My alter ego

“Your strike ”
He would cheerfully wave the bat at me and cross the field. I have never seen anyone more cheerful. Or generous. Almost to a fault. I knew I was a born loser and this brilliant guy was just giving up his opportunity to let me bat, in his stead. Tears would sting my eyes .
Then , in a desperate attempt to cheer me up , he would ruin the moment by saying , “Bat hard , fatso !” With a wink . That would anger and energise me . He knew that too.
I was so predictable ,vulnerable . He knew all my thoughts even before I spoke out aloud.
Family lore says he could speak sentences when I would just lisp. So while I made incomprehensible sounds at the dining table , he would calmly tell mom that I wanted more sugar in my milk. He could dress by himself while I struggled with buttons and shoelaces. He was lean and dark , I was pudgy and fat and pink .
No one could ever tell we were born twins.

Needless to add, he won all the prizes. Sports to academics , he aced them all with ease. Effortlessly, as if life was but a game for him . I barely scraped past every grade ,gasping for breath. It was a giant enigma of our times . How could a pair of twins be so different ? My cousin who studied genetics , made us tick millions of options on her hundreds of questionnaires. We were her guinea pigs,her lab mice . He was the "Quick and clever one " , I was the" slow and dull one ". 

We had similar tastes in academics though. Having taken science, he predictably, soared ahead, while I plodded along. When we were in the final year of graduation , something happened. An unpredictable and unfortunate turn of events.He disappeared. My brother, my twin ,disappeared without a trace . One day, he was working in the lab, in his white gown , joking with his partners , and the next day he was gone . 

Everyone was understandably , distraught.My parents, his friends , our friends . Initially, everyone looked at me suspiciously,as if I was the cause behind. People questioned me , police buggered me , to no end . 

Then , after two agonising months , I received this mail from him . At first, I thought I should go public and wave it in the face of all doubters. But , for one last time , for old times' sake , I  obeyed him. It said,; "Dear brother, I have come to the Himalayas. After all the brouhaha, I needed peace, and I needed to find answers to questions that have plagued me .I have had my fill of worldly pleasures and successes. You, on the other hand ,should  seek out the world and carve your niche . As I always told you , "bat hard, fatso!!"
P.S. Now that you are mad at me , delete this mail and do not save this contact. I am using a tibetan monk's PC.

Trust him to tell me what I should do. I had lots to tell him. 
Of the times when parents got calls from morgues and police stations ,to identify unclaimed bodies, and when they stared down at strange dead men, nodding their heads in negation, hankies clamped on noses, eyes tearing up at formalin and with relief.
 Of times when they tied my arms behind a back and tore my shirt , to interrogate me as to where I had killed and disposed you off.
 Of the nights upon nights when I found my insomniac and delusional mother in the kitchen trying to cook up your favourite jeera aloo, in her fugue state, and when we hugged each other and cried to sleep on the kitchen floor, aloo burning in the pan and father coming to switch on the exhaust, switch off the stove and save us.
Of the dirty looks your cronies gave me . 
Of the fresh will father had to draw up.
Of the antidepressants mom has started taking.


But, I deleted your mail, kept mum, and deleted the contact too. But I didn't reply you either, and if I know you, you will write again , waiting to hear from me .So , in the end, you see, you have won, as always. 

Fake love

I saw her one fine sunny day
As I sauntered my own way
With her looks that waylay
and a figure that does slay

My heart was trapped
in love  net  kidnapped
for a gulp of air I struggled
Nearer to the one ogled

So complete was my fall
imagine my daring and gall
Alas when I saw the one
Doe eyed and of fair skin

