jeep full of
policemen have arrived . Mishraji , now walking unaided , walks upto the door , and sees her .

Today , she has made a bun , and is wearing a saree. Then it hits him with a sledgehammer.


She looks like Mishrain Number one !!!


Oh my goodness !!

Mishra ji gasps for breath ,as she folds her hands in namaste . 

“Recognise me , Mishra ji?”


“You knew me then ““you are Satyavati’s daughter?”

“Yes , the very same . You pushed her off the cliff , and made it look like an accident at Vaishno Devi”


“She lied to me “ Mishra ji’s face darkened “She was pregnant before she married me .Uske pet mein paap tha”He spat on the ground .

“That is not true , Mishra ji “ Sly smile , same stern face .

 “What are you saying ? “

“You were married on 12th December 1985, and I was born on 15 august 1986.”


“That makes you my child “He moved towards her . She took a step back .
“Not so fast . Your wife lived , dragged herself over cliffs with a broken hip . An ashram was her refuge for few days . Then she came home , and lived with her sister , in secret , forever scared of you. You had even remarried by then . After I was born , i was sent to a convent in the hills . I recently came to the town . befriended your daughters , then you conveniently fell down. Your own cement gave way .”

“I am sorry , my child .” Mishraji was in tears , genuinely apologetic.


“I am not .My mother , Mishra ji, died a broken woman . Now you will die one .” She was in tears now ."And by the way, Dolly has broken her engagement , and resumed college."

 She showed him her smart phone , with recorded conversation.

As she walked away , and policemen came to handcuff him , he shouted 

“Wait ! What is your name ?”


“Manavi Mishra , she even named me after you.”

He realised that his fall was, now , complete . 


                 $$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Looking for the school

One fine morning , I set out on an adventure .

No , I didn't climb mountains , or was stranded in an island full of caves , which were conveniently full of canned food .

Neither did I save the world .

The adventure was more like a wild-goose -chase .

On a barmy morning , I set out to look for a school . A school where an important exam was to be held . It had a common ring to it , and every third bus was emblazoned with its name . For reference sake , we shall call it "The tender Soul's School". It was a chain of schools , but at this point in time , I didn't know that .

Timmy , the driver , poked his head out at the first intersection of the Model Town , and espied a young couple . The girl had a black and white dupatta around her face and was incredibly thin . The boy was bearded , rotund , looked at us puzzled . Tapped the side of his head , as if looking into its sparse reserves , and hummed ominously . The lady , astride a purring scooter , vroomed into view .

"Bhaiya ! ' She commanded Timmy . "Follow me ! I know the exact place ".

We started , like lost sheep , and  the lady in scooty braked hard . Screech , Screech. She braked , we braked . "Maa nu das deyin mein ghar challin haan ." (Tell Mom I have started for home ). She screamed at Mr. Beard . He nodded absently , still figuring out the latitude and longitude of "Tender Souls " . "Paaji ... "He began a fresh set of instructions for Timmy , and was promptly interrupted . Lady Diana , raised her barely visible eyebrows ,  yanked his arm , and him into present tense " Main ki kya ..." (what did I tell you ?)

"Aaho , aaho " We were not the only meek sheep here. "Mein phone kardaan ." (I will just call )

The lady took off , zigzagging the traffic with professional ease . She stayed a comfortable 20 feet ahead of us , regardless of the state of intervening vehicles . Thelas , stray dogs , SUVs, she ducked them all , and sailed past , her gossamer thin dupatta waving , and her thin frame hardly breaking into a sweat . It was a feast for the eyes . Now I know what ringside spectators at formula 1 races feel like.

The worrisome fact was , we had left Model Town behind . Long ago . And the admit card clearly mentioned Model Town . Well, I thought , maybe this was some other Model Town , in the same city , like M.G.Road in Mumbai , of which there are several , I am told.

The bungalows were replaced with humbler abodes of living . Karyana shops scaled down . The vast fields of ripe golden wheat , awaiting harvest , replaced choc-a-bloc houses and shops . The air grew thinner , and cleaner . The road divider disappeared . We had crossed the town limits and came upon the famous water park , called" Wonderland ". I remember being told it was 25 kms from city centre . We had literally , gone off on a limb here.

Suddenly , we saw the girl come to a halt at an intersection . She waved us on , straight ahead , "maybe a kilometre or two " .

