The Flower in my Garden

The lotus flowers in my garden bloom but rarely; and when they bloom, they do so in vais’akha, when the summer is at its harshest. And yes, the deep evergreen, lustrous oval leaves are a perennial relief to the eye, whatever the season.
My ground floor flat does have a space around it—alas, all so meticulously smothered under the dead RCC after the urban fetish. The lifeless RCC was a sore to my eyes; and it was then, some three years back, that i had the fancy of have a lotus pond!
Soon, the water-proof masonry was ready. What remained was to prepare a fertile water bed, an underwater mixture of black soil and cow-dung. And of course, i could not forget the guppy fish to keep the mosquitoes away.

So, half a truckload of black soil is procured. Self help would be the best, and well, the most economical. And then, one fine day (when the family is away for vacations), this brave dreamer decides to accomplish the task all by himself.

Ten minutes of the job are enough to bring home to me my fool-hardiness. Tons of unloaded soil all around; hardly a fraction of the job done; the sun and the unaccustomed physical effort already sending down streams of sweat; and backache already set in: and worse, nobody else to blame for the mess! Well boy, enough of the do-it-yourself self reliance!
What next?


“Sir...”
Turning around, i see three kids at the gate: weak, malnourished, dehydrated and bare-footed; their discolored hair unkempt, and clothes dirty. No, they are not beggars: one of them carries a pick axe, and the other, a spade.
“Sir, may we do the job for you?”
‘Ha! The angels!’ - exult i for a moment.

Next moment, the cautious householder within, checks the exultation.
I survey the kids, size up the unfinished job, and promptly put up a stern, prudent mask.
“How much..?”
“Fifteen rupees..?” says the boy tentatively.
“FIFTEEN?” screams the prudent man, who would never protest paying seventy rupees for a scoop of ice-cream, or one-hundred-and-eighty for a ticket at the Multiplex.
“No sir, fifteen rupees for all of us, together.”
“Hmm… look, i want a neat and clean job. And mind you, i won’t pay a single rupee if i am not satisfied. Is that clear?” I tell them, who is the boss.
“Right sir”’ says he meekly.
“C’mon brothers!” the leader cries triumphantly. The younger kids are already at job.

Relaxed, i sit on a bench in shade. The boys are methodic, seem to be expert in what they are doing, and fast. Unmindful of the scorching sun; unmindful of the streaming sweat; unmindful of all their deprivations; unmindful of the world around, soon they have moved most of the heap into the pit – the task which almost killed me in ten minutes! And how merrily they sing, chat, and play pranks with each other as they continue with the labor that killed me in ten minute. Blessed be the childhood that mellows down the harsh reality.

I am ashamed of myself.
What childhood do I talk of? Famine severs the poor children—the eldest one, not more than twelve, and barely older than my younger daughter—away from the family, and i, the romantic urban fool, eulogize some blessed childhood and all! Hungry and helpless, the kids sweat for their daily bread when they should be playing and studying, and i pat myself for having driven a hard bargain.

Where is their home? Do homes break suddenly - or crumble bit by bit, day by day? What goes wrong in life? What forces the parents to abandon the children to their fate? Or do the children, precociously and painfully wise, leave the house? And how do they walk all the way to this distant unknown land, so far away from home? And, does the broken family, if at all it survives, ever look forward to a reunion, when seasons would be more merciful?


“..and, what is sir going to plant here, onions?” the youngest one, made bold by familiarity and innocence, comes up to me.
“Not onions, lotus.”
“Lotus? Real lotus? Wow! They are so beautiful, aren’t they? Gods like lotuses, i know, i have seen in pictures!”
“And then you will sell the flowers in the bazaar, and get lots of money?” asks the middle one seriously.
I am speechless.


Enough of the prudent mask. Let me be myself; let me be somewhat imprudent and humane; let me follow my heart. This prudent mask always chokes me.

Finally, the job is over. Exhausted, they ask for water. They wash themselves clean, drink greedily, and give a sigh of fulfillment like an artist reviewing a just-completed work.

Arrives the pizza which i have meanwhile ordered for the boys. Let them have a small treat—perhaps a lifetime treat, heard of, dreamt of, never realized or likely to be realized.
Humbly, i pay them fifteen rupees—each.
They cannot thank me enough. And the more they thank me, the more humble I feel.

The lotus flowers in my garden bloom but rarely; and when they do bloom, they remind me of the three beaming faces, as the boys heartily ate their hard earned pizza.

God save me from prudence, so that the lotus flowers bloom in vais’akha, when the summer is at its harshest.