I kicked myself in the shin
for I was ogling a mannequin

Pitch

It was raining again.
“It is monsoon. What else did you expect ?” We were trying to be optimistic .  Our league match was to be held in a couple of days . After gathering all players , cajoling them to come this far , the skies open up. What do you do ? I sat gloomily staring at the pitch getting beaten up by furious raindrops and steadily changing into a rectangle of bubbling muddy slush, amid the lush green of the rest of the field.
The raindrops beat a relentless rhythm on the asbestos roof. It was normally impossible to sit like this on a hot sunny day. The asbestos would radiate solar heat inside , and the metal chairs ready to bake lazy butts. The stands would be shimmering . But today , the rain made everything cool and the roof was welcome , so were the chairs , with rusty angles poking out of its ancient ,worn carcass.
Suddenly , out into the rain came a group of boys, shouting screaming and chasing each other . They positioned themselves on the pitch and started playing mock cricket . Running ,splashing to and fro, their clothes stuck to the thin bodies , they squealed with delight. A collective roar rose from the throat of our group.
"They are ruining our pitch."
"Bhago yahan se , kutto, (Go away, dogs ,)This is our pitch ."
The urchins stopped and stared at us , blinking in the rain. Next moment , they continued their play , some even started mocking us .
"Bhaago,kutto!" They danced in unison.
That , was the last straw. Waving bats , wickets , iron chairs and other weapons , older and better off boys from under the stands , poured out into the rain . The urchins didn't expect us to vent our frustrations like this , they ran pell-mell. Some over enthusiastic players threw some of the said projectiles at the receding backs of the urchins , slowed down by rain and slush. Some fell. They were badly beaten up .
 Rains stopped .
 Parents and by parents I mean, real mean looking people from the jhuggi-jhonpadis (slums) arrived in hordes. People who reproduce like cockroaches , and unleash their offsprings like weapons of mass destruction on civilization . Who are not bothered if their kids live or die , or their whereabouts either , but who will amass to beat the shit out of a suit-wallah chap, if they lay their hands on them .  What I didn't know was that I was about to become one of them  .Very soon.

Boys , afraid of their wrath, went underground. Curfew was clamped on the town. Matters went totally out of hand .
We were first temporarily suspended and then rusticated from our respective educational institutions . Overnight, we were branded criminals .

Some of us belonged to really wealthy and influential families . They stayed put. Others , like me , were more of a middle class. We were cuffed by our fathers , taken to thanas (police stations ), paraded infront of our Principals and roundly denounced . Thankfully , none of the urchins died.At last , we were sentenced four months of rigorous community service .We would, in addition, also lose one academic year.

 It involved sweeping roads , while undergoing the added humiliation of watching our classmates swish past on imported cars, scarcely throwing a glance in our direction. There were four of us . None of us ever threw anything at those boys . The guys who threw the metal chairs were seated in air -conditioned cars. We were seen and named by some of the urchins who identified us later. One of the urchins was called Lachu.I knew him, for his mother worked as a maid at some houses in our colony. His father was a perpetual drunkard and an occasional worker at the soap factory . Occasional, because he would booze off , absent for days, and the management was too terrified of the trade union to chuck him out.

We four would see lachu loitering around us wherever we went . He would hang around the streets we worked, then he would sit in the langar hall whenever we went there to do "sewa" which involved serving / cooking food in vats .Earlier , we thought he was mocking us , and we would ignore him. Alam , the hot headed amongst us, came close to blows with him on several occasions . He hated the sight of the boy . We did too, only we weren't so vocal.

Then one day , two weeks later , we were coming out of janitor's office , having replaced our brooms back, when we saw Lachu , pacing up and down outside with couple of his cronies. We ignored him and went our way.
That evening , we were summoned by the town DSP .He called us and handed us "Maafinamas"(letter of forgiveness). We were forgiven for our misdeeds and we could resume college. He said  a boy named Lachu had cleared our names by recounting the real events .
Alam , as usual angry, retorted , "Saala , pehle nahin bol sakta tha!!" (Couldn't the bugger tell this earlier?)

Lachu , standing outside , heard this and answered , " I was terrified Alam bhaiya."
Alam completely lost it and lunged towards him. It took all of us to grab him and keep him back from letting history repeat itself.

We resumed college to mixed reactions.
Days later, we came to know how Lachu was coerced into implicating us and exonerating others , as one of our wealthier friend's father owned the soap factory where his father worked, and his mother worked as a maid in their houses.

