Stories by Subhash

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Stories by Subhash

Topic started by pavalamani pragasam on Fri Jan 11 1:13:37 2008. [Full View]

During my random browsing tours I came upon a site where one particular writer captivated my admiration. Subhash is a master of the art of story-telling with a unique style & a flair for empathy. Since I feel the pleasure I derived from reading his stories should be shared I am reproducing them here:

DONT DELVE TOO MUCH

The moment I see Muthu, the office-boy, standing at the door of the class room I feel a familiar fear. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Ms Bhalla who is reading aloud with dramatic effect Ruskin Bond’s story ‘The Woman on Platform 8’. It’s a moving story about a brief encounter between a woman and a motherless boy.

I love short stories, especially Ruskin Bond, and Ms Bhalla is my favorite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.

I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.

“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her ex-pression starts changing.

Before she gets angry someone says, “It is Muthu, ma’am.”

Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.

I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”

Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.

“Must be a big binge this time,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears start to well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?

I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”

We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings - cold, dark and gloomy.

“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.

“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.

“Whenever I’m there with him, he’s okay and controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got in this world - after mummy died.”

“He was improving so much and looked so good last weekend,” Lata says.

Lata is my true friend who I can open my heart to. The others - they watch from a distance. With pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.

“Something must have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”

“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.

“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the cruel world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.

Ms David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.

I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs. Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”

“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.

“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a mathematics test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”

“Please Miss,” Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says, “Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”

I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.

Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.

Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms Pushpa - an ex-student of our school.”

“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.

“Hello, Shanta.” Ms Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”

As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s grotesque, terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people - they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.

I walk with Ms Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.

I look at Ms Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.

We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.

“You’re in Rose house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.

Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer!

“Yes ma’am,” I answer.

“I too was in Rose house,” she says.

“When did you pass out, ma’am ?” I ask.

“1987,” she says.

I do a quick mental calculation. She must be in her mid-thirties. 35, maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And very beautiful.

We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of the lonely Lovedale railway station.

“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.

“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.

“Season ticket?” she asked surprised.

“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.

“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.

“Even now ma’am,” I say. “I’ve got special permission. My father doesn’t keep well. I have to look after him.”

“Oh, yes,” she says, and walks towards the deserted booking window.

Lovedale is the most picturesque railway station on the Nilgiri mountain railway but today it looks gloomy, desolate. One has to be happy inside for things to look beautiful outside.

She returns with her ticket and we sit on the solitary bench.

“Where do you stay ma’am ?” I ask.

“Bangalore,” she says. “You’ve been there?”

“Yes”

“Often?”

“Only once. Last month. For my father’s treatment,” I say.

She asks the question I’m waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father? What’s wrong with him? What’s he suffering from?”

I’ve never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure! At first I used to feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.

“He’s an alcoholic,” I say.

Most people shut up after this. Or change the topic of conversation. But Ms Pushpa pursues, “It must be terrible living with him. He must be getting violent?”

“No,” I say. “With me papa is very gentle. He loves me a lot.”

Tears well up in my eyes and my nose feels heavy. I take out my handkerchief. I feel her comforting arm around my shoulder and know her concern is genuine.

Suddenly the station bell rings, I hear the whistle and the blue mountain train streams into the platform. They still use steam engines here on the Nilgiri mountain railway. The train is almost empty. It’s off-season, there are no tourists, and in any case this train is never crowded as it returns to Coonoor after transporting all the office-goers to Ooty.

We sit opposite each other in an empty compartment. She still hasn’t taken off her dark sunglasses even though it is overcast and it begins to drizzle.

She looks at her watch. I look at mine. 10 AM. Half-an-hour’s journey to Coonoor.

“You came today morning, ma’am?” I ask.

“No. Last evening. I stayed with Monica David. Your class teacher. We were classmates.”

What a difference. Miss David is so schoolmarmish. And Ms Pushpa so mod and chic. But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.

The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.

“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.

“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.

“Yes. It’s been almost eighteen years. I am returning here the first time since I passed out,” she says.

“For some work? Children’s admission?”

“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.

“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”

“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”

“You work?” I ask.

“Yes. In an MNC.”

She must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?

I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable - the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?

She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.

Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.

The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.

The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.

The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.

A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.

“Not playing?” she asks.

“No,” I say.

“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.

“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.

“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.

“Where are you going?”

“Coonoor.”

“Coonoor?”

“My father’s in hospital. He’s not well.”

“Oh! Hope he gets well soon. Okay bye.”

The girls walk away whispering to each other. And I hear the hushed voice of the one I’ve met for the first time, “Poor thing.”

“Poor thing.” The words pierce through my heart. “Poor thing.” The words echo in the interiors of my mind. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” The resonance is deafening. I feel I’m going mad. I feel Ms Pushpa’s hand on mine. A slight pressure. Comforting.

The up train comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Ooty.

Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.

“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms Pushpa says.

I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”

“Is your father often like this?” she asks.

Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles and talking to even more troubled people like me makes her own troubles go away.

I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. Something disturbing! He must have got upset - really badly upset.”

“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.

“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”

Her ex-pression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.

“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”

“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.

I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the color of her eyes - she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses, like someone who’s blind. How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.

I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.

“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.

“I’ll come with you,” she says.

“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure, thanks.”

Ms Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes for the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes. Exactly like mine.

Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.

Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.

She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.

The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.

Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.

As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those hail fellow – well met types of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.

I reach the clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.

“Yes?” a voice says from behind.

I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.

I tell her who I am. Her ex-pression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.

I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.

I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.

“Papa,” I say softly.

He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.

“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.

We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.

“Can I take him?” I ask.

“Of course,” Dr. Ghosh says.” He’s okay now.”

“But sir,” the young doctor protests and says, “He’s hallucinating….”

“It’s okay,” Dr. Ghosh interrupts giving him a sharp look. “Shanta knows how to look after him; like a mother. Isn’t it Shanta?”

“Yes,” I say.

Papa gives sheepish look. That’s what I like about Dr. Ghosh. The way he gets his message across. There is no need for him to reprimand papa. Especially in front of me. My papa’s own remorse is his own worst reprimand.

We talk in silence. I don’t ask him any thing. He’ll tell me when he wants to.

“You’re hungry?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. It’s almost noon.

Soon we sit at the Garden Restaurant overlooking Sim’s Park. He takes his hands out of the overcoat pockets and picks up the menu card. His hands tremble. DT. Delirium Tremens. Withdrawal symptoms. Must have had a prolonged bout of drinking last night. I know what to do. Just in case. I don’t want him to turn cold turkey.

“Papa, you order,” I say and pick up my school bag and briskly walk across the road to the wine shop. On seeing me the owner puts a small bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag and gives it to me. I put in my school bag. No words are exchanged. No permit is required. It doesn’t matter that I’m a 14 year old schoolgirl. He knows. Everyone knows. Pity. Compassion.

But I know that unseen eyes see, and tongues I cannot hear will wag.

The silence. It’s grotesque. Deafening. Unbearable.

As I give him a fifty-rupee note, the owner asks, “Saab - I hope he’s okay.”

I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.

Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favorite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.

“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.

“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.

“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”

“Who?”

“Your mother.”

I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.

“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.

“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”

“Custody? What are you talking?”

“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”

“Who?”

“Your birthmother.”

“Birthmother?”

“Yes.”

“But mummy?”

“Don’t delve too much.”

In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.

And opposite me is that hideous woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs. Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.

Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.

And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.

“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”

Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.

Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.

And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.

We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.

“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs. Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.

We wait. And gradually, a depressing and frightening darkness envelopes.

Mrs. Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs. Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.” Looking perturbed, she leaves, promising to check up and let us know.

After she leaves, Dr. Ghosh says to my father, “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”

“No,” my papa says,” I don’t need a drink.”

“Sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

We take leave of Dr. Ghosh and begin walking home.

“Papa?”

“Yes.”

“This woman. My ‘birthmother’. Does she have cat-eyes? Like me?”

“Don’t delve too much!” Papa says lovingly as he puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. And I can see light in the distance.

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From: pavalamani pragasam on Fri Mar 21 4:49:30 2008. [Full View]

CONTINUED
PART 2 – THE MEETING

“My Daddy has come, my Daddy has come,” a boy shouts gleefully to his friends and rushes towards his father as he enters the school gate.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” the boy says delightedly and jumps into his father’s arms.

“Hey, Varun, you look so good in your school uniform,” the man says picking up and lovingly kissing his son on the cheek. Seeing his son’s genuine happiness and rapturous delight, the man feels glad that he has come. He warmly hugs his son and then gently sets him down.

“Come fast, Daddy,” the boy tugs at his father’s sleeve, “everyone is sitting in the class.”

“Mummy’s come?” the man asks cautiously.

“Yes, Yes, Daddy,” the boy says gleefully, “She’s sitting in the class, waiting for you.”

They, father and son, walk to the classroom, and at the door the man pauses, looks around, sees the mother of his son sitting alone on a bench on the other side of the classroom, so he begins to sit at the bench nearest to the door.

“No, No, Daddy, not here. Mummies and Daddies have to sit together,” the boy says doggedly, and pulls the man towards the woman, who is the boy’s mother.

As he walks towards her, the man looks at the woman, on paper still his wife. As he approaches, she looks up at him and gives him a smile of forced geniality.

The boy rushes to his mother and exclaims exultantly, “See Mummy, Daddy has come; I told you he will come!”

The man and the woman contrive courteous smiles and exchange a few amiable words for the sake of their son, and for public show. It’s the first time the man, the woman, and their son are together as a family since they split three months ago.

“Come on Mummy, make place for Daddy,” the boy says prodding his mother, and nudging his father onto the bench, and squeezing himself in between. The school double-bench is small, meant for two children, and for the three of them it’s a tight fit. His wife stares ahead, as he looks askance at her, over the head of their son, their common blood, who has connected them forever, whether they like it or not.