Another enquiry had to be made at a cycle repair shop , who asked us to take the first right and then second left.

A large campus of sorts loomed ahead . Sweeping driveway . Gateposts , watchmen , manicured hedges bordering the property , and a massive board proclaiming "Tender Souls' Group of Institutions " . We felt as if in our quest for a bit of gold , we had hit the mother lode .

First entry , for any enquiry , had to be made in a register at the gate . Name , purpose of visit , time of entry .

Second entry at the receptionist's table . A sleepy lady , bored to death , just mechanically pushed the fat register in my direction . Name , phone number , If I was a parent (here I lied and wrote that I was one , as every visitor ahead of me was  , and not being one would put me on the spotlight , rather painfully), what business(official), with whom (principal ) , I gawped at my own cheek and pushed it back . She just motioned me up an impressive flight of stairs , painted red , and lined with leafy pots .

Inside , in the foyer , a gigantic photo , possibly of the founder stared down at me . Bespectacled and fierce looking . As if asking  "How dare you enter ?" I looked away .

Office of the in-charge (some sort of principal, ad hoc , or vice ) , was neat , and empty. A dulcet tone spoke , almost ventriloquy from the founder's lips . "May I help you ?" I jumped out of my skin . I looked at the photo and stammered "Actually ,I..." . Some one coughed at my elbow , and I saw a petite lady in a red kurti , looking at me with mild consternation.

Turns out , this was not the school I was looking for , as I suspected all the long while . The real school lay in the city . After obtaining correct directions (mildly vague still) , profuse apologising on both our parts (unnecessary drama), and refusing invitation to water /tea , or such nourishing beverages , Timmy and I sped back to crowded urban confusion .

Sun was at its peak , and things had begun looking bleak.

 We had just entered Model Town for the second time , and following instructions , had reached a leafy avenue , where we espied a couple beneath a tree . A policeman and a policewoman (what is with this couple thing? Coincidences )sat on their respective bikes .

Timmy put the question to them . The woman kept an eye on us , from a distance , and the man cleared his throat  and began .

He must have not proceeded much farther , when a man on another bike (a plainclothesman , or so he seemed) , forced his way into the conversation and said the dreaded words ," Follow me !I know the exact place !"

Timmy and I looked at each other , smiled , and set out to follow him . The police people were right when they had emphatically echoed each other ,"Laagge hee hai ." (It is close by !). It was indeed very close by .

A few twists and turns , all , thankfully , in familiar terrain ,and here we were . Facing a newly built building , some parts still under construction . The receptionist  offered me a chair , by dislodging an older woman , who looked like an ayah. The floor outside the principal's office was scattered with the residues of ongoing construction . Moved furniture , spattered cement . and a dislodged portrait of the famous bespectacled founder . The photo was identical in every aspect to the one I had seen in the other "Tender Souls ". I greeted her as an old friend .She returned the stern stare back.

The receptionist was busy unentangling someone's paperwork . A student was being transferred between the two branches of the "T S" , and the hassled father had grown a stubble in the process, it seemed .

 A clean shaven peon , sat on a stool at some distance and kept staring at the pretty receptionist with salivating , dogged -eye devotion .She talked , laughed on the phone , and he never let her out of his sight , even when tying the shoelaces of a boy or retrieving an eraser off the ground . Several cute school girls in short skirts and giggly , dimpled faces , walked past him , but he had eyes only for the lady . It was touching and creepy , at the same time .

The Principal didn't seem to be letting up talking to two sets of parents any time soon . It was 1430 , and I felt I should barge in before I succumb to hypoglycaemia or dehydration , or both . She received me with warmth . But before she could speak , a man sitting next to her , his back to us , swivelled around , and answered my query .

"A test by CBSE , on Sunday , NEET Exam." I nodded dumbly . Relieved at having someone comprehending an iota of what I was talking about .

I was reassured that this was the venue . The exam? Well, the NEET team comes down from the national capital , dislodges the school functionaries, takes over the foyer , classrooms and conducts the tests, he answered blithely . Sounding somewhat resentful of the whole arrangement . The principal just nodded dumbly. Talking of the real powers behind the thrones .


Reassured , Timmy and I raced back home , with two stops . One for refuelling the car , and another for slaking Timmy's parched throat .

Whatsapp Group

The apartment owners have a Whatsapp group , which is abuzz since morning . Actually , there are two .

