The tragedy that befell Kishore

'Night time. Kishore, this sweet chap, wakes up with a high fever. As he gasps for breath, his parents try and console him, his father rushes in, comes out in a minute with a wet cloth and places it on the 13-tear old's forehead, hoping it would absorb the heat. All this while they fervently think of some way to stall the fever till morning, when they can go and meet some doctor-hospitals are way too expensive.

As time relentlessly ticks away and Kishore seems to get worse what with his whole body shivering, they have no option. They gather what money they have got, borrow some from their neighbours, haul Kishore's frail frame into an auto and rush to the nearest hospital. The doctors sensing something very wrong, order a blood test. As soon as the needle pricks the skin, the blood starts flowing-not only from his hand. But also from his ears, and nose!

As his face contorts with pain, the doctors run around frantically, all the while the agonised parents watch with horror not knowing what to do and what will happen-to their only son.

It is all over within 20 minutes. The fever killed the boy that fateful night! His mother turned into a lunatic and had to be sent away to her village. The father is still wondering what went wrong and blaming everything around (including himself) for his son's untimely death.'

This is a real story! We, in DreamIndia2020, considered him a younger brother. Sprightly and always spitting on the roads, this teen regularly attended our classes with enthusiasm. The way he calls out 'Nataraj Sir' and 'Eswar Sir' still rings in my ear. Easwar and I gifted him a chessboard for winning the Sports day competitions we conducted for the children. I remember sitting with him in his house and patiently (quite patiently) teaching him how to play the game. Though he was not much interested, he was so excited that i had actually come to his house, sat with him, and taught him to play. I used to chastise him always for spitting on the roads, and he cared a damn. (How I wish he were still here - i dont care whether he cared a damn or not)

We failed! Rather I failed!

• Many a time Nata had asked me to conduct a medical camp at the slum (where Kishore lived). Maybe if i had done that, better care would have been taken and the kid would have lived.
  

• Many a time Lakshmi Iyer had told me to involve the community when i do social work. I did not. Maybe if i had, the parents would have told me and we could have gone to a better hospital and.... things might have been different!

• Most importantly, there had already been such a death in the same area five months ago. And i dismissed it that time.

Despite so many portends if a person does not act, I would not exactly call him an animal, but he is somewhere close to that. And you know, dear reader, what the best part is? I will remain so! I still run behind the ephemeral and superficial pleasures of life while i could soend that time saving lives. I still would keep being ME even after a thousand Kishores.

But this article is not all about self-bashing! I just wanted to pour out my heart and what better place than this blog.

To give a silver lining to the otherwise dark cloud that i have metaphorised myself into, I confidently say that someday, I would stop being that (something close to an animal that is) and start saving the Kishore's of our country. I just hope that that day is not too far in the future.

P S :

• I'm not sure whether iam doing justice by putting his photo here...but hell, i have no bad intentions!
• For people who dont understand what we are talkin here... visit www.dreamindia2020.org to know about our organisation.
  

The Time Keeper

But the distressing part was not the pay-200 monetary units every month-, not me and the lads (whom I have been with for a full 15 years) going apart, but the job itself. We had to operate what was called a ‘Time Board’- a large black board plastered with cheap ad posters and at a corner, containing four slots for showing the time – two for the hour of the day and two for the minutes. My job was to sit behind the board in a room hidden from public view and at the end of every five minutes, update the time. I was in charge of many boards, with small hooks on top, to hang them behind the time board.

Just imagine – for eight long hours, every five minutes, I have to keep changing the timing boards relentlessly (Oh! How I wish I would never be born a pendulum if ever there were things like next birth). The only luxury I was accorded was that lunch and snacks were served at my place and the guard would take charge supposing I had to use the loo. Occasionally if I sat on the potty for a tad longer the guard-a huge man of Asian origin-would holler…

‘Arrey! If I keep changing the time forever, who would look at the trains? If you married soon, you wouldn’t spend so much time in the loo’

and I would yell back, my voice echoing back from the confines of the bulb-less bathroom…

‘I don’t know what you mean by that, but please let a man shit in peace at least.’

and add…

‘Don’t forget! The next five minutes are almost up. Change the numbers,’

as an afterthought.

And he always stood by me. By the time boards rather. Very nice guard indeed he was.

I managed to bore a hole through the time board without BD noticing it. I would peek through it all day long catching glimpses of fair women in their pretty frocks. (I have been lucky not to let BD see me doing all this) This keeps me occupied for most of the day, but trust me...it still is a boring job indeed.

Track maintenance takes place on Sunday afternoons due to which no trains ply through the station on Sundays noons. This gives me the much needed breather and I sit at home and write to the lads. I read and re-read all the letters that they have so regularly sent me and respond accordingly. The lads keep me engaged and it was mainly due to them that I haven’t much felt the absence of my parents.

P S : If you are still wondering what this is, it is an excerpt of the latest story I'm writing. I might or might not post the story in this site, but if you wish to receive the same throught e-mail, please mail me.

Suresh Kumar and his Study Circle!

With the double distress of not having a regular job years after graduation and the possibility of a bleak future staring at their faces, many a youth is lost wanting an answer to such a situation. It is to such youngsters that Suresh Kumar acts as a guiding light!

Tall, with a thick beard, a thoughtful countenance, and simple talk –These characterize Suresh who works as an assistant director in the Employment Exchange in the district of Tiruchy.

‘The way to your bright future from the dark present that you are surrounded by now, is right in front of you. Come with me and I shall lead you to your future,’ speaking thus, Suresh manages to infuse the much needed confidence in the minds of the youth. But unlike most others, he converts his speech to action.

To help precisely such kind of people, he has started an organization called “Study Circle” and it has been approved by the government of Tamil Nadu itself. This forum is now successfully functioning throughout the district. Even during Sundays local businessmen come and lecture the youth about their own success stories and how one can realize one’s dreams. Inspired by such tales, some come forward with ideas for starting a business and Suresh takes it upon himself to arrange for bank loans for such people.

Suresh has even managed to turn the system upside down at the Employment Exchange where he works. Gone are the days when the exchange was used only to register oneself in its database and then make the occasional visit to renew the registration. Suresh has converted it into a place where youth come and discuss various career options and also get their numerous queries on various exams clarified. Till date, about ten students from the forum have made it into the Indian Administrative Services and more than thousands have got government jobs. In fact the Jechinda, this year’s IAS topper, is also a student of the Study Circle.