EGO TRIP

The smoke-alarm shakes me rudely out of my nap. Next moment i am aware of my paraphernalia: the IV line, the catheter, and, worse, the dangling Urosac. How do i run and save myself?
The duty nurse promptly rushes in, puts the alarm off, opens all the windows of the AC room, and with a firmness that comes only with a professional finesse, makes the erring patient understand: “Sir, you are not supposed to smoke in a hospital.”
“DO YOU KNOW WHO AM I?” explodes the guy, in an all-caps-bold-italics-double-underlined 72-size-impact-font, red, and highlighted yellow.
“That does not matter,” she responds coolly.
The coolness sets the man and his faithful wife ablaze with fury.
“What do you mean by ‘not supposed to smoke’?” screams she, “my husband is under arrest or something? We are bloody paying for our stay! We are not going to take those ‘don’t do this’ and ‘don’t do that’ from anybody! Do you know whom you are talking to?”
“I AM THE VP OF THE PRESTIGIOUS ‘24X7’* CHANNEL! DIDN’T ANYBODY TELL YOU? DON’T YOU EVER WATCH THE TV? OUR CHANNEL DRAWS THE HIGHEST TRP, AND I AM THE BOSS THERE! AND YOU TELL ME –ME?– NOT TO SMOKE?”
The nurse leaves the room quietly.

Phew! So that’s the Big Boss that shares the double-occupancy ward with me!
I am waiting to get my prostate, swollen with age, trimmed. The surgery will be tomorrow, and i am going through the preoperative protocol, a bit prolonged because of a minor urine infection.
The VIP has been brought to this room only last evening from the ICU, where he was under observation for a day for high blood pressure. It is indeed a great condescension of the part of His Majesty: all single-occupancy and deluxe rooms are occupied.

I never knew that hospital stay could be so full of entertainment. Ever since the Big Boss came, the room is alive with non-stop cell rings, the yelling and yelping telephonic monologues,; and the 24x7 blaring ‘24x7’ on his laptop. Every ward-boy, every nurse, every RMO, every consultant who visited – and, more often than not, summoned to - the room is administered a viewing of, and a briefing on the history, the modus operandi, and the market share of the channel.
So continually runs his live commentary, deriding and ridiculing the entire world – the politicians, the police, the judiciary, the industry, the NGOs, the country, the system, the public – that i am afraid i would leave the hospital a cynic.

Next, he is wild at the lunch served by the hospital.
“CALL THE DIETICIAN!” – goes off the shot.
The dietician is a young girl with pleasant manners, and she knows what she is doing. The brat does oblige her, but not before extracting a promise for a sumptuous 7-star junk, complete with the nip, for dinner.

Following lunch, the Supremo is again restless for a smoke. He sneaks out of the confinement past me ( i do not exist, for all he cares), walks down the corridor, and goes up to the elevator. Alas! The attendant is too dim to appreciate the exigencies of the nobleman. He stalls his honorable mission, calls the Floor Manager, and hands the delinquent over to him.
What ensues next, would go down the Annals of the Hospital History for decades and centuries.
Enter the entire repertory- the PRO, the Administrator, the Security Officer, the Matron, the nurses, the doctors, the CEO, the ward-boys, the ayahs, and all the ambulatory patients; at the center stage is adorned, of course, by the grandiloquent Thespian, and the faithful prima donna.
And then follows the most flamboyant of the soliloquies:
“DO YOU KNOW WHO AM I? HOW DARE YOU DICTATE ME-NO SMOKING, NO DRINKING, NO THIS, NO THAT? MIND YOU, I AM NOT USED TO TAKE A ‘NO’ IN MY LIFE. I WILL PUT ALL THIS STORY ON MY ‘24X7’, AND CLOSE DOWN YOUR HOSPITAL – I AM THE DE FACTO OWNER OF THE CHANNEL! I TRAVEL ROUND THE GLOBE ELEVEN MONTHS A YEAR! I CHANGE MY CAR EVERY MONTH! YOU GUYS DON’T KNOW WHAT I CAN DO! I WILL BUY ALL THE HOSPITALS AND THE DOCTORS OF THIS WRETCHED CITY! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT A BIG SHOT I AM! I WILL CALL THE POLICE COMMISSIONER NOW – please go and get my cell, Dear! – YOU KNOW, THE COMMISSIONER IS MY NEIGHBOR’S COUSINE’S CLASS-MATE! I WILL TAKE ALL OF YOU THE COURT FOR. .I AM. .I AM. . .”

The ego trip, however, ends in an anticlimax.
A treaty is signed in the evening, almost unceremoniously, whereby the Lord leaves the hospital against medical advice and against an interim payment, to be settled by him, with the Insurance Company, later.

I am operated upon the next morning. Properly discharged, i leave the hospital not a cynic, but with a bit of wisdom:
‘A man’s ego may be directly proportional to his status, and is, for sure, inversely proportional to his stature.’
However, i don’t know whatever the Grandiosmo did with his BP.

My tree on the Border

It was years before they captured me roaming around the border.


“Hey! What are you doing here? Don’t you know, this is supposed to be a no-man’s land?”
“I just planted a few seeds here, right on the border. The rainy season is around. The heavens will water the seeds, and I am sure, some day one of them will grow up into a huge tree, offering shade and shelter to people on both sides of the border in this arid land.”
“Borders are supposed to have barbed wire fencing, and not trees; fencing so high that, not even birds can fly across.”

They arrested me and dispatched me to the jail, but not before digging up along the border, a couple of miles both ways, to throw out the seeds. They could not.
I laughed, and they tortured me. I laughed more.