The man looks around the classroom. Happiest are the children whose both parents have come. Then there are those kids whose only one parent, mostly the mother, has come. And sitting lonely and forlorn, in the last row, are those unfortunate children for whom no one has come, no mother, no father, no one. It’s a pity, really sad. Parents matter a lot especially in boarding school, and the man feels sorry for the lonesome unlucky children.

The Class-Teacher, an elegant woman, probably in her thirties, briskly walks in, and instinctively everyone rises.

“Please be seated,” she says, and seats herself on the chair behind a table on the podium facing the class. The Class-Teacher explains the procedure for the PTA meeting – she’ll call out, one by one, in order of merit, the students’ names, who’ll collect their first term report card, show it to their parents, and then run off to the concert hall, while the parents discuss their child’s progress with the teacher, one by one.

“Varun Vaidya!” the teacher calls out the first name, and Varun squeezes out between his father’s legs and runs towards the teacher, the man is overwhelmed with pride as he realizes that his son has stood first in his class.

He swells with affection when Varun, his son, gleefully gives the report card to him, and as he opens it, he can sense the sensuous proximity of his wife’s body and smell the enchanting fragrance of her fruity perfume, as she unwittingly comes close to eagerly look at the report card, and he quivers with the spark of intimacy and feels the beginnings of the familiar stirrings within him.
From: pavalamani pragasam on Fri Mar 21 4:51:09 2008. [Full View]

PART 3 – FATHER, MOTHER AND SON

Ashok realizes that their physical proximity, the intimacy, the touch of skin, has rekindled amorous memories and roused dormant desires in Pooja too, for she suddenly draws away from him and blushes in embarrassment. He wonders how people can suddenly cease to love a person they have once passionately loved so much and still desire.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya,” the teacher’s mellifluous voice jerks him from his reverie. He looks up at the charming young lady who has walked up to their desk and is lovingly ruffling Varun’s hair.

“Good Morning, Ma’am,” he says.

“Call me Nalini,” she says with a lovely smile, “Varun is really intelligent.”

“Like my Daddy– do you know he’s from IIT?” The boy proudly tells his teacher.

“And your Mummy?” the teacher playfully asks the boy.

“She is also a genius. But only in computers. Daddy knows so many things,” the boy says, and the teacher laughs, turns to Varun and says, “You go run along to the hall and get ready for the concert.”

“I’m Muriel. Muriel the goat!” says Varun animatedly, and runs away.

“We are enacting a skit from George Orwell’s Animal Farm,” Varun’s teacher says, “You are very fortunate Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya. Varun is a very gifted child. He comes first in class and is so talented in extracurricular activities and good in sports too. You must be really proud of him.”

“Oh yes, we are really proud of him,” the man says, and notices that the attractive teacher looks into his eyes for that moment longer than polite courtesy. He averts his eyes towards his wife and her disdainful expression tells him that his wife has observed this too.

He feels his cell-phone silently vibrating in his pocket, excuses himself, and goes out of the classroom into the corridor outside.

“Yes, Hema,” he says softly into his mobile.

“Is it over?”

“We’ve got the report card. There’s a concert now.”

“Concert? The PTA is over, isn’t it? You come back now. There is no need to go to the concert.”

“Please, Hema. I have to go to the school concert. Varun is acting – playing an important part – I promised him I would be there to cheer him.”

“Promised him? What about the promise you made to me – that you would be back as soon as possible and then we’d go to the disc.”

“Of course we’re going out this evening. I’ll start straight after the concert and be with you in the afternoon, latest by four, for tea.”

“I’ll get your favourite pineapple pastries and patties from Gaylord.”

“You do that. And spend some time on Fashion Street and browsing books…” the man sees his wife come out of the classroom and walk towards him, so he hurriedly says, “Bye Hema, I’ve got to go now.”

“You be here by four, promise…”

“Promise,” he says and disconnects.

“The bank…” he tries to explain the call to his wife, but she isn’t interested and says, “The Headmaster wants to meet us.”

“Headmaster? Meet us? Why?”

“How should I know?” his wife Pooja says coldly.

Soon they are sitting in the regal office front of the distinguished looking Headmaster who welcomes them, “Your son has settled down very well in his first term, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya. In fact, Varun is our youngest boarder in the hostel. He’s brilliant in academics, proficient in all activities, sports, outdoors – a good all-rounder. ”

They nod, and the father’s chest swells with pride.

“Pardon me for being personal,” the Headmaster says, “I was wondering why you have sent such a young boy to boarding school? Especially when you live nearby in the same city.”

“I have shifted to Mumbai now.” Ashok says.

“Oh, I see. And you too, ma’am?”

“No,” Pooja answers, “I still live in Pune.”

“Aundh, isn’t it? The same address you’ve given us in the admission form?” the Headmaster says glancing at a paper in front of him.

“Yes. I stay in Aundh.”

“We’ve got a school bus coming from Aundh. If you want your son can be a day-scholar…”

“Thank you, Sir, but I have kept him in boarding as I work night shifts.”

“Night Shifts?”

“I work in ITES?”

“ITES?”

“Information Technology Enabled Services.”

“She works in a call centre,” Ashok interjects.

“I’m in a senior position in a BPO,” she retorts haughtily.

“Oh! That’s good,” the Headmaster says, and looks at both of them as if signalling the end of the interview.

“Sir…” Ashok hesitates.

“Yes? Please feel free Mr. Vaidya,” the Headmaster says.

“Sir, I thought I must tell you, we are separated.”

“Divorced?”

“No, Sir, we’re separated not divorced, we are staying separately for the past three months.”

“How much does the boy know?” the Headmaster asks Pooja.

“We’ve just told him his father is transferred to Mumbai, and since I’ve to work night shifts, boarding school is the best for him,” Pooja says.

“Should we tell him?” Ashok asks.

“I really don’t know. Perhaps it’s better to wait a while,” the Headmaster ponders and then says, “It may seem presumptuous of me to give you unsolicited advice, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya, but why don’t you try and patch up? At least for your boy’s sake, he’s so young and loving. At such a tender age children must continue to feel they are a part of a family. They need to feel loved, to belong and to be valued. I know how much your son loves you both. He’s so proud of his parents.”

“We’ll try,” Ashok says, and looks at his wife. Patch up and come back together – for Varun’s sake – he knows it is out of the question. Their relationship has become so demoralized by distrust that it is better severed than patched up. And now, in his life, there is Hema …”

“We’ll try and work it out,” he hears his wife’s voice.

“I am sure you will – for your son’s sake. Thank you for coming, Mr. and Mrs. Vaidya. I’m sure you’ll love to see your son’s acting skills in the concert,” the Headmaster says and rises, indicating that the interview is over.

Later, sitting in the auditorium, they watch their son enact the role of Muriel, the know-it-all Goat, in a scene adapted from Animal Farm, and Ashok’s heart swells with pride as he watches his son smartly enunciate the seven commandments with perfect diction.

After the concert, they stand outside, waiting for Varun, to take off his make-up and costume and join them. Ashok looks at his watch. It’s almost one, and he wonders whether he should stay for the parents’ lunch, or leave for Mumbai to make it on time by four after the three hour drive.

“You look as if you’re in a hurry,” his wife says.

“I’ve an appointment at four. He called up in the morning, remember,” he lies.

“Where?”

“Nariman Point.”

“Then why don’t you go now? You’ll barely make it.”

“I’m waiting for Varun.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll tell him.”

He tries to control the anger rising within him and says firmly, “Listen, Pooja. Don’t try to eradicate me from your lives, at least from my son’s life.”

“I wish I could! Please Ashok, leave us alone. I didn’t ask you to come all the way from Mumbai today – I would have handled the PTA alone.”

“Varun rang me up. Made me promise I’d be here. I’m glad I came. He’s so happy, especially so delighted that I came to see him in the concert.”

“I’ll tell him not to disturb you in future.”

“No you don’t,” Ashok said firmly, “Varun is my son as much as yours.”

They stand in silence, a grotesque silence, and then he says, “I didn’t come only for Varun. I came to see you too!”

“See me?” the woman’s face is filled with ridicule, contempt and astonishment at the same time.

Suddenly they see Varun prancing in delight towards them and they put on smiles on their faces.

“You liked the concert?” he asks breathless.

“I loved your part. You were too good – isn’t it Mummy?” the man says.

“Yes. Varun is the best,” the woman says bending down and kissing her son on the cheek. Then she says, “Varun, Daddy has to go now. He has important work in Mumbai.”

“No,” protests Varun, and looks at his father and says, “No! No! No! First, we’ll all have lunch. And then the school fete.”

“School Fete?” they say in unison, and then the man says, “You didn’t tell me!”

“Surprise! Surprise! But Mummy, Daddy, we all have to go to the fete and enjoy.”

So they have lunch and go to the sports ground for the school fete – merry-go-round, roller-coaster, hoopla, games of skill and eats – they enjoy themselves thoroughly. Tine flies. To the outside observer they seem to be the happiest family.

On the Giant Wheel Ashok and Pooja instinctively sit on different seats. Suddenly Ashok notices that his son looks hesitant, wary, confused, undecided as to which parent he should go to, sensing that he couldn’t choose one without displeasing the other. So Ashok quickly gets up and sits next to Pooja, and a visibly delighted Varun runs and jumps in between them.

As he gets off the giant wheel, Ashok notices his mobile ringing. He detaches himself from his son, looks at the caller id and speaks, “Yes. Hema.”

“What ‘Yes Hema’. Why aren’t you picking up the phone? Where are you? Have you crossed Chembur? I’ve been calling for the last five minutes – just see the missed calls.”

“I was on the Giant Wheel.”

“Giant Wheel?”

“We are at the school fete.”

“School Fete? You are still in Pune? You told me you’d be here by four!”

“I couldn’t help it. Varun was adamant. He didn’t let me go.”

“She’s there with you?”