Taken for a ride

The old curio shop was old and musty.
Dimly lit.
It smelt of old leather and newspapers and stale coffee grounds . It was delightful. I loved these old shops. They had this air of mystery about them . And history, peeking out of every corner.
A staircase led to the first floor,it was lined with old, narrow, maroon carpet and on the edges balanced large bronze and brass pots. They were battered and spoke of ancient , hoary , royal past. Large,round handles dangled from both the sides.
Huge tapestries with hunting scenes depicted on them , hung from the roof , their grimy fringes touching heads and getting greasier. There were dusty glass cases with silver hairpins and combs , daggers and sandals , coins and seals , all family heirlooms , once prized and now open for sale , after decades and centuries of being treasured, hoarded.
I suddenly bumped into an old wizened man smiling broadly , rubbing his hands in glee.
“Yes , ma’am, can I help you ?”
“I am looking for a birthday gift for a history buff.”

Then began a journey extraordinaire. After asking me the sex and gender of the person to be gifted, he began displaying curios , one after the other . 
"This, ma'am was the brooch of Rani of Cooch Behar."  He would begin ,and went on to tell stories about how it came in his possession . He knew stories about the origins of all his wares , which I found remarkable , almost magical.

I settled for a brass flute which once played in the royal band of Nawab Wajid Ali Shah, the nawab of Awadh. For a steal of Rs. 5000. 

Agog with my purchase , I accosted my better half , that evening . After having heard me through, he being the eternal pragmatist, had this to say-"Are you sure this brass flute hasn't been stolen /bought from our bazaar corner Ashok Band ? Nonsense , I don't believe you can buy an authentic  flute from nawab's palace at such throwaway prices. Besides, how do you know he wasn't spinning yarns at the sight of you with your dropped jaw and shining eyes? Madam, you have been taken for a ride again."

Arithmetic

Arithmetic continues to be the universal bugbear, so far as academics are concerned. We are to be held responsible for this anti-maths mindset. We are all terrified of mathematics and we seem to bequeath this to our offsprings, siblings, neighbours etc. The common refrain being “I am good at science/arts /philosophy/astronomy/all other ologies, except mathematics”.
An acquaintance was once told by a car salesman on phone , that an offering of 25% off was on cards on recent purchases,and when asked as to what amount that meant, there was a profound silence on the other end . The poor guy apparently had no calculator/ calculating ability at hand . After a long pause , he cleared his throat and said-“You can see it for yourself ma’am , how much you profit from this sale !”
Needless to say, my maths-phobic friend slammed the phone . This ultimate insult of being reminded of her rudimentary arithmetic skills by a total stranger pissed her off big time , and she retaliated by telling all and sundry never to buy any car/ automobile from this particular showroom.

Beyond

He lived in the beyond . People called him an escapist at first. A mild term , probably indicating a temporary set back. An affliction that could be probably cured.Like common cold, or an attack of flu. First people would humour him, walk along with him, chat , laugh at his sincerely bared imperfections of thoughts.
Slowly, as the aberrations continued, and cemented themselves, people started avoiding him. Innocuous arguments turned violent. He was isolated.Now, all he had was his own cockeyed view of things and his books. He was seen talking to himself, muttering and gesturing wildly , walking in short outbursts of energy and languishing into meanders ,sticking his tongue out to a nodding chameleon on a rock , while vehicles honked at his back in exasperation.
Drivers would pass him by with cross looks , neighbours would shake  their head, and concur with their limited wisdom, that he should be locked up inside the house to avoid being crushed under speeding buses. 

Unseen and unheard by the world , he carried on his cryptic conversations with trees, sparrows , flowers , chameleons and frogs . He hugged the trees , wishing them well, and caressed the leaves , thanking them for their shade , he screeched after a soaring crow, starting a cawing response.He told the frogs  how he enjoyed their cacophony last rainy night . Some times , he had serious disagreements with the chameleon , who sat like a sage nodding his approval at all the chaotic goings on of the universe.

Mythological tales

Most mythological tales are monochromatic. There are white , pristine , pure and good people and of course the black powerful figures of evil hood. Of course , with great deals of dramas and twists in the tales , the good triumphs over the evil, the world is saved and everyone sighs with relief .