Years passed by. They kept me rotting in the jail, which really did not make any difference to me. It was same for me on this side of the border, or the other. I had nothing to lose or to hate on either side. It was the same sky above, the same earth below, the same wind around, and the same seasons caressed me.
Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw my tree on the border growing day by day, shoot by shoot, season by season. I saw the tree swallowing up the border. I saw it uprooting the barbed fencing. I saw birds nesting in its dense expanse. I saw travelers resting in its cool shade.

Years passed by. Nobody noticed the tree growing. The cold war, the perpetual stalemate in the peace talks, and the arms-race assured both nations of peace. No nation would attack each other, none would dare. No one needed to patrol the border any more. Anyway, it was a long border, and those who would infiltrate, would do it anyway: this was a matter of the great mutual understanding.

The jail authorities forgot why was i there. They even forgot who was I. Back home, there was nobody who would remember. And, this made no difference to me.

Years passed by. I was an old man now.
The international situation changed. Nations got bored with peace, and started toying openly with the idea of a war game.
The war idea rejuvenated everyone. Guys suddenly became alert along the border. It was alive and happening again. This excited and entertained all concerned. Patriotism got rabid.
And then someone noticed the huge tree on the border. It was blatant violation of the international protocol of war-mongering. Birds of diverse feathers, ignorant of nationalism, flocked together, and the huge tree sheltered all. That took out the fun out of the killer game.
They traced out the culprit.
The international court had a novel punishment for me.
I was to be hanged till death from one of the branches of the same tree, with great ceremony.

Somebody appealed against the decision. Hanging me would be mercy, they said.
Finally, I was made to cut down the tree on the border, amidst the same great ceremony.

For Those who Love ...

I dont know what made me Post this ...

Zindagi Mai Toh Sabhi Pyar Kiya Kertay Hain
Main Toh Mar Kar Bhi Meri Jaan Tujhay Chaahunga
Tu Mila Hai Toh Yeh Ehsaas Hua Hai Mujh Ko
Yeh Meri Umar Muhabbat Kay Liye Thodi Hai
Aik Zara Sa Gham-E-Doraan Ka Bhi Haq Hai Jis Pay
Mai Nay Woh Saans Tere Liye Rakh Choddi Hai
Tujh Pay Ho Jaunga Qurbaan Tujhay Chahungaa

Apnay Jazbaat Main Nagmaat Rachnay Kay Liye
Main Nay Dhadakan Ki Tarah Dil Main Basaya Hai Tujhay
Mai Tasavvur Bhi Judai Ka Bhala Kaise Karun
Mai Nay Qismat Ki Larkeeron Say Churaaya Hai Tujhay
Pyaar Ka Ban Ke Nigehbaan Tujhay Chahuungaa

Teri Har Chaap Se Jal Jaate Hain Khayalon Me Chiraag
Jab Bhi Tu Aaya Jagmagatah Huaa Jaddu Aye
Tujh Ko Chu Lun Toh Phir Aye Jan-E-Tamanna Mujh Ko
Dair Tak Apane Badan Say Teri Khusbhoo Aaye
Tuu Baharon Ka Hai Unwan Tujhay Chaahungaa

Zindagi Mai Toh Sabhi Pyar Kiya Kertay Hain
Main Toh Mar Kar Bhi Meri Jaan Tujhay Chahuuga