One group for official complaining , meant to list complaints to the manager , about dripping taps , seepages on walls , mosquitoes in the sitting room and ill- behaved security personnel.

The other group is the unofficial group , meant for sharing jokes , political memes , religious bashing , general back -biting , back-stabbing , bitching and organising picnics meant for select few families , who still get on with each other . Mostly , they fight . We , being a diverse nation , find plenty of differences with each other , if we go looking for it. Language , religion , region , food habits , cultural differences , ethnic differences , skin colour , to name a few .

For the past few weeks , the group admin, who calls himself "His Grace " , a pseudonym , of course , has been haranguing people to stick to the unofficial group , in so far as sending of "social " messages is concerned . Most people comply. Others , the majority , as in real life , are silent spectators .

 "His Grace " fancies himself the leader of the masses , and issues his dictum periodically . With much usage of officialese .

He also quotes numbers of views , likes and opinions etc , to lever his cause .

Recently an NRI , with the pseudonym of "free bird" , has arrived with his teenaged daughter , and a wife , who seems to be undergoing chemotherapy . She ties a scarf around her head , and takes long walks with her husband , the "free bird".He is dressed in a yellow T-shirt , and white pants , she in orange or red palazzos.

Right now, "His Grace", is running around ,jogging in circles , in the colony garden . "Free bird " is walking sedately , a few metres behind , accompanied , by his better half , who is walking slowly . A little while later , both of them stop . And send texts on their mobiles .

Trust me. I am sitting roughly one kilometre away , and can clearly see both of them . The phone (mine ) pings . "His grace " has again requested members to stick to the format , informal vs formal messages . "Free bird " has promptly sent six memes /jokes in quick succession .

A quick rebuttal and a terse reminder from an ardent supporter of "His Grace " follows.

The two meet at garden entrance and greet each other , shake hands and disperse . They , obviously , don't know each other , in person.

Meri Awaaz Suno

The ICU workstation is at its chaotic peak , during the morning hours . There are rounds , and rounds . Shifts are ending , routine beginning and the day has broken .

Some patients have improved , some deteriorated . For the teams taking rounds , their patient is of utmost importance . Gastroenterology , Gynaecology , nephrology , urology, neurology , all teams arrive , almost simultaneously .

Nursing staff is stretched in various directions . Instructions , instructions . Change in treatment, investigations , diet , physiotherapy .

Each team consists of at least 4-5 doctors .

One doctor stands out . Because of his height . I think his name is Amit. He is dark  and loud , and fat around the tummy.

"Meri awaaz suno . Madam !!"

Booming baritone. All are silenced . His instructions are heard clearly .

A moment later , heads swivel back , and chaotic conversation resumes . But Dr. Amit has made himself heard.



                                                          ########################

Aggarwal ji

"What is this Eeeh?"

Aggarwalji's long drawn out eh at the end of every sentence is signature . So , is his habit of pushing his specs up on his nose bridge in the middle of every sentence . Then , the sharp intake of breath when someone enters his cabin , with a jumpy look , as if he was in the midst of some criminal act.

Right now , he is looking at a xerox copy of aadhar card , which has travelled across half the nation , in various electronic media ,by email and whatsapp,  downloaded , uploaded , printed and brought to him for his perusal . The journey equivalent to an elderly relative paying a visit to you , by bus , taxi , auto , bullock cart , and apparating at your doorstep one month later , reeking of stale food and cow -urine .

Aggarwalji sniffed . He could definitely smell long distance travel , and probably cow -urine , in this piece of paper fluttering apologetically , on his table . The ceiling fan kept up its assault.

 Mr Aggarwal has an assortment of beautiful paperweights , souvenirs from his around the globe sojourns .

He still didn't rescue my paper . I made a sudden , ungraceful , dive and saved it from taking off. Pouting his lower lip, he shook his head .

Then lowering his head , went about tying something on his keyboard . Whatever he was engrossed in doing , before I barged into his cabin with my well -travelled paper .


I waited , somewhat impatiently. He , then pulled out his drawer . There was a lidless tiffin box , full of diced papaya , with a fruit fork , in it . Picking up the fork , he impaled a juicy bit of papaya and put it in his mouth , commencing to eat it slowly , very slowly.