Hinduism , on the other hand , has remarkable mythological stories. Stories that make you sit up and re-read. Or scratch your head with sheer exasperation . Or wonder! The interplay of good and evil is so profound that in the end , every victory is deemed pyrrhic(which most battles are), every hero has a dark side to him , and large feet of decadent clay,  most of the villains are either victims of circumstances , or are just plain heroes, on the other side of the fence . Every diplomat is an evil-plotter cum benign sage , every God a stockpile of destructive powers gone berserk,or worse , a pedophile/casanova to boot.

For these iconoclastic reasons , I love Mahabharata. Everyone who is riddled with existential questions should read this great book . Everyone who wants to be cofounded further , that is. All the conventional wisdom , great theories of fair play, justice , black and white sense of right and wrong , is thrown to the winds , to the great delight of the anarchist. There is no right or wrong . Even Gods twist judgements gleefully , to suit themselves . The great war is a colossal farce and in the end, there are no clear winners . Sages , teachers , grandparents are slaughtered by so called heroes , and villains
emerge better warriors .

Rapture

Rapture, ecstacy, a moment of utter, speechless joy. Plain, unmixed, undiluted .
Once at a traffic light , I saw a beggar crouching in the semidarkness of the shade offered by a flyover . His eyes were closed as he focussed on a simple job at hand . Eating a mango. He had long ago eaten the flesh, and now was scraping the skin with his teeth and sucking at the seed with complete focus.
No amount of honking and screeches from tyre-treads could break that stupor of complete enjoyment. He had that look in his eyes that spoke of ecstasy.The word rapture evokes this very scene in front of my eyes , seen so many summers ago in an alien metropolis.

Another vignette from another time and place.This was a small town .We were waiting at the railway crossing,the barriers were down. Some daredevil bike riders continued to vroom across after some spectacular acrobatics at the entry and exit points ,eliciting some corrosive  expletives from the guard . The guard stood with  grimy green and red flags at his cemented platform, spat his red betel nut juice waiting impatiently for bikers to be gone , and for the train to arrive .He was longing to go back into his fan cooled cell , in semidarkness. It was only 9 am , but it was the peak of summer , and the sun was already blazing. Beads of perspiration appeared on his head and his shiny semi bald pate. The train hooted in the distance and he sighed audibly. Wiping his head with his dirty  green flag , he suddenly froze . Two small girls were skipping merrily on the tracks. For a second , it seemed as if the world froze . The honking, revving crowds on both sides were silenced, the crows circling overhead froze and time stood with its mouth agape.The girls skipped happily, barefoot,holding hands,  giggling and talking to each other , totally immersed in conversation. And totally unaware of the large , dark , shrieking shape of the train , getting closer every millisecond. It was a macabre disaster in waiting .
Next moment , the world erupted into warning shouts , from the crowd and the guard , who stood frantically waving his arms , like a crazy windmill. . Drivers poked their heads out of the automobiles to get a clearer view of things.The train was now hooting non-stop. The girls' reverie broken , they saw the speeding train and broke into a sprint. Being children of the bazaar , they cleared the tracks within moments of the train thundering past.
The train driver shook his fist at them as he sped past in an angry blur . The crowd sighed and shook their heads. The guard spat some more juice and shouted some more before opening the barrier.

Move

“Use it or lose it .” was Dr. Mehra’s mantra. Dr, Mehra was the orthopaedic surgeon of the small blue nursing home, down by the road .
After every surgery, be it a trivial metacarpal fracture or a serious THR(Total Hip replacement), he would visit his post-op room and expound this piece of wisdom with utter gravitas. “Move “, the nurse would doggedly take up the case of mobility after bone surgeries . “Movement is life .” She would whisper in her gravelly voice into ears of groaning, gowned, crouching ,souls , dragging their painful limbs across the gleaming floor of the corridor.

So, it was Dr. Mehras turn today. By a strange twist of fate , he emerged from a bad RTA(Road Traffic Accident)to stare at his broken ribs and tibia on the X-Ray display unit in his own OPD.
Two days later , still groggy from anaesthesia , and pain searing his limbs , he heard his own words echo back at him,albeit in a soft-spoken manner-“Use it or lose it, sir ” chanted his favourite pupil from his bed side , as the nurse readied a walker, “Movement is life Sir “She crooned .