Suresh Kumar was born in a non-descript village called Kadampatti, in the district of Madurai. As soon as he graduated from a college in Madurai, he got a job and worked in that company for 19 long years. Resigning from that job, he wrote the Group I examinations and got a job in the Employment Exchange itself.

‘That was the tuning point in my life. I saw hundreds of youth walking around having lost all hope in life. I targeted this group precisely when I started Study Circle. The number of people taking up various examinations after joining the forum touched 600 in the initial stages. Then I shifted the classes to Virudhunagar and met with equal success.

One boy called Ramesh. Both his legs were paralysed. Perchance he heard about me somewhere and came to me. “Sir! Please get me some job. Any job! I will do well” Hearing that pleading voice I did not what to do. I was stunned at the self confidence that boy had. We got him a job and now he sells newspapers and adverts in front of our office itself,’ narrates Suresh enthusiastically.

P S : This has been translated from a Tamil magazine and is second in a many part series

The Village Fool

"The small village of Chotagar only recently started seeing some ‘development’ which the whole country was talking about. Till even a few months back, this place was just another quaint little village in the huge cluster of such villages in northern India. Dusty and infested with stray dogs and the bovine species, Chotagar was not exactly a nice place to live in. Things however changed when Rai, the village fool – no one knew his first name –sighted some material in large amounts in the periphery of the village. There were still places in this small, muggy town that its residents had not seen, and Rai, with no work to do the whole day except loiter around dangling his long matted hair from left to right like a black pendulum, always kept venturing into those areas. This time though the usually useless sojourn proved to be a blessing. Rai returned huffing and puffing like a steam engine, and spoke rapidly in his incomprehensible style to the village headman-Rakha.

For the womenfolk, Rai represented all that was not good for their children-sloth, an acid tongue, not to mention the crooked teeth. They had even somehow found out that he had been ‘born to the Satan himself.’ Despite all such unfavorable conceptions, they ordered him constantly to fetch water from the river. Whether it was because of his dependence on them for his daily food or whether it was because of his simple nature that he ignored all malice aimed at him that he obeyed whatever they said, was anyone’s guess. "


These are the opening lines of the latest story that iam working on. Hope the story turns out to be a good one.

TN to Maharashtra to Punjab

I first saw the boy when lunching at the hotel some days back. On enquiry, I found out that he was from South India and had come to Bombay for work. Curious to know more about such an itinerant, I fixed an appointment with Mr. Seth the hotel owner, to find out whether we (me and the social service organization that I volunteer for) could help him out in any way.

Claustrophobia engulfed me as soon as I sat in that dingy 4-table hotel in Andheri. Mr. Seth made me comfortable and I wasted little time in discussing the boy. “Chai,” Mr. Seth called out. Fourteen year old Ramu kept a glass of tea before me. As he turned to leave, I caught hold of his wrist and said ‘Wait.”

Though short in height, he had a surprisingly good physique for boy just into his teens. ‘These people are here to provide you education and they want to know more about you. Tell them about your past and why you came here,’ Mr. Seth explained my purpose. With a pleasant smile, Ramu started narrating his tale and I listened with rapt attention.

Raghu came to Bombay two years back when his parents decided to discontinue his studies for want of money. His father is a farmer and that fateful year the crops failed badly, thanks to the poor rains. This forced him to send his son to work. With three children, he had no other option but to send the eldest into the wilderness of Bombay to shield his other two children from illiteracy. Ramu lived with an uncle in Bombay.

Ramu was working in a hotel when another uncle of his, Singaram, approached him. Singaram is a contract engineer in Punjab and works in a big factory. Due to reasons of a slight build, Singaram declined Ramu the job. Since Ramu had come to know that the job in Punjab would involve a lot of physical effort, he started working out in the gym everyday and is still awaiting the day that he would attain sufficient build to work in the factory along with his uncle.

The most difficult part of his work in the hotel is the long working hours and the six-day week. The boy travels 30 minutes by foot to and fro between his home and the hotel and works between eight in the morning and nine in the night. Waking up early mornings and going to a gym in the nearby playground has become a norm for the little fellow. This leaves Ramu with only six hours of sleep.

He lives an uncertain life in the middle of well to do cell phones toting teen aged children racing about in cars. At an age when most of us would not even have ventured out of our cities, leave alone states (except maybe on excursions), the thought of leading such a nomadic life – Tamil Nadu to Maharashtra to Punjab – seems scary.

‘I’ll manage. Just as I managed to learn Hindi here,’ he says with a smile that spills forth his innocence. With a tough life ahead of him, he has learnt to live life the tough way. Luckily for him, he has not yet taken to smoking or drinking as have children of his age in similar situations.

‘I have passed sixth standard,’ was the proud answer when I asked him about his studies though one could see sorrow in his eyes. He exuberantly nodded his head when presented with the chance to start studying again.

‘Try!. Teach him something for a month and see if he is really interested. For some, formal education will never be their cup of tea. Maybe his interests lie somewhere else. We have to find out what interests him and make him pursue that, maybe a welding profession or one as a car mechanic,’ Mr. Seth voiced his opinions.

We started teaching him mathematics and despite knowing only addition, he is a quick learner. Thought just two days into our classes, he has already shown the will and interest to continue learning and sometime in the near future, we plan of putting him in a night school.

There are such Ramu’s everywhere around us. Child labour of any form is nothing but pure injustice. Not only does it amount to exploitation, it also prevents the child from getting qualified for higher paying jobs, which invariably require at least a tenth standard passing certificate. The least we could do as responsible citizens of India is to speak out against this ugly practice of child labour and also try and educate such children by spending some of our time on them every week.

*All names changed for sake of privacy.

* The boy in the picture is NOT Ramu.

Sunflower Girl

paada-girl2
Originally uploaded by varun-r.

The sunflower girl is one of the cutie kids whom we teach during our weekend social service teaching sessions. Innocent smiles all around!

To know more about us, please visit

www.dreamindia2020.org

Kiss and Silk

Back when I was in college, screens were lighted up by the naked gyrating hips of the nouveau heroines as censor boards eased restrictions. On full view on the giant screen one night was Silk, (‘Silk.’ Oh my! The very name electrifies my body and numbs my brain. Her sensuous gaze enraptures me as it blazes through my body, those endlessly long shaven legs and her russet lips make her a veritable delicacy)

‘Even if I make it to the movies five years from now, I’ll be able to act with her,’ I proclaimed to my friends. ‘I aim to be her hero in at least a single movie and…’

‘And?’

‘Kiss her,’ I sibilantly said. ‘On screen! For everyone to see!’