TUNNEL

It was a one- stroke decision like the drop of guillotine: we leave this place. It has been our native place, OK, but so what?
Treading the scorched wasteland, we reach the railway station, some couple of miles away; and just mob the overcrowded train to the metro. Buying a ticket is simply out of question. We climb onto the roof-tops. The dead don’t care for safety.
The train speeds head on, as if out of control. The roof-tops, slopping both sides, are plain slippery: no hold, no grip. Each one clings desperately to the other, also equally precariously perched. About a half of us on this compartment, the other on the one ahead of us.
The way we travel is illegal. The way if someone falls off the roof-top and dies, would be illegal too. Life itself has been like this: illegal, unauthentic, unaccounted for. Supercilious lights shone brilliantly at distance, but we were eternally condemned to gloom, at the fringes of existence. Nothing more than bare sustenance was ever asked for, but even that was denied.
So here are we, following a blind dream to a strange metro. The metro won’t leave anyone to die; it never lets anyone live, either.
The metro knows no rest. It speeds and screams round the clock, and won’t let anyone sleep, thankfully so. Dreams haunt sleep. Men are scared of dreams. They prefer the speed chasing them to death. No one misses anyone: like a burning bidi butt thrown down the drain.
The roof-top is overcrowded, but not a single word. Everyone is quiet. Words no longer carry meanings. Even curses and abuses have become stale from overuse. The sky has swallowed all questions; the void, all answers.
Strange terrain. Miles after miles disappear beyond the sight. The train gets crazy with speed. Ghat after ghat, planes after planes fall back. Settlements, nameless and faceless, appear from nowhere, and disappear without a trace: like someone suddenly dead. Threatening speed makes us unsteady, all the more precarious.
The journey seems to be never-ending. The hot roof-top burns our bums. The afternoon sun grows vindictive. Horizons steam. Empty bellies, gritty eyes, even the breaths are ablaze.
At long last the day sets: like an exhausted funeral pyre. Burning embers still glow in the west. The evening still smoulders like hot ash.
Night creeps in, spreads like an evil spell. The half moon hangs there - shines bright like a piece of broken skull.
It gets hilly as the train approaches the metro. The huge hills appear like monstrous torsos through the dense fog.
Numerous tunnels truncate the hills, one after the other. Like open jaws of giants, they swallow the train. The rocky interiors of the tunnel are flogged by yellow whips of light throwing a long stream of stroboscpic patterns. Frightened, i shut my eyes. No! - i don't want an epileptic fit here, on this slippery roof-top.
A cyclone of noise quakes the hills as the train crosses a deep tunnel with maddening speed. The tunnel seems to be unending..it feels as if one is passing through the entrails of a tremendous reptile. The train emerges out of the tunnel, and the face next to you shocks you with its chalky, deadly pallor in the sudden moonlight.
Hunger is dead; it no longer gnaws us. The speed stupefies us, makes us drowsy. Slumber overcomes fear for life. We doze off.
“Hey! watch out..stoop down!” someone cries excitedly.
Startled, we look ahead. The speeding train is about to pass through another tunnel. But something is amiss here, like life gone awry. The tunnel is wide enough, but hardly a foot taller than the compartments- just a foot! And here, on the slippery roof-tops, are we, some fifty of us. How low do we stoop down, how much do we shrink to save our life? At more than a hundred kilometers per hour, utterly helpless, we are speeding helplessly towards the inevitable. The low tunnel ahead, the uncontrolled speed, and we..?
Confused out of senses, one of us just flings himself in the dark. The thundering rattle swallows his thin scream.
Even terror has frozen. We stare with unblinking eyes, resigned to the fait accompli.
Next moment, men dash against the deadly tunnel, and fall off the roof-top ahead of us. Skulls break open, blood spurts out, and life ends without a cry. One after the other. Some twenty, in a single moment. Mutilated corpses, line the uncaring train. Just a moment ago, there were a score of them, each with a different world in mind, and now..just a mass of convulsing body parts, scattered all over the bloody roof-top. Shreds of quivering flesh, lining the rail track. We, doomed onlookers, too stunned to react. Just awaiting our turn. . .
Here’s the thud, and here fall i..down the dark abyss. Helpless, gasping, choking under the piling dead, unable to move a limb, unable even to utter a cry..wet and sticky with blood. . .
Somebody calls me aloud. I strain to open my eyes. Dead stillness in the endless tunnel, with not a glimmer of light..the train has passed long ago.. the rattle still echoing in my heart. I am all alone..at 3 in the morning, lying in my bed, drenched in sweat.
Outside, the night has frozen like the dark interminable tunnel. Much time to go before the
day-break.

I switch on the lamp. Darkness scares me. Sleep scares me. Dreams scare me. I stay wide awake for the rest of the night. The weak lamp accompanies me. I get up, drink some water.some times we have to make things
I forget all my failures, my loneliness, my deprivations, my pain.
I am grateful to life that i am alive.

Juta ( shoe ) no. 8

I am not into politics. (although i like discussing politics) But if Indian politics has plummeted to a level where we have the need to throw shoes (catharsis, thats what the psychologists call it) at our politicians (to be more specific; sports shoe, size 8), all I have to say is ‘what a pity!’

Politics, like any other profession is a noble profession. In fact, may be even more noble because it is answerable to every query the citizens of a country make. It can therefore afford no loopholes in the system and very strictly demands clean chit in whatever it does.
We all swear at the system but that is all we do. This blog is also an example of the same. And we are good at it too. We all know what is to be done. We all agree that we need the youth to revolutionarise the system. But all we actually do is sit back and let the country go to dogs-literally.
I have no plans to go into politics. I want a comfortable life ahead. I respect my country. But not at the cost of losing my comfort. I am selfish.
Many have struggled to gain independence. Good they either died a natural death, were assassinated or sentenced to death. They would have died even a more painful death had they witnessed the political scenario today. I am happy that they are not alive to see the fate of this country. These people at least died in a hope of better India. If I struggle for my country, i wouldn’t even be privileged to die in a hope of better India. I guarantee that my work will be short lived and I will carry it to my grave with me. And it will be all square to one.
True, i may inspire someone. But to inspire someone primarily demands utmost self dedication and trust in the job one does. Dedication-yes. Trust-no. Let’s accept this that I alone cannot ameliorate the situation. We need a whole lot of I’s to change the system. The problem with all the I’s is perhaps lack of trust (trust that yes I can do it and the situation is not as bad as the media projects it) and not the lack of dedication.
To vote for the right person is not a problem provided someone tells us who is the right person. The ones in the limelight are entangled in some or the other scandals. The remaining ones with transparent deeds are either turned down and tagged as inexperienced or do not come into focus at all and are drowned into the pompous shows of propaganda and campaigning. Money matters, huh?
We need to adopt a new way to decide whom to vote for. Tell them to reveal their sinister secrets instead of telling us their positive deeds-if any. The former will outweigh the latter one. And accordingly we will decide who is less corrupt. We all know where the money goes. We all know that the vote bank comes from a mob where an individual has his own brain to think, but collectively has no brain at all. Clearly, this is with respect to reservation.
This blog is dedicated to all those who plan to join Indian politics. I appreciate your guts to get throttled..