I thought

I thought the day would be cloudy and breezy with occasional showers. It started out with this promise and ended up hot and humid .
I thought you would ping me today , but you didn’t and in vain I spent hours scanning my junk mail and spam inboxes.
I thought today , at the auspicious time of 1515hrs they will announce the lottery winners and I will find my number there, but I guess the ecstasy will have to wait.
I thought the day will go according to plans and there won’t be glitches, traffic jams and irritating neighbours , but my neighbour’s maid threw their waste water onto my lawn for the umpteenth time , and her dog dug up my petunias.
I thought that the day was ruined , as the lawn was flooded with murky water and petunias all dug up, no rain or prizes, but I was rewarded when my child returned from the school with an A+ on her dance file , a skip in her step, and laughter playing on her lips -“What are you standing in the mucky lawn for ?Who dug up the petunias ?” She asked and burst into laughter , I joined her and dismissed the minor travails of life with a swish of the magic wand of mirth,the sun shone bright and clouds dispelled.

Elders rock?

Of course elders rock.
They always rock.
Not because they are actually great, but because we look up to them . In fact , books can be filled with the jolly and not-so-jolly follies of our elders . Some are hilarious , some quirky and some , a few , in fact , quite positively evil. For death and distance (read time) can deify their dottiness, but they remain fragilely human .
In fact , memories and reputation of some are so fragile , that a bit more of rocking could shatter them, irreparably.

An uncle of mine , after a childhood of running barefoot in the paddy fields, decided that he had to crack the matriculation exams . He , of course , overdid his efforts; family folklore says he stuck his science notes to the toilet doors , in order to not waste the time sitting on the thunder box too, and stuffed formulas and logarithms into his cranium, even as he moved his bowels . The efforts paid off. He topped the state that year and was commended by the president himself.
But the stupendous effort took its toll, and he lost his marbles . Taking a liking to number twelve ( a class he never cleared ), he made it his motto, the talisman , the auspicious number. Problems started when he would ask for twelve rotis with twelve pieces of curried potatoes, or catch the bus number twelve even when it took him in a direction diametrically opposite to his destination. Last he rang up , was to inform that he had been burgled and all that the thieves took were twelve notebooks full of class twelve notes.

Another uncle was a born looker . Not in the handsome , masculine way , but in an entirely feminine manner. He would dress himself in the wet saris of my grandmother which he would be entrusted to put out to dry on the roof. If caught in the act, not only was he cuffed on the ears, the sari would be washed again , and this time he would spread it on the line under the watchful eyes of a very cross grandmom. As he was her brothers son, she decided to take him under her wings , and "teach " him a thing or two, and send him to college too. I remember lot of feminine garments disappearing during his short and lively stay at our home .His cross -dressing preferences antagonised even the stubborn good samaritan my grandmother normally was , and he was unceremoniously sent back home , his bags bulging with burgled blouses, which my granny in her magnanimity , chose to turn a blind eye to.

Play

“Ready or not here I come .” I would dread these words at every play session.
Once I stood behind a much older girl, who was having a bet of who-can -chuck -the -flatstone -farthest, and she placing the object on her left palm, swivelled her right fist , and hit me smack in the nose. I was helped into the nurses’ office , dripping crimson all over the pristine convent marble floor. I almost passed out and the pain lasted two days. The dread of games and play cemented itself further.
Other was this innate fear of being the first to be caught -in-the -open , in the case of hide and seek. I always was . Without fail. Thereby condemned to the ignominy of being a “thief” for the entire recess. For many recesses of my school life in fact. I sucked at games. I was pathetic. I was always rescued by a friend of my sister who took pity on me .
Then there was this unforgettable game called "Kabbadi", a boisterous contact sport where in you have to hold your breath, chant inane mantras , and "touch" your opponents into oblivion. They , in bargain, shall try , by sheer brute force, to keep you in the confines of the "borderline ". A severe sense of dismay overcame me when I found myself sucked into participation, unwittingly. Needless to say , this game too, gave me and my siblings many grazed knees and elbows, bleeding noses and torn vests.
Now , in today's precocious universe, even an innocuous word like" play" is likely to assume lurid connotations . Like "gay" , "like", "select" and "rainbow" etc. Nothing is sacrosanct/mono meaning . All words have a doppelgänger. A double entendre. It is dangerous to pretend to stick to one meaning.
Why the other day , my spectacle repairman told me, with mild exasperation , after days of having made me run to and fro , -"Behenji, kuch bhi kar lo , itna play to rahega!"(whatever you do , the "play" remains ). 
He meant the earpieces , i thought of hide and seek , and beat a hasty retreat, grabbing my still "playing" earpieces.