The maximum I shamelessly can confide about my academics from then on is that I did not once fail in college during which time acting in college plays and in front of the mirror was a way of life. Thereafter father arranged for interviews which I promptly flunked while Silk continued to enthral audiences across the city.

My efforts in front of the mirror did not go waste as a non-descript director was impressed and I became the hero’s chauffeur in my first movie.

‘You sure they will pay you for this?’ Father asked me incredulously.

My career took off splendidly as audiences accepted me pronto. Silk was still a distant star in the cine skies. I kept dreaming of that coveted kiss – on screen!

It happened so fast it felt like a dream. I got the offer one November morning. Though she was not the belle that she looked on screen, the almost pudgy Silk, mesmerised me. My friends jealously disbelieved that my lips had caressed her satin ones. Though only for an instant, the taste of those saporous lips would linger in my tongue till eternity.

Opening day, first show! I was in the front row along with my friends and family. The theatre lights dimmed and little did I know that that was my last movie. My eyes narrowed as I leaned forward to see us– Silk and I -capering around trees in rain. Whispers among my nervous friends gently disturbed the silence. From now it was only the two me’s, one on screen and one off it. There was no sound nor were there people around me. Silk looked at me longingly and my body yielded like a pack of cards in a hurricane. As I caressed her face, I could feel father’s hot stare and my friends’ envious ones. She snaked her slender hands behind my neck (it was happening…on screen!), drew me closer (time froze), and (indeed happening)...

Now I am jobless, I don’t act anymore and I hate the censor board which decided to clamp down on what it called ‘objectionable’ scenes exactly at that moment. Some directors still call, but I had ended my acting career …along with my dream.

The world had not seen the kiss!



Post Script : This was written for a flash fiction competition.
Theme : Silk
World Limit : 500 words

---

ALONE IN BOMBAY

Part I

Bombay can be a pretty lonely place to live in, especially if one’s husband is in a profession which demands him to be on board an oil tanker for six months at a stretch every year and more so if you are not from Bombay but have recently moved in. All these situations apply to me and one more too. I had estranged my parents, conservative types I should add, back in that lovely city in southern India where not many people spoke Hindi, leave alone Marathi, the state language in Bombay. But it’s been four months now here in this busy metropolis and I have got used to a little bit of Marathi to help me survive. But trust me! This is not what I want to tell you about. Not the city life, nor how I am getting over my language problems here. Not even about how my husband, Ramki and I squabble every day on the phone about his job. I want to tell you about this man I met four months back and how events transpired after that. It all started, when I went to the kitchen on a rainy Sunday late morning to cook lunch. I did not employ a cook or a maid, so our fourth floor house, in a pretty apartment I should admit, was empty but for my presence. I drew the kitchen curtains back to let whatever light the sun was able to shine, into the room. But the gloom felt good too. I always like the gloom present when it rains. It gives an eerie feeling, a lord-of-the-ringish atmosphere to everything. As I was washing the dishes, there came a sudden phut phut as the pigeons flapped their wings as they descended on the window sill making that strange gurgling sound from the bottom of their throats. I took a hasty step back, the loud flapping taking me by surprise. Embarrassed and quickly regaining composure I resumed cleaning the dishes and watched the pigeons take flight into the monsoon skies, the greyness of their plumes rivalling their background. I set my eyes on one particular bird and traced her path -I like attaching a feminine gender when I really don’t know the gender –my eyeballs swinging left and right, up and down. She finally settled down on another window sill and for the second time that morning, I jumped: This time the cause of the terror more legitimate than just birds. Behind that window sill, the white curtains were parted a little and peering closely at me, were a pair of eyes in an unshaven rough looking face. The man was slightly taken aback knowing that I had spotted him, but adjusted well and smoothly closed the curtains.

Part II

The rest of the day was eventless but the face kept haunting me. I should confess that I peeked through the kitchen window three times till evening and you would be surprised to know that I was both relieved and disappointed not to see the face again. The usual questions in such a situation- Who was the guy? Why was he peeking? - raced through my mind but by nightfall when Ramki called, I almost forgot about it. He was missing me a lot, my husband and just as he was telling me of his plans and when he would be returning, the darned weather-pardon my language- played truant and the phone line went dead. This is always a problem with these satellite telephone equipment used in the high seas. Sighing, I changed, turned off the lights and flopped to the bed. I do not sleep immediately. It takes about an hour at least for me to doze off and these times when Ramki (dear Ramki) is not near me, I long for his presence in the bed, close to me and closing in on me like a predator. Such thoughts ever bring a smile to my face and I quickly hug a nearby pillow and still smiling to myself, sleep; That rainy night was no different and I did tumble into dreamland soon enough. No! I am not going to tell you that that night I dreamt of the face and woke up sweating. I did not; At least not then. My sleep was fitful enough those nights. The next day was spent in shopping at Churchgate and I entered the house late in the evening, quickly washed and went into the kitchen. It was already 9 pm and I was hungry. As I went about the boring ritual of making dinner, I couldn’t resist the urge to part the curtains a bit. I did so after a little bit of thought and even in the dark, was able to espy the face in the same place. This time though I was waiting for it and was not half as surprised and the face beat a hasty retreat. Despite being a little scared, I found this game a little thrilling and could not wait to find out who this guy was and why he was staring at me. I have indeed heard of voyeuristic men keeping tabs on other peoples’ windows waiting to catch glimpses of any scenes which, if shown on TV would make mama change channels or bring papa into a sudden joyous mood wherein he lets out a whoop of joy and hugs the child so completely that he doesn’t get a glimpse of what is happening in the screen. But this was the first time I was experiencing such a thing and I was not even sure about the intentions of the man. Oh how mistaken I was!

Part III

It wasn’t till one more week that I actually saw the man, from head to toe that is. I was out buying vegetables when a potato fell down. I know it sounds filmi, maybe even comical, but I state the facts as such. I was about to bend down after keeping aside the heavy bag that I was carrying when this man near me said “Don’t bother” as he picked up the vegetable and put it in my basket. As courtesy demanded, I turned to thank him, but was unable to do that. Staring at me with a sort of malicious benevolence were those eyes, the same eyes that I had seen between the curtains through my window. He gave me a supercilious smile which I returned with a fluster and soon scurried off to my home. That night I could not sleep, not much at least. I was not afraid, no dear reader! Far from it and strangely though, I was thinking of how, actually speaking, that man did not look bad all. Quite tall, I should say he stood at almost 6 feet and 3inches. He was not all that brawny I should accept, but he was not thin either. He looked rather sleek like a smooth Mont Blanc refill. I quickly chided myself for painting a mental image of him and even felt a little bit embarrassed if not ashamed. After counting to about five hundred sheep (or was it eight hundred) I succumbed to the natural longings of my brain which screamed for some sleep. I do not know what happened that night but the next day I woke up with a resolve. I was not going to run and hide anymore. I was going to play his game by his own rules. I went straight to the kitchen, jerked the curtains to the sides and flung open the windows with a flourish. His windows were properly locked in. Patience, my girl, patience. By the time I had a bath and came back to the kitchen (I did peek in a few times before that though), his window was open. But he wasn’t there. I did not have to wait long. By the time the sun was right on top of my terrace, the man was back in his place and this time he was eyeing a confident ME. And I am sure he was taken by surprise. Oh! What I’d have given to pull out the truth from his mouth then on how he had felt. At that point, I did something I myself could not believe for quite sometime after. I waved at him.