GuilT

As usual, the first shift bus takes us back home. It’s 4 in the evening, the most indifferent and ill-defined hour of the day.
We surrender ourselves to the driver’s acumen, and doze off, exhausted from the day-long boredom, the non-happening routine, the inertia, and the ennui. Nothing happens. Nothing excites. Life, whether at home or at work, is a stalemate.
Sudden brakes jerk us violently out of sleep. Still confused, we scan the surroundings, smacking, swallowing, and mumbling incoherently.
Our bus slows down. Onlookers have crowded both sides of the road.
Ha! Something seems to have happened!
Quick observers are the early reporters.
“A horrible accident-!”
“Both of them dead-!”
Hey presto! Gone are the boredom, the inertia, the ennui, and the snooze in a jiffy! We all spring from our seats to have a peep at the scene outside.
A horrible accident indeed it is. A bike – one of those new hi-tech beastly machines- probably speeding in the wrong direction, has dashed against the road divider, throwing off the two poor teenage riders.
Blood flows sluggishly from the broken skull of one of the boys: a bright red pool, sparkling in the slanting sun, slowly thickening and blackening on the rough concrete surface. The lump, that was the brain, still convulses in the dust. The other boy lies spread eagled, still and stiff, without the slightest scratch on his body; probably internal bleeding killed him. The new brand sturdy hi-tech bike is almost unscratched.
With nothing else happening, even the fatal and the morbid is a welcome diversion.
“O God-!”
“O shit-!”
“Both were just kids..”
“Think of the poor parents..”
“This new generation..”
“These modern bikes..”
“These road conditions..”
“These contractors..”
“This corruption..”
“This system..”
By now, our bus has wormed its way through the road block. Freshened up by the lively discussion, we reach home.
The newspaper, the TV, the net, the gossip, the family, the kids, all take me through the rest of the evening, to a dreamless sleep. Never again the accident comes to my mind, except in those deeply reflective moments, in the ultimate solitude of the WC.

But horrible indeed was the accident. Not forgotten easily, it crops up at the coffee table, next morning.
A colleague who worked in the general shift yesterday, joins us.
“Yea, our bus too passed the spot at about six. The two guys were still lying there, still crowded by the onlookers, and no police anywhere as yet.”
“Disgusting!” react i, over a sip, ”two boys lie on the road, dead for hours, and . . .”
“Didn’t you read the newspaper today? In fact, one of the boys was actually alive, when the police took him to the nearby hospital- but it was too late. He had severe brain damage, with more than two hours already lost.”
“We are a nation of idle onlookers”, sighs out somebody.

Everyone of us is silent.

We too had passed the very spot.
We too had seen the accident.
We too had assumed both the boys dead.
We too never bothered so much as to check.

The accident injured the boy; our apathy killed him.

THE OTHER DAY

It happened the other day.
They stopped our bus. Made us get down, politely. ‘This way sir.’ ‘Easy, ma’am. Thank you’
They did not rob us. They were not highway robbers.
They separated us in groups. Not gender-wise. They were not sex-maniacs.
They were decent folks. Soft spoken. Well mannered. Smart. Savvy. Not noisy hooligans. They worked calmly. Corporate-like efficiency. Well defined objectives.
So, they made our groups. Ethnic groups. “Us”, this side, “they”, that side. Things were easy for people with clear cut, obvious identities. Names, costumes, symbols and stigmata on their person. Fine.
The ambiguous were searched thoroughly. Inspected, palpated meticulously. In open, in broad day light. Overt dealings. Those who loved dear life were only too willing to cooperate.
The segregation was complete. Business like. Corporate efficiency. Zero error. Great.
Next, with the same cool corporate efficiency they shoot the “they” group. And walk away as quietly as they came. No fuss. No noisy commotion. No slogan shouting. Clean job. Victims too, too stunned to utter a cry.
They leave, and the death scene comes to life.
Survivors, all of them “us”, thank "our" Almighty, and walk into the bus. Noiselessly. Mute shadows moving like ghosts.
I lingered outside. There, in the gory pile of flesh, i noticed a movement. A moan. Some survivor?. .Perhaps “he”?
I knew him. Rather, a close friend. Actually an inadvertent victim. The killers were not to be blamed. It was “his” own fault. Didn’t answer them. Didn’cooperate them... Anyway, now too late to analyze.
Yes, it was he. Bleeding heavily. Gasping.
‘Why did you do this, my friend? Why did you lose your life?..They, the killers were “our” people. You could have easily saved your life! Why didn’t you reveal your identity, dear?’
Struggling for breath, barely audible, he answered- ‘All throughout my life, i denied all discrimination. I am of course religious..but to capitalize on religious or ethnic identity.. even for saving my own life..i feel, it’s blasphemy. Cooperating bigots..even for survival..is joining them..No, let me speak out… rarely in a lifetime comes a moment..that puts to test how well you stand up..for your principles, your values..i think, i stood the test fairly well.. eh? No regrets!’
He died. i boarded the bus.
A lively debate was going on in the bus. On politics. On religion. On culture. On history. And terrorism. And tolerance.
Suddenly all of us remember that our bus driver was last seen lined up in the "they" group. Shit!