This time

This time .The present . In your face . Overwhelming. Right here. Nowhere to run. So, you wipe your sweaty palms on your denims and walk ahead . Take a deep breath , face the audience and wish you were dead.
This time , you shall give a rocking speech. Record shattering . Ground breaking.
Not the soggy little whimpering monologue of last time .
Already , you see mocking faces in the crowd, teetering on the verge of a guffaw. Damn .
Then you saw me . I was wishing so hard for you to see me . You smiled nervously, and I smiled encouragingly back.
You straightened your shoulders, took out your spectacles and your notepad , cleared your throat. A good sign.
Then you began. I relaxed in my seat. I knew, this time you had nailed it.

Next time

Long time back I read this comment somewhere that said , man is the only animal that can laugh or weep, for man is the only animal that can see the difference between the state of the things, as they are and as they should be .
This and the fountain of eternal hope.
This is what produces the concept of next time .
Next time , when I cross the road , I will not land in a puddle of fresh rain water(as I watch out for post-rain exuberant traffic)
Next time , the mynah I was so avidly watching will not drop her droppings on my shoulder before taking off in an exasperated screech
Next time , I will muster enough courage to shoo the gargantuan jersey cow who munches on my hibiscus leaves , and not have jelly feet when she turns to give me one tennis-ball-sized-round-eyed glare.
Next time , I will swerve first and grab the parking slot , before the large SUV , driven by the bullish man in dark sunglasses who honks loudly ,grins evilly and usurps my space 
Next time I will not listen to the biblical voice in my head that keeps saying -"Chill, the meek shall inherit the earth".
Next time I will not sit through the umpteenth rerun of "Bourne Identity", glued to the TV , like a zombie , and not hear the phones ringing
Next time , I will sign up for all zumba/cookery/bakery/guitar classes,when the circular arrives
Next time I will loose fifteen kgs and slip into my wedding lehenga and wriggle my hips at the ladies-do like Mrs. Sood of the 15 TA Bn
Next time my progenies will polish off all the palak-karela-baingan subzi, which I cook, without a whimper of protest and thank me in the bargain too,
Next time my hubby will look at me and croon -"ooh how pretty",instead of knotting his brows and saying -"did you comb your hair?"
Next time my mirror image will clasp its hands in rapture and blow a kiss at me , instead of throwing a sneery scowl at me,that reminds me of my father.

The last time

We should have raced to the cubicle . In hindsight , it seems strange that we didn’t. We were told that this might be the last time we saw her. It was. Yet, we calmly walked to her bedside. Perhaps it was all that suffering that she had to endure, or was it sheer denial on our part.
When we went in , she was lying on her side . Her hands were burning hot with fever. She was being vigorously sponged with ice water. She was panting, as if she had run a marathon. A marathon of a lifetime . I called her . She opened her eyes, but she wasn’t there. The look was vacant. The response primeval. It was time to go.
They say you witness a death in the family and you can face anything in your life later. For nothing jolts you more.
She closed her eyes and heaved a final, tired sigh. Her last breath. We were there. We all, whom she loved , cherished and doted on .
Then all went silent. All sounds stilled . darkness descended. It was a bright sunny morning of the summer equinox outside . June 21st. But our world had caved in . Collapsed into thick , dark ,envelope of grief.

The hunchback mother

She skipped when she should walk .She giggled where a grin would have sufficed , and she held the boy's hand tightly, as if he were the string of a kite about to fly away.

She was a mother ,small, pretty, red-lipsticked , full of mirth, and hunchbacked .