Part IV

Here I will not stretch the part where we became acquainted. Just understand that we did somehow and started talking within a span of two days. (After I waved he too did. We bumped into each other in the market place again that day and began a conversation on how drastically the weather had changed) He seemed an amiable guy, quite talkative and highly unlike the dark image that I had conjured of him the first time I saw him peering at me. When I mentioned this to him over a cup of evening tea, he did not stop laughing till I threatened I’d cancel our dinner appointment the next evening. That brought him to senses and though he burst out into short spurts of laughter for the rest of the session, he was largely mute. Ah! How did I forget to mention the dinner appointment! It was entirely by chance. He said he was a freelancer writer, working from his house and that he had also recently moved in. “Being a bachelor,” he said, “it is difficult to find good food.” And I, not with entirely honest intentions, immediately offered to have his company for dinner. And he accepted without hesitation. I should admit that I was indeed attracted to this stranger. As I already said, being lonely in such a big city can leave a person…well…longing for company. And any company which presents itself should not be passed. At least I could not pass it.

Part V

The big night arrived and I was dressed perfectly for the occasion. The beautiful red gown that Ramki got for me on our first anniversary (he always mentioned that I looked so ‘sexy’ in that dress), impressed him. And the suit that he wore, perfect to the crease, was “way too splendid for my humble dinner” I exclaimed. He flashed that winning smile of his and that gripped my heart for quite sometime after that. In fact that smile of his had a big influence in the way things transpired later that night. After chatting for sometime, we dined; He liked the food and remarked that it ‘was the first good food that I’ve eaten since coming to this city.’ His manners were impeccable; so smooth were his movements and so deftly he handled the spoon and the fork that I almost felt like I was dining with royalty. I, for one, could never demystify the fork or the spoon and am always clumsy no mater how hard I tried. The spark flicked when I tried reaching out for a dish which was out of my reach. He grabbed my wrist and gave me a smile ‘Allow me,’ he served me the dish. There was a certain chill to his touch, a certain flavour, not the usual touch of a stranger, but one that gave a feeling of control and comfort. I did not flinch, but was unnerved. I feared where this might lead to, but was eager to see events unfold. We finished our dinner in silence after that incident, though I could tell he knew what I was thinking. I felt his eyes rove all over my body despite the fact that I was hunched over my plate all the time. Post dinner, we resumed chatting late into the night and finally, he made his move. To be frank, this was the moment I was waiting for and when he made it, a gentle slap on my shoulder and hands on my thighs, I gave in readily like a skyscraper collapsing to the effect of a powerful bomb. I would do well to screen away the events that happened as I sincerely believe that your imaginations dear reader, would do a better job. So engrossed were we that I even managed to neglect the ringing phone, Ramki’s call, as I learnt later. The stranger left early in the morning giving me a peck on my cheeks as he went. I lay bare on the bed shorn of clothing, and my conscience.

Part VI

But these were not what shocked me. Not my discovery of how far I could go and certainly not that I did not think of the repercussions of what would happen if I were caught. The real twists started the following day when he called and said he was going out of the city for an assignment and would not be back for two days. To be frank, I did not want him to go away. I said “Oh!” and maintained an it-does-not-matter voice. Of course it did! I know it was a cheap thought, but I’m only being truthful here. Else I would not be writing this story. A week passed and I spent the nights in agony, sometimes thinking of Ramki and sometimes of the other man. Ramki did not call for a long time, I tried calling him but that wasn’t working either. And there I was in a big city, alone, without a man. Finally, my husband did give me a call, saying that he would be home in another 30 minutes and asking me to keep the bath ready and also that he would explain everything later. I did not think he would come for another 15 more days and hoped like crazy that the stranger did not turn up. He did turn up though.

Part VII

Knowing what the climax is, I should warn you that, everything happened in such hurry that I was left wondering what was true and what was not. My dear, unsuspecting Ramki was telling me how he called five times one night and that I did not pick up the phone. You would have no doubt guessed why I did not heed the call that night, but I will not hold you for being unaware that my husband wanted to warn me of two things-that he was coming home sooner than expected but might not be able to call again as the crew were expecting very rough weather, and more importantly that there was an escaped convict on the run in Bombay; he was known for his lecherous nature and was wanted in many kidnapping cases. “He is a very dangerous customer,” my husband was nervous and I could see that he was very worried for me. “I wonder how you could sleep so tightly that you don’t even hear the phone ring for so long. I’m not like that even when I am drunk.” He was not even suspicious, though there was slight irritation in his voice. What could I say! I just put my head down with a shamefull innocence and went in calling out, “I’ll make hot coffee for you.” The decoction was boiling when there was a rap on the door. (Our door bell had not been working for sometime now) I ran out, almost tripping on my sari, hoping Ramki did not notice my haste. “Wait!” Ramki almost ordered me. And I complied. “I’ll get the door,” and he folded the newspaper as he walked toward the door. I braced myself for the occasion and was fervently praying that it was not Him. It was Him. He stood an inch or two taller than my husband, but approximately with the same build. The only two men in my life stood face to face staring at each other for a whole minute, neither knowing who the other one was. “Who are you?” Ramki broke the silence first. The stranger looked beyond Ramki and caught my pleading eye. I did not dare make gestures at him. It was too risky with Ramki so close to me. “I have to come to visit the brotherhood,” he said faking a coarse voice. “Brotherhood? What brotherhood?” Ramki was confused. I almost laughed. It was so funny the way the stranger made it all up almost instantly.