Then his phone rang . Still chewing , he picked up the phone ( Ye olde dial-a-number phone )and answered a sweet "Halloo" , juicy with the sweetness of papaya. Then , he commenced a conversation in a language , which though comprehensible , seemed to be full of words that sounded like codes. Aggarwalji was chortling with happiness , his cheeks shone , and his gaze was fixed on one point in the glass cage he sat in .

He flashed smiles , that were like flashes of lightning on an arid , jagged landscape . Thunderbolts of happiness . Then I saw her . Long ,straight hair , worn unprofessionally loose , red lipstick, black mascara , pointy chin , fair cheeks . Office romance .  I was a ringside spectator. Aggy had probably forgotten I existed .

"Ahem!" I cleared my throat . Aggyji took a sharp breath , a serpentine hiss , and started at the sight of me . "Yes ?" A hand on the reciever . A pair of mascara lined  hate filled eyes stared at me, from outside the glass cage  .

"The copy of the card". I murmured.

"Nahin chalega"

"Why?" Aggyji replaced the reciever , pushed the papaya drawer from my sight , shifted his chair close , pushed his specs on his nose bridge, started hammering the keys and spoke in the same breath.

" The photo is faint , the numbers smudgy , anddddd bekaar hai .Nahin chalega ."

He dismissed me with an imperious wave of his hand .

It didn't help that this was my third visit to the bank and Aggyji was the branch manager . Now there was only one authority left above him to appease , and that was God .

                                                      #########################

We had forgotten an intermediary . A higher official . An angel called circle officer. Puriji , a family friend .

A friendly call , and a call was put through to Aggyji.

Next visit , Aggyji was jumpy again . Only , he scooted out of his cabin , grabbed my hand , and dragged me inside before I could say , "Namaste ". He had hot tea brought for me and forced me to take "namkeen" and biscuits from various colourful plastic dabbas which emerged from his hitherto concealed , cavernous left drawer.

Then , wearing an apologetic plasticky smile , he brought out my papers , and the job was done pronto .

At one point , he also solicited the help of the mascara'd beauty sitting beyond the cage , with a fake smile of sincerity , and looked up at me with eyes that said "f@@@ you".

The hot water of confrontation with a senior had frightened  Aggyji , and he bent over , backwards , desperate to please.


                                               ##########################

The journey

Who was telling the story ? And whose story was it anyway ? 
The words fluttered and flew in the wind.


It was very difficult for me to pack . Tears kept welling up , and I had to go constantly go and check up on my sleeping beauty ,Rhea, all of 4 months old  , her black locks falling over her pretty face .

This afternoon , she was sucking her thumb , and I fell upon her , kissing her like mad . She started crying , and Lakshmi , her nanny , had to snatch her from me . I almost felt like a monster . I was one.

Who abandons her pretty baby , who smelt of milk and talcum , all at the mercy of a nanny , whom I had met a month ago . She came highly recommended , but she wasn't the mother .

It was some consolation that my better half , was a great parent and would not allow the baby to sleep with the nanny . He would take up the jobs of nappy changing and bedtime feeds upon himself . He was the best . That made me all the more wretched . Guilty , inconsolable . We had been taught in our convent  to remember the Lord's prayer , when faced with adversity.

."...forgive us our trespasses "chanted a small voice in my mind , as I boarded the bus . Rhea was giggling on a swing , taken to park by Lakshmi , when I saw her last . My poor hubby came to see me off, and was constantly reassuring me . He too, was rattled , I could make out . He had left the left -turn indicator for his scooter on , for most of the ride to the bus-stop. He almost never does that.

"as we forgive those who trespass against us "..Lord save us , who was this ? The "dried up prune ", the "Countess Dracula " Suzie herself . No one told me I was to spend the next two months in the company of this blood-sucking vampire !!I took two involuntary steps back and hit my hubby hard on his shin as he was following me , close on my heels.

"What the ...?" A reflexive curse stopped on my hubby's lips as he studied the human form , sitting on my seat , smiling with panache , at our collective discomfiture .

"Good evening Ma'am " Thank God for his quick thinking ," I thought Miss Mariam was supposed to accompany Meena ."

I smiled and nodded weakly , like a dumb person .

"Mariam called sick , this afternoon ." She hissed ,and smoothened her kurta " Girls nowadays , have no stamina ".  She gave me a hurt look , as if it was my fault that Mariam had fallen sick .