MASK

Nothing is more ominous than a phone ring at odd hours.
It is at around 5:30 in the morning when my cell rings.
Back home my son has had a bike accident. He has head injury, is critical- in fact, he is dying.
The earliest train from here to my place is at 7. I have some one and a half hour to manage things – including coming to myself.
Mine is a transferable job. However, the family cannot be on a move forever. Another eleven years to go, before my retirement. Till then weekly commuting is the only alternative.
These days XI an XII students are the most stressed species. My boy, as usual, starts off at quarter to five for his tuition classes. You know how dark and foggy January mornings are. You also know how these young boys are with their bikes: Tarzans astride technology. I actually never wanted the boy to have a bike before he was 18.
It’s a five-hour journey from here to back home. I don’t know what to do with time: an abyss ahead of me. I as well don’t know what lies beyond the abyss.
I look at my watch every now and then; it’s hardly a quarter even after what i perceive to be one full hour.
Head injuries are plain bad. The end could be instantaneous, as it was with one of my colleagues last month; it could be a painfully prolonged one.
The man goes for his usual evening walk. Boys play cricket on the adjacent ground. Comes a ball, full shot, and hits the man in front of his right ear. The ball and the man both fall to the ground simultaneously; the ball bounces twice or thrice before it settles; the man is already dead.
I think he was a lucky guy. More often than not, death hovers for days and months before it strikes. It tortures with anticipation and uncertainty. Helplessly you watch, as someone lies in the bed, comatose and senseless, breathing in convulsive bouts and gasps. An occasional involuntary flicker teases you with the hopelessness of your hopes. Bedsores gnaw away the defenseless body, and the sickening odor keeps you away from your beloved one. And then, you actually pray Death to bless the poor soul.
Luck is such a relative term. What would happen to my son?
I glance at the watch again; it’s just twenty five minutes more.
Would that i overcome all time and space, and be beside the dying boy!
But why do i assume him dying?
Don’t cases ever recover from head injuries?
The train is pretty crowded. Everyone talks, shouts, yell good-byes, gives instructions, quarrels for a seat, and the result is irritating cacophony.
I am happy, no one here knows me: an unknown crowd is the best shroud a man may have.
Each one flounders through his or her loneliness by being garrulous and by seeking company. It’s New Year time, and the greetings come handy to break the ice. But what will break the ice that freezes the mind of the bereaved?
“What bereavement do you talk of?” I scold myself. My boy is not dead yet. No message, no call has come to me yet confirming the worse.
Someone tries to drag me in the talk.
“Any problem?” he asks kindly.
I put on a mask of indifference. I don’t believe that sharing makes your pain lighter; it makes it cheaper. People listen for a while, sympathize, and them philosophize. Your burden becomes a story, and then fodder for gossip.

Hawkers come to me, trying to sell their wares. I have had nothing since morning, nor i feel like having anything; hunger is dead.
Beggars come to me; some sing, others display their repulsive selves; they arouse neither pity nor disgust in my mind blunted by pain.
Eunuchs come close to me, clap aggressively in my face, call my attention, touch me; I can never look at eunuchs in their eyes.
Little boys in soiled rags beg to polish my shoes. I look the other side.
Then comes yet another boy, about ten, equally miserable, and silently sweeps the compartment clean. I take out a note – don’t know what - from my pocket and thrust it in his tiny, dirty, calloused hand. Now it is real hard to control myself. I choke with emotion – for the first time since that call in the morning. I am afraid lest i give way, hold the little child tight to my bosom, and shower him with tears.
It has been years since i held my son close. I don’t know when and how an impenetrable wall materialized between the two of us. Perhaps I was always away from the family, when the boy needed me most. Whence did this unspoken hostility creep in between us? He did anything and everything just to spite me. He did not eat, did not attend classes, did not eat - till I got him that cursed bike. I know he never loved me; he was afraid of me, and hence, defied me. Was i a failure as a parent?
-But why do i talk about him in past tense, as if..?
Yet three hours to go.
I doze off from mental exhaustion.

The train comes to halt with a jerk. I wake up with a start. Oh no! another two hours to go.
It’s a major junction. Many get down, more rush in. Enter a large family, all jubilant and cheerful, perhaps they are back from some pilgrimage, and only too happy to share their joy. So contagious is their ecstasy, that for a moment i forget my grief, and am happy to partake of the prasada. I am none of the religious sort, but a trace of consolation does touch my troubled mind. I smile at the subtle play of emotions that goes to make the human mind.