Part VIII

Ramki had to struggle quite a bit to convince the person that this was not the house where the mysteriously named brotherhood met every week. And that he had not even heard of it. But things did not end there. As they had to happen, my husband found out immediately that the stranger was indeed the criminal absconding from law. He saw the photograph in the newspaper immediately after seeing him off. “Oh my god!” he exclaimed. “I don’t believe this. Ramya, don’t you think this is the guy who came to our house now?” What could I say! It was indeed him, but I did not want that guy to get caught. What if he blurted my name out? “Maybe! Leave it Ram. These people are criminals. Why unnecessarily get into trouble?” “What are you saying! He wouldn’t even have crossed the street. I’m going to call the police now,” and with that he rushed to the phone. I inconspicuously slipped away from the room and went to the balcony, with the newspaper thankfully. He was just then crossing the road and entering his apartment. From the other room I could hear Ramki cursing the police department for having too less number of lines. “Keep trying. I’ll meanwhile try and spot the guy,” I shouted out, loud enough for the stranger to hear me. He looked up and I waved the paper and pointed the photo, vigorously wagging my hand imploring him to leave. He understood - criminals would, wont they – and caught the next taxi. “Hello, Police? I think I spotted the criminal…” I did not hear the rest of the conversation. I did not care. I was sure he was smart enough to escape; he now had a head start also. Nowadays when I think of it, I think I did owe him that bit. After all, I couldn’t even imagine my plight if he had spilt the beans to Ramki that day. Two months after the event, I’m still alone in Bombay - Awaiting my husband, my dear husband’s arrival. And the ring of the phone at nights. After all, I do love Ramki!

---

The Childhood Race

I watched the kid run; windbeater that he was. Naked slim waist upwards, he started his race from one end of the potholed street to the other regardless of the other runners, pushing them one by one into the sidelines. I did the same during my childhood race.

With a hundred yards to go his pace slackened and the bully caught up. “Hai! Hai!” I cried and punched the empty space before me giving him a boost using which he surged ahead-yet again! Arms pumping up and down with innocent fury, the desire to win burning bright in his russet eyes, the twelve year old sped along like a road runner-On towards the finish, just like I had done.

Perchance I scanned the finish line and found an ugly stone, the same ugly stone, just before it and screamed “Watch out.”

Today he did. During my day, I did not.

He jerked and twisted his entire hip just in time to avoid that stone which I did not see during my childhood race.

He won. Back then, I only fell.

With wild ecstasy and a tinge of jealousy, I rolled my wheel chair noisily, painfully forward, to hug my hero.


This was written for a short story competition.
Theme : Childhood
Word limit : 200 words

---

Humane Hearts

Krishnan finished a course in Catering Technology four years back and was employed in a star hotel in Bangalore. He got an offer for a job in Switzerland one day. It was too glamorous to be turned down and he went back to his home town of Madurai to spend a week before leaving India. This journey was a turning point in his life and in fact, he was never the same Krishnan again!

“I did not want to sit alone at home after my parents left for work. So I decided to roam around the city. Cycling my way to the railway station, I was not ready for the shock I received there. Near the highway, on the road, an old man was shrivelled up like a rag. He was mentally retarded and was eating some unmentionable from the road. I could not bear the sight and quickly went and shook his hand free of whatever he was eating, cleaned him and made him sit up. Some hot idlis from a nearby hotel rejuvenated him a bit. Tears welled up in his eyes.

From then I could not erase the sight from my mind and cried thinking of all such injustices against humans in this world. I did not want Switzerland anymore. It seemed so distant, so superficial, and so irrelevant. Instead of serving people who buy a plate of rice for five hundred rupees and waste most of it, my time, I realised, was better spent in serving the hundreds of discarded people who dotted the landscape of the city. I cancelled my tickets, shut the Alps from my mind and stayed at home,” says Krishnan as if it were the most natural thing to do.

Today this noble soul serves three meals a day for 120 such people who were earlier wasting away on the streets of Madurai. This lot includes people affected by various diseases and complications like

AIDS and mental disorders- All of them are too senile to work for a living.

“Seeing me walk around with these thoughts all the time, my relatives decided that I have been taken over by the spirits of the land. This inflamed the fantasy of my parents who wanted to take me to a spirit doctor to chase away the bad influences. I said I’d go but asked my parents to come and have a look at the people that I was serving. They came and they saw. Back home my mom said ‘My dear child! We are so fortunate to have given birth to a person like you. Words cannot express my feelings now.’ I wiped away her tears with my fingers. From then on I did nothing else but serve these people day and night,” narrates Krishnan proudly.

Today it costs Rs 3000 per day to serve three meals to 120 people. Moved by the intense passion and humanity of Krishnan, 20 of his friends contribute Rs 3000 every month to sustain the daily food costs. Krishnan’s parents take care of two days’ food. “The remaining eight days are a struggle,” says he with a sigh. He requests people who conduct marriages and birthday celebrations to offer some food and tries adjusting for the remaining days.

Apart from the time spent on sourcing food supplies, he spends the rest on scrubbing and cleaning these people in nearby public baths and clothing them neatly giving them their much desired self-respect. He even trims the hair of those who have mini undergrowths on their heads.

Krishnan, 24 has completed a full course in Vedas and has offered his life-long services to charity. The sacrifices that he has done in life, at a time when going to a foreign nation is a craze among the youth, have raised him on to a pedestal where mere mortals can only dream to be. All this coming at such a young age makes it all the more marvellous.

P S : This is another piece which was originally in Tamil. I translated it for a wider audience.

---

 

Melghat - The magical lost land!

Melghat district in Maharashtra is present 800 kms away from Mumbai, the financial capital of India. This hilly region is inhabited by tribal people and is mostly under developed. When a group of us read a news article in The Hindu recently about the malnourishment deaths among children in the district, we researched on the issue and found out that these were not one-off happenings in the region. Such deaths have been prevalent for about 10 years now. So we went to the place on a weekend to know more about the situation prevailing there. The following is a detailed report of what we experienced. Before leaving Mumbai, we had contacted an NGO called ‘Khoj’ which was doing considerable work in the area and after getting down from the railway station, wewere escorted to Paratvada, a small town by Jeep, sent by Khoj. We were very impressed with the kind of work that Khoj was doing. The lady, who started it, along with her husband way back in July 1997, was doing stellar work in defending the rights of the tribes against the policies of the government. After discussing the problems prevalent in the place for about three long hours, we refreshed and started out on our journey into the hills and the villages within. We started at 3 p.m Saturday in a Mahindra Armada and were accompanied by the driver and a guide who worked with Khoj. The way up was very scenic and it felt like we were traveling in Switzerland. It is indeed ironic that the people living here should struggle to live.