Hubby fixed up the luggage and bade me a hasty goodbye , keeping a wary eye on Suzie .


Suzie was twenty years our senior . Slimmer , fitter and better , in all manners , as per her own assessment . She was known to throw completed assignments into the thundering rain , and make people run after her, for months , for a meagre signature . In the mess , she was reputed to have hurled cups of hot tea at orderlies throwing sass at her . She, once, made the said Mariam work double shifts , when she was almost 32 weeks pregnant , a crime by today's standards.

So I was a trifle worried for Mariam , and a whole lot worried about myself . I needed to be alive after this ordeal of two weeks . I had a baby to look after . Miss Suzie was , well , a miss. She had decided to give the best things in life a miss. Matrimony , motherhood , and all things mushy and natural.

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First , they ask me to pack and move at this unearthly hour ! Second I am supposed to accompany that cry baby Meena . Just because she has delivered a baby a few months ago , doesn't mean you lose it completely , in the upper storey. Besides , she has such a supportive husband .

That Mariam , fool , slipped, in the bathroom  and broke her femur. I am telling you , she has done it on purpose . All these new girls , no physical and mental balance or stamina !! Humph!!

Why should I be chosen ? I am so senior . But I can still give them a run for their money . These namby -pamby girls from the backwaters !! Who selects them , in the first place ? I should write to the board , one of these days . No longer the tough breed we used to be .

She comes full half an hour late to board the bus , then she brings all this unwanted , faaltu luggage . And makes her husband carry her suitcase . What is she ? Some princess from somewhere ?

There is a beautiful sunset outside , the sky is the colour of watermelon I had for lunch today . When I tell her this , she starts snivelling !! The idiot !! You can't have the best of both the worlds.

"Would you like to have something ? The bus is about to stop at Surpur ."
I can't believe I said that . She can keep snivelling all that she wants . But I want my tumbler  of the famous "badam milk" from Surpur . If I don't ask her , she might "najarofy" my milk for all you know . Spike it with her bad eye.

Meena has just shaken her head . I think I will go ahead and get one of these good people to get it for me .

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The wretched bus is running one hour late . At this rate , we might miss our train from Gobati . All Miss Suzie , the woozy , is interested in, is having her "badam milk" from Surpur .

To make matters worse , She has  got one of these gents sitting behind us to fetch a glass for her . As if the whole world comprised of her personal slaves . She has either forgotten my presence , or the  use of her lithe legs .

Sheesh! The bloody thing is sploshing with"malai"bits and ghee blobs . Ewww! Mariam was right . Suzie lacks class. Totally . Just a peek at it as it passed beneath my nose , is enough for me to start retching .

She belched !! Can you believe it !! One huge , stinky belch , right in  my face !! Ugh!! I think I will go out for some fresh air , and splash some water on my face .

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Great! So , our Miss Prissy here went out for some air , and the driver is honking . She is not back . I am sure she is throwing up into some bushes , by the roadside .

What did she say ? Travel sickness ! I say life sickness !! She just can't live . Such fraility , or shall I say , vanity , should be made illegal .

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We had crossed Simbalpur some time back . It is totally dark now , and it has started drizzling . I hate rains specially when they come at such inopportune moments like this .

 I mean , look at me . I am a mess .It is time for Rhea's nighttime feed and my breasts feel like two bricks kept on my chest wall. I can fell the steady drip-drip of milk into my bras. I have been checking my phone every fifteen minutes . No update from either hubby or Lakshmi .

 Just one from Mariam's husband updating me on the terrible accident , that the bone is to be fixed tonight , and apologising for my new, unexpected  companion .

I wonder if all that milk has soaked through to the surface of my thick jacket .

Of course , I can't share any of these miseries with our lady here. She has taken out her well-thumbed rosary , and is saying her beads.

The bus is moving real fast now . The outside world is a dark , rain splattered , glistening place , with occasional tired looking lamp throwing a hazy circle  of yellow light . The two sides of the road are lined with paddy fields , with occasional village nestled in the distance , its meagre lights flickering in the wind lashed night.

We are half an hour away from Gobati . The train is due at 2330 hrs . So , we are well in time . It is only 2125 now.

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Oh God !! It is raining !! And this new driver , who boarded at Simbalpur , is  driving recklessly ! I hate bus rides , that too in the night !! Oh God !! Oh God!! Oh God !!