She wore bright colours . Bright blue salwaar kameez ,  dupatta, the colour of the deepest seas. Verdant green suits with parrot green dupattas.Talking animatedly with her son , who bore startling resemblance to her.

Deeply embarrassed, and sullen , the boy would tag along silently. Occasionally nodding his head at some remark.She would insist on carrying the boys school satchel , however heavy, and the water bottle , which would fly at each skip-step, smacking her side with rebound . Still she would smile, and skip away , gaily chatting, about the goings-on in the school , with a totally uninterested , embarrassed to the core , and reticent boy.

The boy was her life. Her raison-de-etre, the reason to breathe , live and look forward to the next day.

But her presence made the boy's life hell. Taunted and teased by bullies to no end, the boy was sick and tired of fighting the world to defend a mother who was less-than-perfect in an increasingly intolerant world.

The boy became increasingly rude to the mother. He stopped talking to her . After unceremoniously dumping his bag on her, which she cheerfully bore, he would march ahead, sometimes alone , sometimes in company of his stone -kicking , texting , and hollering friends. The mother silently followed, ten paces behind, bearing her son's burden , but never letting him out of her sight.

Years passed, and the boy sprouted a stubble and was two clear feet taller than his mother. The mother grew gray hair at the temple, her pace slackened . Now , she followed twenty paces behind. Breathless , tenacious, she would struggle to keep pace , but wouldn't give up.


Then one day, there was some trouble on the streets. At mid morning, lathi wielding goons, forced the  shops to down their shutters . People who wouldn't comply were beaten up, police jeeps followed with wailing sirens. In a matter of minutes , deathly silence descended on the busy road.

The school, inexplicably, let the bells ring precisely at that time . Students spilled onto the deserted street.

The boy , with his friends , was silently walking past. For the first time , in so many years , he was lugging his bag. The mother wasn't late. The school had shut down early.

Suddenly a group of yelling goons rushed at the boys. Wielding lathis, power drunk, crazy with mob-frenzy and hell bent on clearing their path.

 In a split second , a flash of parrot green had materialised from somewhere and positioned itself between the mob and the school boys . It was the mother , who had heard of the school closure and had rushed from home.

The boys dropped their bags and ran screaming for cover. The green figure crumpled under the combined assault of so many lathis .

A police van screeched up, rained some lathis on the miscreants and drove off with the green bundle , even before the boys could catch their breath.

The word spread, and all the shopkeepers in the street went to visit the mother in the civil hospital. They prayed for her at the peer baba dargah and offered a 'chadar' in her name . The son , contrite and confused , stared at her still form lying folded up, in the ICU, scarcely breathing.


The school reopened two weeks later.

The boy carried his satchel and his bottle himself. He also had to walk slowly, keeping in step with his mother , who insisted on escorting him, her right arm and leg still in plaster cast.,clad in brilliant purple.

Best Prank

Being the family baby ,made me the easy target for a lot of pranks, most of which I do not remember or forgave . Some are burnt into my memory, branded with the red-hot iron of embarrassment, never to be forgotten or forgiven either.

Once we were exploring  a derelict room of an old family mansion. There were lot of such rooms . This particular room had crumbling bookshelves , termite eaten books and a tall dusty window, with a pretty window seat, cool and inviting. Once the thick layer of dust had been wiped off by eager hands , I requested a tall cousin to place me on the seat. He ignored me . I must have pestered him/thrown a tantrum, for he grimaced and hauled me up. I sat there , holding the cool rusty , window bars, seeing the wildly overgrown garden outside. Thrilled , I must have been too immersed in the sights and sounds outside , to not notice when the room turned dark and silent.

The entire retinue of siblings , cousins had disappeared without a trace . The little devils had even switched off the lone yellow bulb, latched the door shut and abandoned me . Too terrified to even jump off the seat, I clung to the window bars, and let out a series of blood -curdling howls . I assure you , it was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.

What seemed an eternity later, I heard the latch turn , and saw , with relief and anger , the grinning visages of all of them .They had been hearing my agonised wails standing right outside the door, all this while .

I don't remember who let me down . What I remember is sulking for an entire week.