When talking to people at Khoj, we found out the structure of government health facilities in these villages. There is a PHC (Primary Health Centre) for every 1000 people. Under PHCs there are sub-centers. There is one sub-center for every three of four villages. There is a nurse, who is known as ANM (Auxiliary Nurse Midwife), for every four or five villages and she goes around these villages every day attending to the patients. Since she has to cover a lot of villages, she goes to one village every day. In every village there is appointed a ‘pada’ who takes instructions from the ANM and administers medicine to the patients till the next time the ANM comes back. In addition to all this, there are mobile vans which run around the villages treating patients.

We reached the first PHC at about 6 p.m. We went with an open mind and were not biased with the talk going around that the doctors were bad and that they did not care about the patients. In PHCs free treatment is provided for some types of illnesses. They are

• Tuberculosis
• Leprosy
  
• Snake bites
• Dog bites
• Malaria
  

The main door was almost closed as if the doctors feared that patients might come in. There were totally five beds but only two patients, a boy of about 8 years and a lady lying down, on the cots.

We spoke to the sole doctor for about an hour. He revealed that in the place where there were approximately 350 villages, there was not a single pediatrician and this when the maximum number of malnutrition cases occurs amongst children. He was temporarily posted to the hospital till a replacement was found for the earlier doctor who had quit his job. This new person did not even know why the boy was admitted in the hospital. He turned around and asked his compounder why the boy was there.

During the conversation we found out some of the reasons that doctors dislike working in the villages. First and foremost is the pay packet. Doctors feel that considering their qualification and the environment in which they work under, they deserve better pay than that they currently get and this applied particularly in the case of doctors who had qualified in specialized areas like Pediatricians. These people can earn in thousands in a single day if they work in cities but when confined to these villages, where the average income of a family is about 6000 to 7000 rupees every year, they earn very little. But we failed to understand why these doctors don’t quit their jobs or why they joined in the first

place. They show least care or sympathy to the ill but promptly collect their salaries when a new month is born. Secondly, the conditions of work are not exactly great. There is very little voltage in the evenings and virtually zero telephone facility. Cell phone signals do not penetrate the mountains here. There are other reasons like plain old laziness and apathy to working. When we asked what the solutions to these problems were, the doctor strongly believed that the people should be migrated to cities. “The amount of money spent on education, health care, and transport in this place could be spent in creating job opportunities in cities which would guarantee the livelihood of these villagers.” What he did not appreciate was the fact that these villagers have been living in the place for centuries and they would rather be happy where they are rather than scrounging for food in cities.

Diarrhea and Pneumonia are common disease here. “Parental negligence is a major cause for many of the diseases present in this place. Mothers don’t know the importance of breast feeding. Both parents leave for work every day after feeding their children a just roti or two which will have to enough till the time they come back from the fields which is usually late afternoon.” The truth is that government run “Anganwadis” - centers which take care of children while the parents are away - do not function effectively. These places provide food to children everyday. But there is no place for the children to eat the food. So they take the back home where it gets shared leading to lessening of the nutritive content and hence problems of malnutrition.

“Family planning is virtually nil here. Each family has a minimum of three children. Some years back it was as high as seven, but recently it has fallen down to three, but that still is so high.” This is true. Family planning is indeed non-existent. As far as the villagers are concerned, more the number of hands, the better it is to till their lands and herd their cattle. But one good thing is that there have been no reported cases of female infanticide. Neither are there any child marriages. While we were leaving there was another remark that the doctor made, “Jungles are not for people. They are for animals and we should leave them alone.” Considering the fact that the people here have been living with the animals for centuries together, there could not have been a more false statement.

When we were done talking to the doctor, we left for a nearby village, Butida, to cross check what the doctor told us. It was 7 30 p.m and the place was as dark as a graveyard. We could hear sounds of crying babies and a barking dog somewhere in the distance. The only lights came from our headlights and a lamp in a house.

When we switched off the headlight, the village was drenched with darkness and we got accustomed to it in a few minutes. After quickly gaining the confidence of the villagers by distributing chocolates and biscuits to the children, we gathered the villagers around and sat down in a circle with an oil lamp in our midst. (The emergency lamp that we had brought along decided to fail at this moment)

We started discussing the health conditions and were not surprised to hear tales different from what the doctor told us. The ANM attends the village only once in 8 or 9 days. Till then the headman has to make do with whatever medicinal knowledge he has. In fact there is a traditional method of curing certain diseases in children called ‘Damma.’ In this treatment, a hot iron rod is kept on the bare stomach of the child. Villagers would not have to resort to such practices if they had proper non costly treatment by the government. If all alternatives fail, these people walk to a private hospital which is 11 kms away.

The crops (mainly soya) this year had failed due to a worm and that left the people with nothing to do till next sowing season. Money lenders charged very high interest rates and that hit the people hard. The part hardest to understand was that there were electricity poles in the village but no power supply. Way back in1986, power was on for a full five days before the village went dark. Since then, it has remained so. These people earn about 5000 to 6000 rupees every year and on an average every family has about 3 children. It was here that I understood how lucky we all were and I keep reminding myself not to complain the next time I fall short of money.

After the long chat with the villagers, we left for a village called Chillati, which was a good two hours drive from. The drive was through a forest and the rough terrain kept us praying against puncture throughout the journey. Finally, we arrived at Chillati at 10 30 p.m. We were warned earlier that there would not be electricity here too. There indeed was none! We stayed at the office of an NGO there called “Melghat Mitra.” The person who is in charge of the project Mr Madhukar had a lot to tell us the next day, all of which echoed what we had ourselves seen the earlier day. He along with 4 friends of his have been staying in this village for quite some time now and they are involved in many activities like conducting study classes, taking care of the ill etc. (The people in the snap are the ones running Melghat Mitra in the village)

Very near the office was a government school which was completely broken down. We entered through the window and found leaky roofs (It was raining heavily then), broken blackboards and dusty floors.

When talking to the children playing nearby, we found out that the teacher in the school had not arrived for more than a month and that the children had nothing else to do but play all day. “Teachers are lazy. They feel that their pay is not high enough. They don’t quit the job but they receive their pay on time,” says Madhukar. No matter how hard the villagers force the teachers to attend, some are absolutely resolute and go to the extent of saying “Do what you want! I will not come.”

There were about 15 households in the village and every family has about three to four buffaloes. We saw small boys hauling cow dung with their hands and clearing up the place.