"Our Father who art in heaven..." Poor child ! Meena's breast milk is probably leaking into her clothes . They should make a  rule . No marriage , no babies , in this profession . Only nuns . Why do women have to suffer all the indignities of nature !!

Now the moron is honking madly !! Honking won't help mister , slowing down probably will.

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The bus was going at a steady clip , suddenly , a huge crash , bang , and a shuddering , grinding noise . Crumpling up of metal .

What is astounding is the terrible silence . No hysterical screaming , shouting . This must be death .The end .

It was dark , terribly dark . Things continued to fall and slither , long after the bus had come to a shuddering halt.

A suitcase from overhead rack , several bags , a saree clad woman , clumsily trying to brace herself . Foot wear by the dozens . Some people jolted from their slumber , had begun groaning .

I had slithered away into the corner of the bus and had hit my head on a rail . A pair of skinny arms had wrapped itself tightly around me , preventing any further head banging . Miss Suzie .

Pupils dilated with fear ,muttering incoherent curses , and repeatedly saying "I knew this would happen , I knew it ."

Blood dripped from a cut on my forehead . Miss Suzie had a laceration on her shin . She held me tightly , like a fragile thing . Strange . She kept dabbing on my forehead with a white hanky , she had fished out from her large bag .

The bus floor was slanting . We had gripped the railings for dear life . Someone was sobbing quietly . People had begun gathering at the windows . Some were jumping out too .A bunch of people started abusing the driver and his cleaner who had gathered outside the bus , and were reassuring the passengers . One of them(probably the driver ) had a circular cut on his forehead starting from tip of one eyebrow and running all the way down to his blood dripping chin .

Some one had missed their connecting flight . We were about to miss our train . We were trapped , as the door connecting the rest of the bus to driver's cabin was jammed shut .

Suddenly , a rough thud rocked the bus . Miss Suzie was trying to prise open the cabin door , using my plastic suitcase.

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I knew this would happen . I felt it in my bones today . I have a premonition kind of thing in my head . I do. I had wrapped my arms around Meena even before the impact rocked us . I could "feel" it coming .Then she , still asleep , slid to the floor , taking me along , and try hard as I might , banged her head on something .I end up tearing up my churidaar and shin on some jagged thing on the floor.

Then , no one tries to open the door which is jammed . I picked up one suitcase , and tried to hammer the door open . Goodness!! The bus rocked !! That means we were precariously placed , hanging half into thin air , above paddy fields .

Miraculously , I find my rosary beads back , intact . A man from outside , probably a villager , and the boy who got me badam milk , Forced open the door somehow . Phew !! Meena carried my bag and insisted on me going ahead of her. She then tied one of her long stoles around my laceration .

She is a sweet girl , I have to agree . A man from the bus sat next to us and started recounting the ordeal , in loud tones to his family . I had to shut him up.

People have no sensitivities. Meena has a bad cut on her forehead , and a black eye .

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Our luggage was miraculously saved . Suzie became the hero of the bus by beginning to bang on the door , when people were still coming to their  senses. She also berated a young man who was making a video of the whole accident .

I mean , come on . How insensitive people can get ?

Suzie found her prayer beads , and found solace in them . I envy her . How she can be so calm and collected in the eye of a storm .

She took the phone from the hands of a man next to me and switched it off, telling him to go elsewhere.

Then she hailed a rickshaw and asked him to pedal us to the railway station , real hard . She kept checking my wound and black eye , with a worried look ,while exhorting the guy"Jaldi Bhaiya, jaldi"

I called up home and Suzie took the phone from me , reassuring Hubby and Lakshmi . I was amazed .

In the cold , dark night , with damp wind whipping around our faces , Suzie said "I wish I had a family like you , who worried about me . No one would bother if I lived or died today."

Then , after , a little while , as an after thought , she added" You are lucky girl, to have a loving and caring family."

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2 and a half  weeks later .

With a symbolic pooja , a 6 month old baby , is initiated into the rite of consuming rice /grains . It goes by the name of "Annaprasanna ." The baby is made to sit in the lap of a family elder , other than the parents . Hindu equivalent of a god -parent .

Suzie had worn a saree for the occasion , as she proudly fed a squirming Rhea her first grains of rice to the chanting of mantras , and her giggly parents recorded the moment in their iphones and their hearts.

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