“Who?”

“She! Stupid. She! Your ex-wife. Is she there with you?”

“Yes.”

“You simpleton, can’t you see? She’s trying to get you back through your son!” Hema pauses, takes a breath, and pleads, “Ashok, you do one thing, just say good-bye to them and come back straight to me. Please. Please. Please. Don’t be with her. Please. Please…”

“Okay,” the man says and cuts off the cell-phone. Then he switches off his mobile.

“Daddy, Daddy, who was that?” the boy asks.

“Someone from the office,” the man says. He thinks for a moment, looks at his son, bends down and says, “Listen, Varun. I’ve got to get back to the office fast. Mummy will stay with you – be a good boy.”

“No, No, No! It’s only three o’clock . We can stay out till eight…” The boy sees his housemaster nearby and runs to him, “Sir, Sir, My Daddy has come all the way from Mumbai. Please can he take me out for dinner?”

“Of course you can go, Varun,” the kindly housemaster says to the boy, then looks at Ashok and says, “It’s the first time you’ve come, isn’t it? Okay, we’ll give Varun a night-out. Why don’t you take him home and drop him back tomorrow evening by six? Tomorrow is declared a holiday anyway!”

“Yea, yea, yea,” shouts an ecstatic Varun is delirious delight, “Let’s go to the dormitory, collect my stuff, and go out. I want to see a Movie, and then we’ll all go home.”

So they, father, mother, and son, see a movie at the multiplex, then have a good time strolling and snacking on Main Street , and by the time they reach their home in Aundh it’s already seven in the evening.

Ashok stops his car below his erstwhile home in Aundh, where Pooja lives all by herself now.

“Okay, Varun, come give me a kiss and be a good boy.”

“No, Daddy, you’re not going from below. Let’s go up and have dinner. And then we’ll all sleep together and you go tomorrow morning.”

“Please, Varun, I have to go now,” the man says.

The boy looks at him, distraught, and the man gives a beseeching look to the woman, who smiles and says, “Okay. Come up and have a drink. You can take your books too – I’ve packed them for you.”

“Yea!” the boy exclaims in glee.

His wife’s invitation, the warming of her emotions, confuses and frightens him. He thinks of Hema waiting for him in Mumbai, what state she’d be in, frantically trying to reach him on his switched off cell-phone, feels a ominous sense of foreboding and tremors of trepidation. He is apprehensive, at the same time curious, and his son tugs at his shirt, so he goes up with them.

“I’ll freshen up and come,” the woman says to the man, “Make a drink for yourself – everything is in the same place.”

Varun, back home after three months, rushes into his room to see his things.

He opens the sideboard. The whiskey bottle is still there, exactly in the same place, but he notices the bottle is half empty. It was almost full when he had left – maybe she’s started having an occasional drink!

He sets everything on the dining table, and when she comes out, he picks up the whiskey bottle and asks her, “Shall I make you drink?”

“Me? Whiskey? You know I don’t touch alcohol, don’t you?” she says aghast.

“Sorry. Just asked…”

“You want soda? I’ll ring up the store to send it up.”

“I’ll have it with water.”

“Okay. Help yourself. I’ll quickly make you your favorite onion bhajjis and fry some papads.”

He looks warmly at her, with nostalgia, and she looks back at him in the same way and goes into the kitchen.

Varun comes running out and soon he sits on the sofa, sipping his drink, cuddling his son sitting beside him, and they, father and son, watch TV together, and soon his son’s mother brings out the delicious snacks and they, the full family, all sit together and have a good time.

CONTINEUD.......
From: pavalamani pragasam on Sun Mar 23 4:13:13 2008. [Full View]

PART 4 – REUNION

Her cell-phone rings, she takes it out of her purse, looks at the screen, excuses herself, goes into her bedroom, closes the door, takes the call, and says, “Hi, Pramod.”

“What the hell is going on out there…?” Pramod’s angry voice booms through the wireless airways all the way from Delhi .

“Please Pramod, speak softly. There is someone here.”

“I know he is there,” Pramod shouts, “What’s wrong with you? I leave you alone for a few days and you invite him into your home.”

“Listen, Pramod, don’t get angry. Try to understand. He came for Varun’s Annual Day.”

“But what is he doing there in your house right now so late at night?”

“He’s come to drop Varun.”

“Drop Varun?”

“He’d taken him out from school for a movie…”

“Why did you let him?”

“What do you mean ‘Why did you let him?’ – Ashok is Varun’s father.”

“You shouldn’t have called him to Pune…”

“I didn’t call him – Varun rang him up and told him to be there for his School’s Annual Day.”

“Anyway, get rid of him fast. I told you that you two are supposed to stay separate for at least six months.”

“Please Pramod. We are living separately. He’s just dropped in on a visit – we are not cohabiting or anything.”

“Just stay away from him – he could cause trouble!”

“Trouble? What are you saying, Pramod? He’s just come to drop Varun.”

“Pooja, can’t you see? He’s using your son to get you back. He’s a nasty chap – he may even withdraw his mutual consent and then we’ll be back at square one.”

“Pramod, don’t imagine things. And please Pramod, we had our differences, but Ashok was never a nasty person. Just get the papers ready and I’ll get him to sign on the dotted line,” she pauses for a moment and asks angrily, “And tell me Pramod, who told you Ashok is here?”

“That doesn’t matter. Now you are mine. I have to look after you, your welfare.”

“Look after my welfare? You’re keeping tabs on me, Pramod?” Pooja says irately.

“Now, you listen to me Pooja. Just throw him out right now. He has no right to trespass…” Pramod orders her.

“Trespass? Pramod, remember this is his house too – in fact the house is still on his name.”

“Don’t argue!” Pramod commands peremptorily, “Just do what I say!”

A flood of fury rises inside Pooja and she snaps angrily, “You know why I split up with Ashok, don’t you? Because I felt suffocated in that relationship. And now you are doing the same thing!”

Tears well up in her eyes, trickle down her cheeks, her throat chokes, she breaks down and she begins to sob.

“I’m sorry, Pooja. Please don’t cry,” Pramod pleads, “You know how much I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“I’ll cut short my trip and be with you in Pune tomorrow evening.”

“It’s okay, finish your work first and then come.”

“Give Varun my love.”

“Okay, take care.”

“You also take care,” Pramod says and disconnects.

She stares into the darkness, at the sky, the stars in the distance and tries to compose herself.

In a while, Pooja comes into the drawing room. Ashok looks at her face. After her tears, her eyes shine in the bright light; the moisture from her unwiped tears solidified on her cheeks like dry glass.

“I’ll make us some dinner,” she says to him, “Let’s eat together.”

Totally taken aback, confused and startled, Ashok looks at his wife and says, “Thanks. But I’ve got to go.”

“Stay, Daddy! Please Stay,” pleads Varun.

“Daddy is staying for dinner,” Pooja says with mock firmness, and then looking at Ashok says, “Please. Stay. Have dinner with us. By the time you get back your mess would have closed. You still stay in the bachelor’s hostel don’t you?”

“Yes,” he lies, “But I’ll be moving into flat soon.”

“That’s good. Where?”

“Churchgate. Near the office,” he says. Now that is not entirely untrue. Hema, with whom he has moved in, does indeed live near Churchgate!

“Churchgate! Wow! That’s really good for you. Food, Books, Films, Theatre, Art, Walks on Marine Drive – everything you like is nearby,” she says, “And Hey, now that you’re moving into a flat please take all your books. I’ve packed them up and kept them in the study.”

“Come Daddy, I’ll show you,” Varun jumps and pulls him into the study.

He looks around his former study and sees his books packed in cardboard boxes on the floor. The room has changed; except for his books there is nothing of him left in it.

He opens the wardrobe. There are some men’s clothes and a pair of shoes he has not seen before.

He is tempted to ask his son, but doesn’t ask. Varun has also come home after a three month spell, his first stint at boarding school.

He takes a towel, closes the cupboard, and goes into the bathroom to freshen up. The moment he comes out his son excitedly says, “Come Daddy, let’s help Mummy with the cooking.”

So they go to the kitchen and cook together – like they sometimes did in happier times.

Later they sit in their usual places at the small round dining table for dinner. It is the first time he, his wife and their son eat a meal together as a family since they had split three months ago. It is a happy meal, with much banter, primarily due the sheer joyfulness of their son, who is so happy that they are all together after a hiatus.

Then they sit together on the sofa, father, son, and mother, and watch her favorite soap on TV. Ashok notices how happy, natural and relaxed they all are. It is almost as if they have resumed living their old life once again.
From: pavalamani pragasam on Mon Mar 24 3:05:58 2008. [Full View]

PART 5 – UNEASY HOMECOMING

Suddenly, he remembers Hema, waiting for him in Mumbai, and says, “I’ve got to go”

“Stay here Daddy, please,” his son implores, tugging at his shirt.

“It’s late. Let Daddy go,” Pooja says to Varun, “he’ll come to meet you in school soon.”

“He can’t. Parents are not allowed till the next term break. Please Mummy, let us all sleep here and tomorrow we can all go away,” Varun says emphatically to his mother, and pulls his father towards the bedroom, “Come Daddy, let’s all sleep in Mummy’s bed like before.”

“No, Varun, I have to go,” Ashok says with a lump in his throat, disentangles his hands, bends down, and kisses his son, “Varun, be a good boy. I’ll be back to see you soon.”

At the door he turns around and looks at Hema, notionally still his wife, and says, “Thanks.”

“It’s good you came to see your son,” she remarks.

“I didn’t come only for the child,” he says overwhelmed by emotion, “I came to see you too.”

He sees tears start in her eyes, so he quickly turns and walks out of the door.

The clock on Rajabai Tower is striking midnight as he parks his car below Hema’s flat. The lights are still on. He runs up the steps to the house and opens the door with his latchkey.