“Never accept edibles from strangers!” my wife – the kind and caring lady - would admonish. I am taken aback to think how self-absorbed i had been, not to have thought of her even once. Shit!
What would she be doing? How did she manage things? The road must have been lonely at that hour. Maybe, someone noticed the boy lying on the road, cared to take him to the hospital, find the id-card, and call home. Possibly, a lot of precious was already lost. What happened to her when the blow came? Perhaps the first thing she did was to call me? How badly she must have missed me? But how come she didn’t call me after that even once?
And it struck me that there were indeed several calls on my cell from unknown numbers. Was it she who tried to get me desperately? She doesn’t have a cell of her own; she must have tried to contact me from the public booth or something; and i was too absorbed in myself to respond to any unknown number.
Do i call back to one of those numbers? How is that going to help now, after so many hours? No, i don’t dare to call anyone; i must admit i am a timid fellow.
And now it is hours since the phone rang last. What could this mean?
Anyways, now it’s only a few minutes before i reach home.
Do i go to the hospital? – and, what do i ask?
Do i go straight home? – and what do i say?
Suddenly there is a sinking feeling in my stomach. Until now i was impatient how sluggishly time crept; now i am scared how fast it carries me to the doom.
How do i face whatever meets me?
Worse, how do i face my wife?
I know, reality, when it does come, is never as difficult to face, as we imagine it to be.
I also know it’s the imagination, and not the situation that kills you.
But we are wise only by proxy, aren’t we?
Maybe, things are better now – or, at least, stable?
The slender string of hope - we hang on to it, and it hangs us by the neck.

The train enters the station.
It slows down.
I let the crowd get down.
I want to stretch the moment as far as possible.
I get down only when i cannot help it further.

The phone rings.
I let the ring die.
I switch off the phone.
I put up a brave face and summon a rickshaw.
Every minute, the rickshaw carries me closer to the ordeal.
I am already sobbing behind the brave mask.

Mama's Boy

Today was one of those days which give you the perfect professional and intellectual challenge and fulfillment—nay, ecstasy—but drains you physically. The day began early morning, and now it is..let me see..oh!..five thirty in the evening.
How time flies when i am at the operation table! I think i must have skipped my lunch, and, perhaps, breakfast too! True, doctors have the worst lifestyles!
I am, well, one of the busiest surgeons of the city. People come to me from far away; they wait for my appointment for months; for them my word is an oracle and my hand, the miracle—and they can never thank me enough!


Whatever i am, i owe it to Mother: that’s plain and simple. Mother is an unlettered, conservative village woman—who lost her husband very early in life leaving not much behind. But she did possess the most extraordinary foresight and an unequalled strength of character. My education was the sole mission of her life; no hardship was too hard, no price too dear.
Well, for Mother i am still the schoolboy who would return home with his Tiffin-box all intact; drop it on the cot; and run to the playground. She has always been very possessive about me—i think it is always so with all self-made individuals—and thankfully my wife too has understood and accepted this facet of human nature in Mother.


I must be back home quick—it is already five-thirty—and, like an erring child that i am, face a good chastisement for having skipped breakfast and lunch!
But alas! The patients won’t leave me today, it seems. The duty-sister is again at the door, “Sir..an emergency case, traffic injury..patient in shock…”
“Sorry sister, i am too tired..no more patients for me now. Just ask the senior RMO..let her handle the case..i must go home, or i will collapse.” I leave—in fact escape—before she can say a word.


It is already past six by the time i reach home. Kids are out for their tuitions. Mother too is not at home; she must have gone for regular evening walk. I freshen up, change, have a bite and a cup of coffee; and spend some time with wife listening—or pretending to do so—her eternal nagging: the kids, the house-maid, the vegetable prices. After a while she gets busy with the kitchen (we have early dinner), and i switch on the cartoon net-work—the only sensible thing on the TV.


“Mother is yet not back..it’s already eight. Usually, she is back by seven…” my wife tells me with some anxiety.
“C’mon..don’t you worry dear, she must be at the Senior Citizens’ Club, or something,” say i.
“Don’t be so casual. You know how punctual she is,” she sounds serious.
“Well, what do you say i may do?” reluctantly, i press the mute button.
“If Mother doesn’t return by another fifteen minutes or so..,” she continues with some hesitation—and alarmed at her own apprehension— “We better call up people—relatives, family friends..may be police..and perhaps hospitals.”
“What nonsense? Don’t panic and raise false alarms!” say I, uncertainly though.


We call up everyone wherever Mother could possibly be. I call up the Police Commissioner too who happens to be a friend as well as a patient—i am not sure i want to register a FIR as yet, and make the whole thing official. The Commissioner promises to mobilize his machinery, and assures me of all possible help.
Lastly i-now somewhat apprehensive myself—ring up some of my professional colleagues at their hospitals: no such patient that answers Mother’s description reporting them today.
Should i call the Civil Hospital? I am just toying with the idea when my wife asks, “Have you rang up at your own hospital?”
“Not that it didn’t occur to me, but they would have informed me if something of that sort…”
“But what’s wrong in making a phone call?”
It is a bit awkward, but i see no other option.


I call up my hospital.

The receptionist checks the register, and replies—
“Yes sir, at 5:35 pm..an unidentified female patient, about 70, tall, fair..was brought in a condition of shock..was seen by the senior..it was a traffic accident..hit by a car..brought here by the by-standers.. identification-marks..just a moment, sir..yes, a black mole above right eyebrow..and an appendectomy scar..no sir, there was no other identification..well sir, the police were informed..and body sent for a postmortem…”


I hang up the phone.
“O Mother…” i sigh, and everything goes blank.

Some pages of my Life - And i run on !!!

..and then i felt a warm, strong breath engulfing me. I realized i was not alone in this cage. Yea, there he was..