Girls were engaged in pumping water and carrying the water pots to their houses. There were a few solar panels in the village and on further enquiry we found out that a few years back, there were about 40 of them. But they were all stolen. Repeated complaints to a police station which was in some remote inaccessible corner of the district had fallen into deaf years. “Bring us the culprits and we will take action,” is what the police had to say. Now in the village there stands a solitary panel which stores enough current to emit a dull light for about 15 whole minutes every evening. We are sure that this was not their initial purpose.

There are a lot of Ashrams run by trusts and other organizations. We went to one such place and soon found out that the proprietors were drunk. About 200 children stayed and studied there and on questioning more, we could find out that the quality of education imparted was not anything to write home about.

Our next stop was the office of the electricity department. By this time, the battery in our digital camera had died out and we wanted to charge it. Would you believe it if I say that there was no current in the electricity board office? Well, you have no other option but to believe. The office had not been used for at least a month and there was no furniture inside it whatsoever. We went in the same way we did into the classroom- jumped in through the window. The thing most appalling in the entire visit was the fact that just behind the office was the electricity board housing quarters where the officials continue to live and even receive pay.

Our final stop was a village called “Avaagad.” Here too the conditions of the people were similar to what we had seen in the other villages. There was one NGO which served children food (for free) everyday.

It is the initiatives like these from such NGOs and other informal organizations that give hopes to the thousands of people living in these villages. It is high time that the government starts acting responsibly and gets the wonderful systems present in these areas working. It does not take much money; it only requires will. With such thoughts, we returned to our wonderful hosts, Khoj, had some discussions with them for some more time and boarded the mid night train back to Mumbai. We have some ideas which we are thinking of implementing first on a small scale, in one of these villages and if successful, carry them on to other villages as well.

• Friends from the medical college present at Paratvada could assist NGOs like Khoj or the Melghat Mitra in their health campaigns. The students will also get first hand experience. They can visit the government hospitals which do not as of now look too inviting and give them a complete makeover. This can be done by pasting bright stickers or painting the walls, installing more lights, stressing on the importance of health to the patients etc.
• Saplings can be given to kids for planting. It can be treated as a competition and kids taking care of their saplings well could be treated. By this way, the importance of nature can be stressed.
• Workshops can be conducted to the people to teach them an alternate trade which can be used for their livelihood.

Nice and simple as the above ideas seem, they require people, committed individuals to carry them out. “Alternative means of livelihood is the only solution,” said a villager that night. While the flame was dying down and darkness was once again surrounding us, we made a promise. “We’ll be back.” And this time, we should have some ideas for this underprivileged lot.

Those who would like to help or who have ideas, please let us know... mail to dream_india_2020@yahoo.co.in

Also visit www.dreamindia2020.org to know more about us!

---

LOSER

It’s been a week now since she exited my life through the narrowest outlets present. I won’t go into the details of the event, if you may call it that. No! Standing nervously on this chair, I don’t have much time to render the entire tale. This past week, from Monday through Friday, I have cried and thought about suicide and now I am standing on this high chair, with a noose in hand and a prayer on my lips that the fan holds steady and bears 75 kilogrammes.

To put it in a nutshell, I won’t blame her for what happened. No sir! That would not be fair, but knowing that your self is to be blamed for ending a long standing beautiful relationship, you would not want to live long, would you?

“Damn this rope, I wonder how they tie the noose so easily in the movies. Maybe they have readymade nooses available in the shops.”

I have tried rationalising the situation many a time and have found ample reasons against such a literally life-threatening decision (I don’t call it life-ending as I still don’t believe this old fan would hold steady) But the truth is that I have found enough to counter those reasons too. My life has a big vacancy now. I have so much more time and I don’t know what to do with it. I’m not a person with ample ambitions, neither am I one with many friends. As a 23 year old with the entire life ahead of him, I simply do not know what to do. Defeatist attitude you call it? Loser you call me? Well, good then. I’ll behave aptly.

“Ah! Finally, this knot should hold good. And now to garland this rope of death around my neck. Hmmm! Not bad at all. This is turning out to be easier than I thought.”

I have stopped talking to her; that would only draw me into the deadly swirl of the pleasant memories of the past and I would be consumed in an instant. I know that. I tried talking to her last week and that’s what happened. It takes five minutes of conversation with an ex-lover to undo all the ostensibly nice things you have done to your self, like encouraging it to slowly forget the past and say the nicest of things like ‘Life goes on’ and you know…things like what you find in the ‘Chicken soup for the failed lover’ books.

“Now I’m all set; the rope strongly around the fan and around my neck as well. Three mighty tugs now. Strong inward breath; One, Two, and Three! That does it. Testing over and now for the final plunge.”

I do not, fortunately have much time left, my parents will be here any time now. I strongly believe that what I am doing is not an unwanted task. Its better the world rids itself of a loser. Surprised? When did I ever refute that tag? I totally agree and as I said, act in accordance.

“Ok! Here I go. Rope strong enough, I hope. Everything is in place. Legs on tip of the tall back rest of the chair. I only have to kick the chair to test the veracity of heaven and hell. And rebirth and karma as well. Ok! I’ll stop sounding like a Hindu priest and kick my way to death. Here goes…”



Afterword

There was pain; the strangulation around the throat was unbearable. My legs flayed in the air in a scissoring action when the door burst open and in came my father, my strong father. In an instant I was on the floor and gasping for breath drinking greedily the water my tearful mom gave me. I glanced around the room mindless of the questions my mom was throwing at me. The window! How thoughtless of me to leave the window open. The fan stood steady, bore the 75 kilogramme weight, but the window let me down. If not, they would have thought I was still sleeping. Through the steady barrage of words that were spouting out of my parents’ mouths, I was able to think and realised one thing. I was indeed a loser!

---

The Train Accident

Forty-six year old Lalitha stood anxiously on the platform. She had been crying for the past five hours and there were no more tears left in her glands. It had been six hours since the Mumbai-Chennai express had derailed leading to a horrible crash and there still was no news about her son Anand. She constantly kept running to the edge of the platform as if expecting the train to come back. The authorities had promised to put up a list in three hours, but still there was no such list. Frantic calls to the numbers which were put up on the news only ended in busy tones. Lalitha was aware of the spate of train accidents happening around the country but never even imagined that this could happen to her son.

Mahesh, her husband had been running from pillar to post, calling people, arguing with the authorities, comforting her from time-to-time and even sympathizing with the hoards of other people who had come there with more than a prayer on their lips. It was rumored that about a hundred and fifty people were dead. This sent Lalitha into a temporary state of shock and Mahesh had to literally shake her up violently for her to snap back to reality. Then started a fresh round of tears.