Hema is sitting on the sofa watching TV. She switches of the TV, rushes towards him and passionately kisses him. He kisses her back and recognizes the intoxicating sweet aroma of rum in her breath.

“You’ve been drinking. It’s not good for you,” he says.

“Promise me you will never go to there again,” she cries inconsolably, holding him tightly.

“Please, Hema. Try to understand. I don’t want to be eradicated from my son’s life.”

“No, Ashok. You promise me right now. You’ll never go there again. I don’t want you to ever meet them again.”

“But why?”

“I am in constant fear that you’ll leave me and go back to them. I’ve been dumped once, I don’t want to be ditched again, to be left high and dry,” Hema starts to weep, “I’m scared Ashok. I am really very frightened to be all alone, again!”

“Okay,Hema,” Ashok says gathering her in his arms, “I promise. I promise I’ll never go there again.”

“Kiss me,” Hema says.

He kisses her warm mouth, tastes the salty remains of her tears, which trickle down her cheeks onto her lips.

“Come,” she says, “it’s late. Let’s sleep.”

He doesn’t have a dreamless sleep – he sees a dream – a dream he will never forget. He is drowning, struggling in the menacing dark fiery turbulent sea.

To his left, in the distance he sees Varun, his son, standing on a ship beckoning him desperately, and to his right, far away, standing on a desolate rock jutting out into the sea he sees Hema, his newfound love, waving, gesturing and calling him frantically.

Floods of conflicting emotions overwhelm him. He looks at his Varun, then he looks at Hema, and he finds himself imprisoned between the two.

His strength collapses, his spirit yields, and slowly he drowns, helplessly watching the terrifying angry black sea swallow him up and suck his body deep within into the Davy Jones’s Locker.

Jolted awake by the strange scary nightmare, Ashok breaks into cold sweat with a terrible fear. He looks at his newfound love Hema, sleeping calmly beside him, and the beautiful serene expression on her pristine face. He gently places his hand on her forehead and lovingly caresses her hair. She warmly snuggles up to him, turns, puts her hand over his chest, and with a heightened sense of security continues her tranquil blissful sleep.

Ashok cannot sleep. He starts to think of his innocent adorable son Varun, imagining him sleeping soundly in his bed in Pune. The father in him agonizingly yearns, excruciatingly pines for his son, his heart aches unbearably, and he wishes he could go right now, at this very moment, lovingly take his son in his arms and kiss his son goodnight, like he used to do.

Torn between his past and future, between the conflicting forces of his love for son and his love for the woman beside him, he feels helpless and scared.

He has lost his wife. Now he doesn’t want to lose both his son and his newfound love. They are the only two things he has in this world. And he knows can’t have both of them together.

He has no choice but to make a choice – a dreadful choice.

Despite this inner turmoil, he lies still on his bed, closes his eyes in self-commiseration, and the more he thinks about it, the more helpless and hapless he feels, and soon his mind, his brain, start spinning like a whirlwind, he breaks down and begins to cry.

CONCLUDED
From: pavalamani pragasam on Sat Mar 29 5:24:28 2008. [Full View]

Information

The Mysore racecourse is undoubtedly the most picturesque racecourse in India . The lush green grass track, the verdant expanse right up to the foot of the rugged Chamundi hills which serve as a magnificent backdrop with the mighty temple atop, standing like a sentinel. The luxuriant ambience is so delightful and soothing to the eye that it instantly lifts one’s spirit. And on this bright morning on the first Saturday of October, the atmosphere was so refreshing that I felt as if I were on top of the world!

“I love this place, it’s so beautiful,” I said.

“And lucky too,” Girish, my husband, added. “I have already made fifty grand. And I’m sure Bingo will win the Derby tomorrow.”

Girish appraisingly looked at the horses being paraded in the paddock, suddenly excused himself, and briskly walked towards the Bookies’ betting ring.

I still can’t describe the shock I experienced when I suddenly saw Dilip, bold as brass, standing bang in front of me, appearing from nowhere. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he said. “I think you have dropped this.” In his hand was tote jackpot ticket.

He was looking at me in a funny sort of way, neither avoiding my eyes nor seeking them. I understood at once. I took the tote ticket he proffered, put it in my purse and thanked him. He smiled, turned and briskly walked away towards the first enclosure.

I felt a tremor of trepidation, but as I looked around I realized that no one had noticed our quick encounter in the hustle-bustle of the racecourse. As I waited for my husband to emerge from the bookies’ betting ring, in my mind’s eye I marveled at the finesse with which Dilip had cleverly stage-managed the contrived encounter to make it look completely accidental.

It was only after lunch, in the solitude of my hotel room that I took out the tote jackpot ticket and examined it. I smiled to myself. It was the simplest substitution cipher – maybe Dilip thought I’d gone rusty – a last minute improvisation for immediate emergency communication.

That meant Dilip wasn’t shadowing me; he hadn’t even expected me at the Mysore racecourse. But having suddenly seen me, he desperately wanted to make contact. So he quickly improvised, contrived the encounter, and left further initiative to me. The ball was now squarely in my court.

I scribbled the five numbers of the jackpot combination on a piece of paper. For seasoned punters, racing buffs, it was an unlikely jackpot combination that hardly had a chance of winning, and now that the races were over the ticket was worthless. But for me hidden in it was some information since I knew how to decipher the secret code. To the five numbers I added the two numbers of my birth-date. I now had seven numbers and from each I subtracted Dilip’s single digit birth-date and in front of me I had a seven-digit combination. I picked up the telephone and dialed [At the time of this story Mysore still had seven digit telephone numbers – I wonder what it is now!]. It was a travel agency – a nice cover. I didn’t identify myself but only said,

“Railway Enquiry?”

“Oh, Yes, madam,” a male voice answered. I recognized it at once. It was Dilip, probably anxiously waiting for my call. “You are booked on our evening sightseeing tour. Seat No. 13. The luxury coach will be at your hotel at 3 in the afternoon. And don’t carry your mobile with you. We don’t want to be tracked.”

I looked at my watch. It was almost 2:30 . Time for a quick wash. I tore up the jackpot tote ticket and scribble paper and flushed it down the toilet. It was too dangerous to keep them around once their utility was over. And should the ticket fall into the wrong hands, anything was possible - one couldn’t underestimate anybody. For human ingenuity cannot concoct a cipher which human ingenuity cannot resolve.

The tourist bus arrived precisely at 3 o’clock and soon I was in seat No. 13, a window seat. I had hardly sat down when Dilip occupied the adjacent seat No. 14. He was carrying the ubiquitous tourist bag, but I knew what was inside - the tools of his tradecraft.

“Thanks for coming, Vibha,” he said.

“I was scared you’d do something stupid, indiscreet.” I scolded him, “And Girish…”

“You haven’t told your husband about us?” Dilip interrupted.

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Tell him now. There’s no place for secrets between husband and wife”

“I can’t. I don’t want to. It’s too late now.” I was getting a bit impatient now.

“Listen, Dilip. This is dangerous. What do you want? Girish, my husband…”

“He’s gone to Ooty. It’s a four hours’ drive. Should be half-way up the hills by now,” Dilip interjected looking at his watch.

“He is coming back tomorrow.”

“I know. He’ll be there in time for the Mysore Derby. Your horse Bingo is running, isn’t it? It’s a hot favourite too!”

“How do you know all this?”

“It’s common knowledge. Besides I make a living prying into other people’s lives.” Dilip paused for a moment.

“Don’t worry, Vibha. The races start only at two in the afternoon. And the Derby is at four. We’ve got plenty of time together. He won’t know. I promise you.”

The bus stopped. We had arrived at the majestic Mysore Palace .

“Come, Vibha. Let me take your photo,” Dilip said, talking out his camera.

“No,” I snapped.

“Okay. You take mine. I’ll stand there. Make sure you get the Palace entrance in the frame.”

He gave me the camera and said, “Have a look. It’s a special camera. I’ll focus the zoom lens if you want

I pointed the camera in the direction of the palace and looked through the viewfinder. But the palace wasn’t in the frame. The camera had a ninety-degree perpendicular prismatic zoom lens. I could see the tourists from our bus crowding around the shoe-stand about fifty meters to my left, depositing their shoes.

“Dilip, tell me, who is the Target?” I asked.

“Lady in the sky-blue sari, long hair. And the man in the yellow T-shirt and jeans, still wearing his Ray Ban aviator.”

I happily clicked away, a number of photos, the unsuspecting victims, the young target couple, not once realizing that it was they who were in my frame.

“I don’t think they are having an affair,” I said,

once we were inside the cool confines of the Mysore Palace , admiring the wall paintings of the Dasera procession.

“The boy looks so young, mod and handsome. And the woman - she’s middle-aged, a shy, timid, unadventurous, stay-at-home type. And just look at her face, her looks - so pedestrian. A most improbable combination.”

“Yes, a most improbable combination - that’s why their affair is flourishing for so long!”

I gave Dilip a quizzical look.

“Three years,” Dilip said. “It’s going on for over three years. The woman is a widow. She gets a huge monthly maintenance from her in-laws’ property – in lakhs. It’s a wealthy business family. They want to stop giving her the monthly maintenence.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, confused.

“The right of a widow to maintenance is conditional upon her leading a life of chastity,” Dilip quoted matter-of-factly.

“What nonsense!”

“That’s what their hot-shot lawyer told me. The one who commissioned this investigation,” Dilip said. “They’ll probably confront her with this evidence and coerce her into signing-off everything. Maybe even her children.”

“What if she doesn’t agree?”

“Then we’ll intensify the surveillance. A ‘no holds barred’ investigation. Two-way mirrors with installed video cameras, bugs with recording equipment,” Dilip paused, and said, “In fact, in this case I’m so desperate for success that I’m even considering image morphing if nothing else works.”

I was shocked. “Isn’t it morally disgusting? To do all these unethical dirty things. Extortion? Blackmail? To what length does one go?” I asked Dilip annoyed.