OK, let me start right from the beginning.
Even before i opened my eyes and looked around, i learnt my alphabets: A for ambition, B for benchmark, C for competition, D for deadline..through J for jealousy, S for speed.. to Z for zing.
I topped my class. Everytime. I had to. Or else, relatives would have ridiculed me. Friends, forsaken me. And my parents, died heart-broken. After all, they had hired the best school for me. The best teachers. The best coaching classes. Sometimes I feel I too was hired by them to fulfill their ambitions.
In short, i had to be the best. I was programmed to succeed. Just as pigs are programmed for pork. Or like human bombs to blast.

Competition increased. Rapidly. Rabidly. It was no longer neck and neck; it was throat and throat. Either i cut the next guy’s throat, or he does it to me. I began to metamorphose. Principle of the competitive evolution. Adaptation for survival. My body streamlined. Became aerodynamic to run faster. I grew a long tail. Longer than my body, to facilitate speed, to balance me at top speed. I grew claws. My teeth nibbled day and night on every bit of info, and became keener. I could get easily at the competitor’s throat.. I became a rat. A fierce, smart, talented rat for one.
Rats have narrow vision. (They call it focused.) Rats see better in darkness; that way they can burrow their short-cuts to success better.

Rats don’t have color vision. They have nothing to do with flowers and rainbows.
Rats have small brains. Efficient like microchips. Zeroed down to the strictly utilitarian.
I became a rat. The race track grew narrower. Straiter. No longer possible to overtake a competitor without finishing him. So I ran along to run a bloody trail. Couldn’t help.
And at long last, there it was..the coveted gold cup. I could actually see it. Its brightness blinded me. Moments of uneasy uncertainty. Anxiety. But I had not learnt my alphabets for nothing. I summoned my courage, my cunning, my spirit..and took the giant leap. Across all the dead competitors. Across the bloody trail. Yes, the gold cup was mine! (or was it the other way round?)

I was successful. Only this mattered in the market. I had a halo. The end justified the means. Nobody questioned me. Market understands cost, not values.

I paused. First time in my life. Still panting. Heart still beating hard. Blood still turbulent. But success was mine. I did pause a while. I did need a break badly... and then it was: a cage materialized around me. Spacious and well furnished. Studded with gold. Bright. Decorated. Cozy. Comfortable... but where was my gold cup?
Anyway I fell in love with the cage. So spacious was the cage that it almost felt like being free. No constraints, just perform and earn. Perks. Benefits. Paid vacations. International renown. Prestige. Status. Viagra for the success libido was aplenty. Enlisted in the world’s top rich. Top powerful. Top 100. Top 50. Top 20. Top 5.... but where was my gold cup?
And then i sensed it. I felt a warm, strong breath engulfing me, and realized that I was not the only one in the cage. Ya, there he was..

There he was. Thick. Huge. Coils sluggishly moving. Staring me with its unblinking, lashless gaze. His moist, glittering, bifurcated, purple black tongue sticking. Like thought of uncertain future.
‘C’mon my child..run..run..keep running..’, hissed a voice, as heavy as the body. ‘so, here are we. You and me. Made for each other. The inevitable rendezvous. Your cage, my home. I host, you the honored guest. But excuse me my dear sir, I don’t like anyone just sitting there. Let’s play a game. Of course on my terms. ‘Coz, your cage, my home. I host, you guest. No.. your consent is irrelevant now.’
‘Cheating..cent per cent cheating this!..’ cried I. Panicked at being cornered.
‘Ya, I know, it’s cheating’ hissed the cool voice. Well, you asked for it.’
‘But where..where is my gold-cup?’ mumbled i.
‘Well, I am your gold-cup. Let me put it the other way. The gold-cup was illusion, I am the reality. OK, as I said, I don’t like anyone just sitting there quietly. I don’t attack the moving target, however. So, be on the move my child, move. Run. Rush for your life.’
‘?...’

‘My dear child, in this situation, in this given situation, you have two options. Run.. non-stop.. without pause..run out of breath. Run out of sense. Endlessly. Unceasingly. Without ever looking back, without looking around, without looking inward. Just run..till your breast bursts, puke blood, and collapse.
‘Or else, pause for a moment, a moment of relaxation, diversion, exhaustion, or introspection..pause for a moment, and perish. Pause, and find yourself within me..in my entrails.. dissolving in my acidic, acrid juices. With all your flesh, your bones, your brains. With all your success, your ambitions, your whatever..’

I am still running. Exhausted to death, still but running. Success no longer excites me. Actually, it bores me.

How i remember my lesser colleagues not obliged to succeed ! Still humans. Men and women, still boys and girls, dancing in the rain. Chasing butterflies in flowery meadows.
The race had already made me a rat; now I feel like an experimental rat. How long can a rat run before popping off? How much cage-space does a rat require – no, not after death, during life?
..But hey! what’s happening to me? What’s that warmth chasing me? No, I mustn’t allow any thought, any nostalgia, any day-dream slow down my speed. Rats are not supposed to become senti. Rats must continue top speed. Top possible speed. Further. Further. Further...So the rat runs on and on and o n a n d o n. . . .