All the frenzied activity and jangling of telephones tensed her even more and she had already prayed that she would climb all the way to the temple at Tirupathi* if her son got out of this alive. The tens of television screens were relaying scenes of the crash and Lalitha stubbornly refused to look at them. Mahesh could not help take a look at the mangled bodies once in a while and he too was fervent in prayer. The twisted steel and iron structures had crushed people beyond recognition and the very thought that his son might be one of them was enough for him to take his eyes off the screens.

For Lalitha, it was nothing short of a nightmare. She had been emotional - as was usual on the day he left - and had cried silently. She had never been away from him for more than a week – which was usually when he went on excursions with friends – and this time “this official trip”, he had said “would take more than a month”. She usually was not a superstitious person, but felt uneasy when that dumb cat crossed Anand's path when he left home for the station that morning. Even though it was not black in color, she could not shake off the feeling of restlessness. Now that this had happened, she would not stop blaming herself for not stopping Anand from postponing this ill-fated trip. Mahesh constantly kept reminding her that it was not her fault and even if such things were true, only black cats created problems and not the white ones. Finally, he gave up, exasperated.

The death count was increasing by the minute as more and more bodies were being discovered under the bogies. The railway minister had already announced the perfunctory 'probe into the disaster' and relief funds were being announced. Hospitals in that part of Andhra were working overtime and blood requirements were being flashed continuously across the screen.

All this failed to capture Lalitha's attention. All she wanted was her son- Alive!

Finally, it happened. There was an announcement over the microphone that in a short while, a list of people who were confirmed to be alive and out of danger would be read out. They had a list of fifty people and it would also be put up on the notice boards in some time. The printer was jammed at present. About two hundred people crowded the place under the loudspeaker glancing up open mouthedly. Lalitha was glad that her son's name started with an 'A'. It would be read out in the beginning itself saving her some more anxiety.

"Aakash Mishra"...”Aashish Jain"..."Anamma"...the voice was heard crisp and clear. There was considerable silence in the place. As the names were read out, there were whoops of joy and relief from some and impatient sighs from the others.

"Anand" said the voice and when the second name was being read out, the microphone, which had been crackling for some time now, failed. This induced cries of joy from around ten people. Lalitha was one of them. All of them gave each other bland looks, not knowing how to react.

After about an hour, Mahesh led Lalitha out of the station hands around shoulder. She was crying uncontrollably.

"Come on Lalitha...All this is fate. We have no control over these things."

"This should not have happened to our son. What harm did he mean to anyone?"

Mahesh did not know what to say.

“What big ambitions he had of becoming an author? How he hoped to travel the entire world…All of them cut short by fate…”

Mahesh ruminated for a while before saying “Did you not see the hundreds of others who died there? What do you have to say about them? Don’t you think Anand was lucky to escape with just one broken arm?"

So saying he flagged down a taxi and goaded her in. She got in…still crying.

Glossary
Tirupathi: Arguably the most famous temple in India.

---

Sun and Rain

The temperatures soared. If people going to Chennai from Mumbai thought that the latter’s heat was unbearable, they were in for the clichéd (yet undeniably true) rude shock. The mercury, in most cities of South India, stayed close to the bulb, in this season (April through July). As a result, the atmosphere at 3 p.m inside our compartment was sticky, and silent, to say the least. The oppressive heat had effectively muted most people. Whatever little conversation that took place was purely out of need. “Pass me the water” was the most common of them. Others like “Why don’t you stop the baby from crying” and “Just a few more hours. We are almost there” (mothers to their undiscerning children) could also be heard.

The teenager went to ‘refresh’ his face with water only to grimace at the more-than-warm water that flowed out of the tap-the kind whose steel foreskin had to be jerked up to bring about water. The thanda paani* that the vendor professed to sell was but warm water. He would only assure with a sly smile, on nurturing a discussion, that one cannot get colder water than what he has to sell.

Tempers frayed goaded by the heat. Parents were less patient with their troublesome kids, who were surprised at the thrashing they received for misdemeanors that usually did not attract more than a strict warning. This confused them further and hence the wailing decibels increased. It sure was a vicious circle and the heat was surely playing sadistic games.

A place near the window, or the door, only ensured that the heat wave draped around you like a blanket. One wondered about the children playing in the fields that floated past the train. In the middle of barren pieces of land, with no clothes or slippers on, they seemed quite at home in the heat. They derived pleasure in waving their hands at us.
Suddenly, a drop of water fell on me. I initially thought it was a passenger on the other side washing his hands carelessly out of the window and that the wind was blowing the droplets in my direction. But no. Stealthily, dark clouds had gathered around the skies and were conspiring against the sun successfully at that. More water drops! I was thrilled like a small child and could not resist thrusting my face as far as I could into the wind. The rain drops splattered across my face and I was soon forced to first close my eyes, and then withdraw my face as the shower gained in force. I smiled involuntarily and turned to the face the other passengers who had similar expressions. This instant rain had galvanized the mellow crowd into a frenzy. The frowns had skipped town and ear-to-ear grins became the norm. Children cavorted from one window to the other stretching out their hands and straining to sight a glimpse of that elusive rainbow which everyone else was savoring. For once their parents did not mind. But there were some who insisted on pulling down the shutters as the rain intensified.
The teen had grabbed hold of the two vertical yellow bars on either side of the entrance and was arching his body outward. Rain water streamed down his face and was dripping from his chin and his ear ends. Not only he, but everyone was deeply inhaling the rain doused earth. This was the most natural and exotic smell ever.
The wind was so forceful it broke the plantains in half and they swayed their numerous green arms uniformly to one side in deference. The rainbow cut a wide arc across the sky. I tried in vain, as usual, to distinguish all the seven colors. I sometimes think that rainbows are a scam and they do not contain seven colors as is popularly believed. Colors always blur into other colors and the reds and the oranges look so similar it is difficult to tell them apart.
While I was indulging in the pleasures caused by the rain, I had not noticed the lessening of it. Slowly but surely the windows were being drawn up- one-by-one. The sheet of rain became a film, which mizzled down and eventually only the random drop from the window or a nearby electricity pole and the chill weather remained to remind us of what had come- and already gone. The plantains regained their upright positions, proudly holding their heads against the degenerating wind, sneering at it with a misplaced sense of victory. The teen took his seat, drenched to the bone.
The sun peeped out with the shyness of a newly wed girl, then showed itself out with the audacity of her mother-in-law. Within minutes the clouds had melted away into oblivion by the rays of the sun.
Normalcy re-asserted itself in the Chennai-Mumbai Express. The game was up. The heat was on.


*Thandaa Paani: Cold Water

---