“Once you have the right information, the possibilities are endless,” Dilip said softly, “It’s not my concern to worry about moral and ethical issues. I never ask the question ‘why’. I just state my fee. And even if I do know why, I’ve made it a policy never to show that I understand what other people are up to.”

“What are you up to Dilip? And why me?” I asked.

Dilip did not answer. He just smiled and led me towards our bus. I was glad I had not married Dilip. I had never known he could sink to such depths. I hated him for the way he was using me. Taking advantage of my fear, my past, and my helplessness. Filthy emotional blackmailer. Shameless bully. I looked at Dilip with loathing but he just grinned at me bald-facedly like a Cheshire Cat. Nalini, my elder sister, had been right about Dilip. Thanks to her for saving my life. But for her timely intervention, I would have married Dilip. Maybe even eloped with him. I shudder to think what my life would have been like had I married Dilip.

“It’s beautiful,” Dilip said, looking at the famous painting - ‘Lady with the Lamp’ - at the Mysore Museum .

“Yes,” I answered, jolted out of my thoughts.

“Remember, Vibha. The last time we were here. It’s been almost ten years.”

I did not answer, but I clearly remembered. It was our college tour. And Dilip had quickly pulled me into a dark corner and kissed me on the lips. A hasty inchoate stolen kiss. My first kiss. And the tremors of trepidation. How could I ever forget?

“Vibha. Tell me honestly. Why did you ditch me so suddenly, so mercilessly?”

“Nalini told me not to marry you,” I said involuntarily, instantly regretting my words.

“And then she forced you to marry Girish, your brother-in-law.”

“Girish is not my brother-in-law. He is my co-brother.”

“Co-brother indeed! He is the younger brother of your elder sister Nalini’s husband. So he is your brother-in-law also, isn’t it?” Dilip said sarcastically.

“So what?” I snapped angrily. “It’s not illegal. Two brothers marrying two sisters – it’s quite common. And it’s none of your business.”

“Business!” Dilip said. “That’s it. Business! Two sisters marry two brothers. So it’s all in the family. The business. The money. The tea estates and coffee plantations. The industries. The property. Everything.”

“So that’s what you had your eyes on, didn’t you? My father’s property!”

I knew it was a cruel thing to say and I could see that Dilip was genuinely hurt. Instinctively I realized that Dilip was still in love with me. Maybe he was jealous of my successful marriage, my happiness and probably my wealth, my status in society and that’s what had made him bitter. But seeing the expression on his face I knew that Dilip would not harm me, for he was indeed truly in love with me. “I’m sorry, Dilip. Forget the past and let’s get on with our surveillance,” I said looking at the ‘target’ couple.

And so we reached the magnificent Brindavan gardens, posing as tourists in the growing crowd of humanity, stalking the couple, surreptitiously taking their photographs as they romantically watched the water, gushing through the sluice gates of Krishnarajasagar dam, forming a rainbow admits the spraying surf.

After sunset we enjoyed the performance at the musical fountain sitting right behind the ‘couple’. Suddenly, the lights went out, everyone stood up and started moving. Trying to adjust our eyes to the enveloping darkness, we desperately tried not to lose track of target couple as they made their way, in the confusion, towards “Lovers’ Park.”

It was pitch dark. But through the lens of the night vision device I could clearly discern two silhouettes, an eerie blue-green against the infrared background. The images were blurred and tended to merge as the two figures embraced each other, but that did not matter since I knew that the infrared camera would process the signal through an image intensifier before recording, rendering crystal-clear photo quality pictures.

“Let’s go,” Dilip whispered, and we stealthily negotiated our way out, but in hindsight, there was really no need to be clandestine about it, since we were just another couple ostensibly having a “good time” in the darkness and dense foliage of “Lover’s Park” as it was known.

Pondering over the day’s events I realized how right Dilip had been taking me along. Surveillance involves hours of shadowing and stalking training and tracking your target, sitting for hours in all sports of places like hotels, restaurants, parks, cars, hanging around airports, railway stations, bus stands or even on the streets, waiting and watching. A man and a woman would appear for less conspicuous than a single man or a pair of men. And if they look like a married couple it’s even better for the cover. And we did look like a much-married tourist couple.

I wondered why I’d agreed to do all this. Maybe because I felt a sense of guilt, remorse, a sort of an obligation I owed Dilip. Any girl always has a feeling of debt, a guilt-complex, towards a decent man who she has ditched, brutally dumped. Or maybe because I wanted to find out what life would have been like had I married Dilip. Or maybe because I was scared and fearful that Dilip would blackmail me. Dilip was the only secret I had kept from my husband – a skeleton I wanted to keep firmly locked away in the cupboard. Or maybe it was because a woman’s first love always has an enduring place in her heart. I guess it was a combination of all the above reasons.

The tourist bus reached my hotel at precisely 9.30 p.m. Before getting down from the bus, Dilip handed over the bag containing the infrared device, special cameras and all paraphernalia to a non-descript middle-aged man sitting right behind us.

“Who was that man?” I asked after the bus drove away with the man in it.

“Never mind,” Dilip said leading me into the foyer of the hotel.

“No,” I insisted. “I want to know.”

“It is sometimes important for an operative conducting surveillance to put himself, his own self, under observation,” Dilip said nonchalantly.

At first the sentence sounded innocuous, but gradually comprehension began to dawn on me, and as I realized the import of those words I experienced a chill of panic. All sorts of thoughts entered my brain. Photographs of Dilip and me. Oh my God! The man may even have bugged our conversation. The possibilities were endless. I looked at Dilip. Didn’t he have any scruples? My impulse was to run to my room and lock myself up. But when Dilip invited me to have dinner with him in the restaurant I knew I dared not refuse. I had no choice. Dilip now had me at his mercy. He had his manacles on me. The only way to escape Dilip’s clutches was to tell Girish everything. But could I? Especially after today! I couldn’t even bring myself to imagine the consequences.

After dinner I invited Dilip to my room for a cup of coffee. I knew it was suicidal but I had decided to give Dilip what he wanted and get rid of him, out of my life, forever.

The moment we entered the room, the phone rang. It was for Dilip- a man’s voice - probably the same man sitting behind us in the bus.

Dilip took the receiver from my hands and spoke, “I told you not to ring up here……… What...? But how is that possible?......... Oh, my God! I am coming at once.”

“What happened?” I asked him.

“We got the wrong couple on the infrared camera in Lovers’ Park. Couldn’t you see properly?”

“No, it was dark and hazy,” I said. “I could see just blurred images.” Instinctively I rushed along with Dilip to his office-cum-laboratory. He emphatically told me not to come, but I did not listen, a strange inner force propelling me.

I looked at the blurred images on the large workstation monitor. Then as Dilip kept zooming, again and again, enhancing the magnification and focus, the images started becoming clear, and as I watched something started happening inside me and I could sense my heartbeats rise.

Oh, My God! I couldn’t believe it! It was Nalini and Girish. Or Girish and Nalini. Whichever way you like it. It doesn’t matter. Or does it? Nalini, my darling elder sister - the very person instrumental in arranging my marriage to Girish. And Girish - my beloved ‘faithful’ husband. Their expressions so confident, so happy, so carefree. So lovey-dovey. So sure they would never be found out. So convenient. How long was this going on? Living a lie. Deep down I felt terribly betrayed. I felt as if I had been pole-axed, a sharp sensation drilling into my vitals, my stomach curdling as I threw up my dinner.

It was extraordinary how clear my mind became all of a sudden. “Listen, Dilip,” I said emphatically, “I want a full-scale comprehensive surveillance. Two-way mirrors, bugs, photos, video, audio - the entire works. A no-holds barred investigation. And dig deep into the past. I want to know everything.”

“No, Vibha !” Dilip said. “I can’t do it.”

“You can’t do it or you won’t do it?” I asserted. “Listen, Dilip. You have to do it. I want you to do it.”

“Why, Vibha. Why?”

I smiled and said, “Dilip, remember what you said in the afternoon about your professional credo and motto: You never ask the question ‘why’. You just state your fee.” I paused. “So my dear Dilip. Don’t ask any questions. Just state your fee. And do a good job!”

“But, Vibha. What will you do with all this information?” Dilip protested.

“The possibilities are endless,” I said, almost licking my lips in anticipation, as I could feel the venom rising within me. “Yes indeed! Information is power, isn’t it? Once I have all the information, just imagine what all I can do. The possibilities are endless – aren’t they?”
From: pavalamani pragasam on Tue Apr 8 10:43:31 2008. [Full View]

ELECTROPHORESIS

Failures and Losers avoid school reunions. But this time I decided to go. Sucheta would be there. She had rung up from New York. And of course Anand was also coming with her. Maybe that’s the real reason I wanted to go.

It was fifteen years since we passed out from school and the reunion was a grand affair in the best hotel at this picturesque ‘queen’ of hill stations on the slopes of the Himalayas where our school was located. For ours was an elite and famous boarding school, distinguished more for its snob appeal than for its academic excellence. ‘Bookworm’ was an exception. He had topped the board exams and had become a distinguished scientist, always inventing something mysterious and experimenting something esoteric.

“Hi, Bookworm!” I said genuinely happy to see him.

“Moushumi, my name is Doctor Pratap Joshi. Not Bookworm”, he said angrily, “I am a Professor.”

“Professor Bookworm!” I teased him.

“That’s better,” he said.

“And what are you inventing nowadays?” I asked.

“I’m researching in the frontiers of Psycho-cybernetics.”

“Stop the mumbo jumbo, Bookworm. Tell me in simple language. Who are you and what do you do?”

“Okay. I am a neurologist. A psychiatrist. A psychologist. And I also hold a doctorate in Electrical Engineering. Currently I am researching in mind-transference,” Bookworm said proudly.

“Mind-transference?” I asked confused.

“You have seen star-trek haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There they transfer persons in space. H G Wells’ time machine transferred entire persons in time,” he said.

“And you?” I asked.

“I can put your mind into someone else’s body and vice-versa – someone else’s brain into your body!”

“It sound spooky to me. Is it ESP? Some kind of occult stuff? ”

“Not at all,” Bookworm said, “Nothing supernatural, esoteric or mystical. It’s a purely scientific technique. I’ve developed a pilot system for trials. The machine is upstairs in my hotel room. Why don’t you give it a try?”

A strange thought crossed my mind as I surveyed the room. My eyes rested on Anand. His height and his magnificent beard made him look so prominent in the crowd. He looked a decisive, hot-blooded and dangerous man, but he also looked vulnerable. Even now, he wore a lonely and rather perplexed expression, as though he were at the party but not a member of it. And beside him stood his wife Sucheta radiating the natural pride of possession that any woman feels when she has the ownership and company of a man that other women desire.

I reminisced. There were four of us who grew up together. In school and in college. Anand, Mohan, Sucheta and I. Inseparable friends. All of us loved each other.

I had the first choice since both Anand and Mohan were desperately in love with me and both had proposed to me. I opted for Mohan, leaving Anand for Sucheta. Then I kept tormenting myself living with Mohan but longing for Anand, wondering if I had made the wrong choice, repenting, trying to imagine what my life would have been like if I had married Anand instead of Mohan.

I looked at Anand, and then at Bookworm. Serendipity! Yes. I felt the adrenalin rush. This was my chance to find out what life would have been like if I had married Anand; and I was going to risk it.

I waved out to Sucheta and five minutes later both of us were lying side by side on the double-bed in Bookworm’s hotel room. There was a mesh of wires with electrode-transducers connected to our heads (like an EEG), a laptop-like special computer and a briefcase-size electronic device which Bookworm described as the ‘Electrophoresis Signal Processor’.

“Good,” Bookworm said, “both your brainwave frequencies are in ‘beta’ state around 15 hertz. I’ll give you both a high frequency burst to momentarily raise your brain-states to ‘K-Complex’ and instantaneously commence the electrophoresis.”

Looking at me, he said, “Moushumi, you will be Sucheta as far as the outside world is concerned. So when you wake up, go straight to Anand. Let’s see if he suspects.” And then to Sucheta he said, “Sucheta, you go straight to Mohan. He will think you are Moushumi.”

“It’s dangerous. I’m scared,” Sucheta said.

“Come on, Sucheta. Be a sport. It’s just for fun,” I said.

“It’s not fun. We’re doing this experiment to validate my research – in vivo – to see if the concept of mind-transference it works. Just for half-an-hour,” Bookworm said, “then both of you come back and I’ll reverse the process, and you can leave as your own total selves – your same mind in your own same body.”

I closed my eyes in trepidation wondering whether I was doing the right thing. Suddenly I felt my brain go blank and then there were vivid flashes in a void.

Half an hour later, when I was in seventh heaven gliding in Anand’s strong arms, enjoying the dance, Bookworm suddenly appeared by my side, tugged my arm and said with urgency in his voice, “It’s time. Let’s go, Moushumi.”

“Moushumi? Why are you calling her Moushumi?” an incredulous Anand asked Bookworm.

“She is Moushumi,” Bookworm said pointing at me.

“Are you drunk or stoned or something?” Anand snapped angrily. “Can’t you see she’s Sucheta, my wife? Moushumi must be with her husband Mohan. I last saw them having a drink near the bar.”

Instinctively we all turned and looked towards the bar. No sign of them. I hurriedly scanned the room. They had disappeared.

Bookworm was in a state of panic, “Anand. Try to understand. Your wife Sucheta has gone away with Mohan. And this here in front of you is Moushumi – Mohan’s wife. This is only Sucheta’s body. Inside it’s Moushumi’s brain – her self. Moushumi’s mind is in Sucheta’s body. My in vivo experiment was successful – it’s validated – the mind-transference!”

“Mind-transference? Stop talking nonsense!” Anand shouted angrily at Bookworm and taking my arm he said to me, “Come on Sucheta. Let’s go. Bookworm has gone crazy. And it’s getting late. We’ll drive straight down to Delhi. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow before we catch our flight back home.”

As we walked through the parking lot towards the luxury limousine Anand had hired for his visit I noticed that ‘our’ car was missing. It was cold and I glanced at ‘our’ small cottage on the hill slope for the last time. ‘They’ were probably cuddling up in ‘our’ bedroom by now.

I thought I was smart, but it was Sucheta who played the double game. For me it was only a half-hour experiment, but Sucheta had upped the ante and turned the tables on me. Will Mohan find out? And Anand? Will this mind-transference last forever? I shiver with trepidation. And what will happen then?

I don’t know. But from now on it’s going to be a tightrope walk. Every moment I’ll have to be on my toes. I’m excited. And a bit scared too. It’s going to dangerous fun. Now I will really know what life would have been like if had I married Anand instead of Mohan.

And soon I shall know whether I made the right choice. And then, maybe, I’ll tell you about it.
From: pavalamani pragasam on Sat Apr 12 1:36:30 2008. [Full View]

An accident

If you decide to murder your husband you must never act in concert with your lover. That’s why I didn’t tell Raj. Or involve him in any way. Not even in a hint. I made my plans alone and with perfect care. An “accident” so coolly and meticulously designed.

Precisely at 12:50 in the afternoon, the ghastly accident would occur. And then my phone would ring. To convey the “bad” news. And I would be a widow. Free. Then all I had to do was to keep cool, maintain a solemn façade, and patiently wait for Raj to return after completing his project in Singapore.

And after the customary condolence period was over, Raj would propose - an act of chivalry, of sympathy, or even “self-sacrifice”. First I would demur, then “reluctantly” succumb to the pressure from my friends and relatives, and accept - just for my children’s safe. And there would be nods of approval all around.

The phone rang. I panicked. There is no fear like the fear of being found out. I looked at the wall-clock. It was only 10.30 am. Had something gone wrong? I felt a tremor of trepidation. The phone just wouldn’t stop ringing. I picked up the receiver, and held it to my ears with bated breath. The moment I heard Anjali’s voice I felt relieved.

“Why didn’t you come to the health club?” Anjali asked.

I’m not well,” I lied.

“Anything serious? Should I come over?” she asked.

"No!” I tried to control the anxiety in my voice. “It’s a just a slight headache. I’ll take a tablet and sleep it off,” I said cautiously.

“I hope Manish and you are coming over in the evening,” Anjali asked.

“Of course,” I said and put down the phone. I smiled to myself. That was one party Manish was going to miss. Probably they would cancel it and would be right here offering their condolences and sympathy. I would have to be careful indeed. And to hell with the health club and the painful weight loss program. I didn’t need it any more. Raj accepts me as I am - nice and plump. Not like Manish - always finding fault with me. I know I can always depend on Raj. He really loves me from the bottom of his heart.

I looked at my husband’s framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Soon it would be garlanded. My marriage to Manish had been a miserable mistake, but soon it would be over and I would be free to live the life I always wanted. I wish I didn’t have to kill Manish, but there was no way out – Manish would never give me a divorce, and if he came to know about me and Raj, he would destroy both of us, ruin our lives; for he was a rich and powerful man.

Also, it is always better to be a pitied widow rather than a stigmatized divorcee.

The plan was simple. I had programmed a Robot to do the job. The huge giant welding robot in Manish’s factory. At exactly 12:45, when the lunch-break started, Manish would enter his pen drive into the robot control computer to carry out a maintenance troubleshooting check. And then he would start inspecting various parts of the robot – the manipulator, end effectors and grippers – to cross-check their programmed movements. It was a routine exercise, and I knew Manish had become complacent as the robot had never developed any faults so far.

But today it would be different. Because I had surreptitiously reprogrammed the software last night. This is what was going to happen. At precisely 12:50 all safety interlocks would be bypassed, and suddenly the robot would activate and the welding electrode would arc 600 Amperes of electric current into Manish’s brain. It would be a ghastly sight – his brain welded out and his body handing like a pendulum, lifeless. Death would be instantaneous. Manish had been a fool to tell me everything and dig his own grave.

It was a foolproof plan and no one would suspect since the program would erase itself immediately. I had ensured that. It would be an accident, an unfortunate accident. Condolences, compensation, insurance – soon I would be a rich widow. Pitied by all. And then I would wait for Raj to come back from Singapore. And after a few days I knew he would propose to me, and I would ‘reluctantly’ accept and everything would happy ever after.

I looked at the wall clock. It was almost 11 O’clock. Suddenly I began to have second thoughts. May be I should give Manish a last chance. All I had to do was pick up the phone and ask Manish to rush home. Feign a sudden illness or something. But no! I tried to steel my nerves. I had crossed the Rubicon, and there was no going back. The tension of waiting was unbearable, but I must not lose my head.

I tried to divert my thoughts to Raj. The first time I suspected that Raj loved me was when he didn’t attend my wedding. Then he disappeared abroad for higher studies and I almost forgot him. And one fine day, after almost fifteen years, Raj suddenly reappeared to take up a job in my husband’s factory.

And when I learnt that Raj had still not married I realized how deeply in love with me he was. At that point of time I was so disillusioned with my marriage that my daily life was rather like sitting in a cinema and watching a film in which I was not interested. Raj and I began spending more and more time together, and somewhere down the line emotions got entangled and physical intimacy followed.

Did Manish suspect? I do not know. Was that the reason he had sent Raj to Singapore? I don’t think so. We had our affair absolutely clandestine.

11.45 am. An hour to go. I began to have a feeling of dread and uneasiness, a sort of restlessness and apprehension - a queer sensation, a nameless type of fear. So I poured myself a stiff drink of gin. As I sipped the alcohol, my nerves calmed down. Today was the last time I was going to have a drink, I promised myself. Once I married Raj I would never drink ; there would be no need to.

In my mind’s eye I could almost visualize my husband sitting in the vacant chair opposite getting steadily drunk every evening. He was an odd creature with effeminate mannerisms that became more pronounced when he was drunk. He was always picking at an absurd little moustache, as though amazed at himself for having produced anything so virile. How I hated the mere sight of him. The very though of my husband made me gulp down my drink. I poured myself one more. And then one more. And one more, when my cell-phone rang.

I shook out of my stupor and picked up my mobile phone. It was an unknown number. I rejected the call. The cell phone rang again; same number. I looked at the number. 65….. - it was from Singapore. Raj? I answered urgently.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hi Urvashi, how are you?” It was Raj.

“Where are you speaking from? Is this your new number?” I asked.

“No. This is Rajashree’s cell-phone,” Raj said.

“Rajashree?”

“Speak to her,” Raj said.

“Hi Urvashi,” a female voice said, “Raj has told me so much about you.”

Strange. I knew nothing about her! So I said, “But Raj has told me nothing about you!”

“I know,” Rajashree said, “it all happened so suddenly. Love at first sight, whirlwind romance, swift wedding.”

“Wedding?” I stammered, shocked beyond belief.

“Yes. We got married yesterday and are on our way to our honeymoon, on a cruise liner.”

“You bitch! Give the phone to Raj,” I shouted, losing control, the ground slipping beneath me.

“Hey, chill out. What’s wrong with you?” Rajashree said calmly, paused for a moment, and spoke, “Raj’s gone to the embarkation booth. Hey, he’s waving to me. I’ve got to go now. Bye. We’ll see you when we come there.” And she disconnected.

I stared at my cell-phone, never so frightened, never so alone. I felt as if I had been pole-axed. I looked at the wall-clock. 12.55. Too Late! My blood froze.

The telephone rang. I picked it up, my hands trembling.

“There’s been an accident, madam,” said the voice. It was the company doctor. “We are rushing Manish Sahib to the government hospital. I am sending someone to pick you up.”

“Government hospital? Tell me the truth,” I shouted hysterically. “Is he dead?”

"No. He’ll survive.”

Manish did survive. I wish he hadn’t. For his sake. And for mine. For till this day he is still in coma. And I know I will have to live with a ‘vegetable’ all my life.

It was a small miscalculation. 600 Amperes wasn’t enough. But then the Robot is a machine. The real miscalculation was about Raj!
From: pavalamani pragasam on Tue Apr 22 11:18:36 2008. [Full View]

Sunset

“How was your day?” she asks.

“Terrible,” he says.

“Terrible?”

“Everything is rotten out here! This country is going to the dogs because of this bloody corruption! They must do something about it.”

“They? Who is this ‘they’?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care, because I’m getting out of here.”

“Sanjiv, how can you be so sure things are better out there? At least here, in our country, we are treated properly.”

“Treated properly? My foot! Only the corrupt and powerful, the rich and wealthy, are having a ball. If you’re honest, life is hell. They treat you like dirt. But one thing is sure. Once I’m an NRI, I’ll be treated better. Look at way they pamper these NRI chaps – the top jobs, the dough, the recognition, the honors – it’s pathetic, the way we put them on a pedestal - they’ve even cornered our republic day awards!”

“What rubbish! They must have done something for the country.”

“Oh, yeah! Sure. But which country? All they’ve done is make money for the company they work for over there, earned glory for themselves. But what have they done for India ?”

“Come on, don’t be so bitter. And forget them; you’ve got a chance to stay here and do something, haven’t you? Sanjiv. Don’t go. Please!”

“Don’t go? Please? Come on, Nalini. What’s wrong with you? Why the hell should I stay here?”

“The IAS is the best thing in the world!”

“Oh yeah! Tell me. What’s so great about rotting away in some back of the beyond town like Jhumri Talaiya, or Beed, or Marwar Mundwa, which you only hear about on Vividh Bharati?”

“Come off it, it’s not all that bad.”

“And the bloody groveling and kowtowing the powers that be all your life?”

“The pay, the perks…”

“Pay, Perks? What are you talking about? I’ve told the mind-boggling amount I’m going to get there, haven’t I?

“So it’s Seattle, not Mussoorie?”

“Yes. It’s final. I’ve nothing left here now.”

“Nothing?” tears start to well up in her eyes.

He puts his arms around her and says, “Please Nalini… don’t make it difficult for me.”

“I’m thirsty. Come, let’s have some chilled milk.”

Hand in hand, the man and the woman cross Marine Drive , and amble to the Jai Jawan stall, and order some chilled milk.

Suddenly a cop arrives, bangs his lathi on the counter and shouts rudely at the old man inside the stall, “Abe Saale, Hafta kyon nahi deta?”

“I’m a war veteran disabled soldier,” the jawan says proudly stamping his crutch on the ground in anger.

“So what? Just pay up, you one-legged cripple, or I’ll shove that crutch up your…”

Something snaps inside Sanjiv. He suddenly turns, catches the cop’s collar, shoves him roughly, and shouts, “Just get out…”

The stunned cop slowly recovers, talks on his cell phone, and within seconds a police jeep appears and they are all whisked away to the police station.

“ Saale ,” the inspector says menacingly, “assaulting a policeman on duty…”

“Sir,” a constable interrupts, “this was in his pocket.” He hands a paper to the inspector.

The inspector reads it, looks at Sanjiv, and goes inside to his superior’s office. They discuss and reach a conclusion: No point taking punga with IAS types – even if he is just going to be a probationer.

“You are going to be IAS. You shouldn’t do these things,” the inspector says politely to Sanjiv, undergoing a total metamorphosis in his demeanor. He sends a jeep to drop them back at the Jai Jawan Stall on Marine Drive .

“Thank you, saab. We need young people like you to sort things out,” the soldier says gratefully, as they sip the deliciously soothing chilled milk.

“Hey, let’s watch sunset,” Nalini says.

They cross Marine Drive , run to the parapet and watch the breathtakingly beautiful spectacle as the tranquil blue sea begins to swallow the orange ball and the crimson rays dancing in the sky slowly dissolve into twilight.

“Your last sunset in India , isn’t it?” she says, tears in her eyes.

He takes her in his arms, and they kiss, slow and prolonged, as if it were there first and last kiss.

And when it is finally over, he looks into her eyes and says, “Nalini, I’m not going. I’ve decided to stay. Join the IAS.”

“Really? Why? What happened…?” Nalini exults in incredulous delight.

Sanjiv doesn’t answer. He tenderly puts his arm around her and together they watch the awesome metamorphosis at sunset.
From: pavalamani pragasam on Wed May 7 22:37:24 2008. [Full View]

This is not a JOKE

Read this slowly and carefully. Take your time. Savor every word. Try to enjoy it. It’s going to be the last thing you ever read, because you’re not going to read much after this. That’s because by the time you finish this I’m going to finish you. Yes. You read right. I’m going to finish you once and for all. Murder you in cold blood. Till you are dead. RIP. Requiescat in pace. Or is it requiescant in pace?
It really doesn’t matter. But you for sure are going to rest in peace. That’s right. Rest in Peace.RIP. Forever.

You think this is a big joke? It isn’t. I’m going to terminate you. I’ve been watching you for days. You’re so nice and healthy. That’s why I have no compunctions, as I firmly believe that my victim ought to be in good health, since it is barbarous to kill anybody who is weak or of a sickly disposition.

After you finish reading this, just sit back and relax. I know you can find excuses to hang around your house, or your office, or wherever you are reading this; but sooner or later you’re going to have to get up and go out. That’s where I’ll be waiting for you. Or maybe I am closer to you than that. Maybe I am in this very room where you are sitting.

You think of murder as something far distant, don’t you? It’s not! It’s very near, very close to you. Maybe just behind you. Believe me. I’m dead serious. Don’t look behind you.

Come on, dear Reader. Tell me. Where are you reading this? In your room late at night on your PC, or in your office, or on your laptop, in bed, or outdoors, or while traveling, or on a lazy Sunday afternoon? Or have you taken a printout and are reading this propped up on your pillow in bed late at night? It just doesn’t matter. Because I’m going to come and get you the moment you finish reading this. You can take my word for it.

If you are home while reading this, maybe I’m in your house with you right now, maybe in this very room, stealthily creeping right behind you, waiting for you to finish the story. Don’t look behind you.

Maybe I’m watching surreptitiously though your office window, or maybe I am standing menacingly right behind you as you sit at your work desk staring at the monitor, waiting to pierce you with the deadly needle of the venom filled hypodermic syringe the moment you finish reading this. Just sit still and keep reading. Don’t look behind you.

Or maybe I’m sitting covertly right next to you in the Internet café where you are reading this. Don’t look! Just keep reading. Maybe I’m waiting outside for you. But don’t look around. You’ll be happier if you don’t know – if you don’t see the needle coming. So don’t look behind you.

But wherever you are reading this, I’m near you, watching and waiting for you to finish. And then I’ll silently slither right behind you. And from the right pocket of my trousers I’ll carefully take out the lethal syringe.

Don’t be scared. You won’t feel a thing. Maybe just a wee little scratch, a teeny weeny prick of a tiny microscopic needle. And you will die instantly.

It’s much better killing this way – instantaneous, effortless, clean, clinical. I like it this way. When I kill people this way they don’t even come to know. Unless they look. So don’t look behind you!

You don’t believe in the macabre, do you? You think my imagination is running wild and this is just my amateurish attempt at writing a short story, don’t you? Go on; smile to yourself, thinking this is just a joke, a fib, a yarn.

This is no joke. Don’t look behind you. Don’t believe this – until you feel the gentle prick of the hypodermic needle in your spine.
From: pavalamani pragasam on Wed May 14 11:57:22 2008. [Full View]

A love story

FLIRTING ON THE DECCAN QUEEN

Have you ever seen a handsome strapping young man reading a Mills & Boon Romance? And that too so blatantly in front of so many people in the Deccan Queen!

I did. Just today evening [I can already hear my English Teacher scream: “It’s this evening – not today evening!”].

Okay. Okay. It doesn’t matter. This evening! This evening on the Deccan Queen!

What I am going to tell you happened this evening on the Deccan Queen. Yes, on the Deccan Queen – my favorite train that runs from Mumbai to Pune. Let me tell you about it.

But first I’ll tell you about myself. My name is Pooja. I am twelve years old and I’m a pretty girl. I love train journeys and I have traveled a lot, especially on the Mumbai – Pune route. But this was the first time I was traveling alone. So my loving father, who doted on me since I was the only thing he had in this world, was very very anxious and worried.

My father had come to see me off at Mumbai’s magnificent CST Railway Terminus. He seemed uneasy and kept on saying the same things again and again, “Pooja, take care. Don’t get down at any station. It’s only a three-hour journey. She’ll come to pick you up at Pune. I’ve told her your coach and seat number. And I’ve told uncle to look after you.”

‘Uncle’ was a young man of about twenty-five on the seat next to mine. He was very handsome, well-groomed, smartly dressed in a light blue T-shirt and trendy Jeans. 25? Maybe slightly older – but certainly not 30! He had a smart elegant beard. A proper well-kept full-grown beard, not the repulsive dirty-looking horrible two-day designer stubble young men sport nowadays. They think the filthy hideous stubble on their face looks fashionable, but let me tell you it looks sick and makes me feel like puking. But this guy had a gorgeous beard – it suited his face perfectly and made him look very handsome and manly.

“Don’t you worry, sir,” he said to my father, “she’ll be delivered safe and sound.” He gave me a friendly smile. I liked him and felt happy to have him as a companion. And of course, I had the window seat in case he turned out to be a bore.

Now my father was talking to the train-conductor, probably telling him the same things. I felt embarrassed but I didn’t say anything. For I knew my father loved me very much and genuinely cared for me. After all, he had no one else in this world except me.

I felt worried about him too. That’s why when he kissed me on the cheek just before the train started, I whispered in his ear, “Papa, don’t drink too much.” I knew how much he hated to be lonely, and now I wouldn’t be there to look after him, to take care of him, to mother him!

The train moved. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes past five. Right on the dot. Soon the mighty Deccan Queen was speeding towards Pune. We would be there by dinner-time.

I looked at ‘uncle’ – just a sideways glance. But he did not notice me as he had already buried himself in the pages of the Mumbai Mid-Day newspaper. I took out my Walkman from my bag, kept in on my knee, adjusted the earphones in my ears and looked at him again. He was still buried in his newspaper, totally oblivious of the world around him.

I pressed my earphones tighter and tried to hear the music from my Walkman, pretended to ignore him, made pretence of trying to look out of the tinted-glass window of the air-conditioned chair car. But my eyes kept wandering, trying to steal a glance at him when I thought he wouldn’t notice. Hoping he would notice me and say something; talk to me. But he remained glued to his newspaper as if I just did not exist! How mean and snobbish? It seemed he had no manners! I hated him and decided to ignore him.

After some time the young man next to me folded his newspaper and kept it in the rack in front of him. Then he pulled out his bag from below his seat, opened the zip, took out a book from his bag and kept it on his knees in front of him. It was a ‘Mills & Boon’ romance! I smiled to myself. He seemed to be an interesting character. Young men in their twenties don’t read Mills & Boon. Or do they? You tell me.

He opened the Mills & Boon and started reading intently. I know it is bad manners to disturb someone who is reading, but I was so curious to know more about him that I just could not resist. I shut the Walkman, pulled earphones out of my eras, and said, “Hello, uncle. I’m Pooja.”

“Oh yes! I know. Pooja Agashe. Age 12.”

“How…?” I asked surprised.

“I read the reservation chart,” he said.

“No. No. Papa must have told you my name,” I said.

“But he didn’t tell me your age, young lady,” he smiled mischievously and said, “Whenever I begin a train journey I always find out who my fellow-passengers are.”

“You a detective or something?”

“No,” he said smiling. “I’m in the Navy. A Chief Officer in the Merchant Navy.” He held out his hand,” Girish Pradhan. And don’t call me uncle. Call me Girish – just Girish.”

We shook hands. His grip was firm and strong. Robust. Reassuring. Redoubtable. Just like he looked.

The Mills & Boon paperback fell off. He picked it up and put it back on his knees. It really seemed funny – a solid macho man like him reading Mills & Boon.

He spoke, “Been to Pune before?”

“Oh yes,” I said. “We lived in Pune before we came to Mumbai.”

“Then you can help me out,” he said. “You know where’s a restaurant called Vaishali?”

“You don’t know Vaishali?” I asked surprised.

“No,” he said. “It’s the first time I’m going to Pune. But she told me it was a famous place. I’d find it easily. That’s what she told me!”

“She?”

“The person I have an appointment with. 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. She promised she would be there.”

“At Vaishali?”

“Yes,” he said. “She told me that the Dosa at Vaishali is even better than the one at Shompen.”

“Shompen?”

“It’s the best restaurant in Port Blair. That’s where we met for the first time.”

“Port Blair! That’s where you met her, is it?” I asked. This was getting very interesting.

“Yes. Last December. We were sailing from Singapore to Mumbai and docked en-route at Port Blair for some emergency repairs. It was just a short stay of four days.”

I love to talk to someone who loves to talk. And this was like a fairy tale. It was getting exciting and I wanted to ask him so many things. Who was she? Her name? Was it love at first sight? What happened? About the Mills & Boon on his lap?

But before I could speak, he suddenly said,” Hey! Why am I telling you all this? It’s supposed to be secret.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Now you tell me about yourself, Pooja. Why are you going to Pune?” he asked.

“To see my new mother,” I blurted out without thinking. And then like a stupid fool I told him everything. I knew I was making a mistake but he was so easy to talk to that my words just came tumbling out. My mother’s sudden death. My father sinking into depression. His drinking problem. Everyone advising him to remarry. His refusal. Just for my sake. And this proposal. My father insisting that I see her first and we like each other. Everything – I told him everything; and it made me feel good!

“You mean your father hasn’t even met her?” Girish asked.

“No. Only relatives. Papa has only spoken to her on the phone,” I said. “Papa’s worried. He loves me so much. He wants me to like her first.” I couldn’t speak any longer. Tears had welled up in my eyes.

For some time there was silence. I felt very embarrassed at having told everything to a complete stranger. But strangely after telling him everything I felt good too.

I wiped my tears and nose with my handkerchief and said, “I am sorry, uncle.”

“Uncle? Hey come on. I’m not that old. Call me Girish. I told you, didn’t I? And don’t worry. Everything will work out.”

“For you too!” I said.

“I hope so,” he said. I’m making it to this appointment with great difficulty – I made it almost by a hair’s breadth. I signed off my ship in Perth yesterday evening and managed to reach Mumbai just a few hours ago. And here I am on this train to Pune. She told me if I didn’t keep my appointment with her tomorrow, she’d go ahead and marry someone else.”

“So romantic!” I said. “Just like in the movie …”

“An Affair to Remember?”

“No. Some Hindi Movie… I don’t remember the name,” I said, “You must be dying to meet her, isn’t it?”

“Of course I’m dying to meet her,” he said. “It’s more than one year since we said goodbye to each other at Port Blair. The tenth of November last year we promised each other we would meet tomorrow – the 10th of November this year at 10 a.m. at Vaishali restaurant in Pune.”

“Why 10th of November?”

“We met for the first time on the 10th of November last year. And yes, it’s her birthday!”

“But you must have kept in touch – e-mailed – surely spoken on the phone.”

“No. She didn’t give me her address. She was in Port Blair on a holiday. And me? Well I’ve been sailing since. She said if I really loved her I would come.” He paused, picked up the Mills & Boon romance book from his lap and said,” The only thing she gave me was this.”

“Can I see it?”

“No. You are too small for Mills & Boon.” He kept the book in the plastic book-rack in front of his seat, turned to me and said, “Hey, Pooja. Why don’t you come to Vaishali tomorrow at ten? We’ll celebrate her birthday together.”

“But you haven’t even told me her name.”

“You’ll find out tomorrow,” he said. “And suppose she doesn’t come, I’ll be heartbroken. Then you can console me. But I’m sure she will be there at Vaishali waiting for me. She promised. Whatever her decision, she said she won’t ditch me. She’ll definitely be there for our rendezvous.”

I looked out of the tinted-glass window. The sun was about to set. Outside it was getting dark. Inside it was cold. The Deccan Queen slowed down. It was Karjat, the station in the foothills just before the mighty Sahaydri Mountains .

I turned to Girish and said, “Let’s get down. You get yummy batata-vadas here.”

“Your father...”

“Please?”

“Okay.”

We strolled on the platform eating the delicious batata-vadas with the lip-smacking chutney, and suddenly Girish said, “I’m nervous. I hope everything works out well.”

“Me too,” I said. “Papa needs someone. But he’s so worried for me. Whether I’ll like her or not. And she too?”

“Of course, she will like you. You will like each other. I’m sure things will be fine. For you, and also for me. Why don’t you bring her also to Vaishali tomorrow morning along with you? And we will all celebrate!” he said.

“I’ll try.”

“You must.”

“Okay. If I like her.”

“But you must come.”

“I will,” I said. “Like a kabab-me-haddi.”

We laughed and got inside the train. Pushed by the banker engines the Deccan Queen began its climb up the steep Western Ghats .

“Hi, Girish!” an excited voice spoke from above.

I looked up. Another young bearded man. But this was a boisterous type.

“Oh, Hi Sanjiv. What are you doing here?” Girish said getting up form his seat.

“Going to Lonavala,” the man named Sanjiv answered.

“Lonavala?”

“I’ve bought a cottage in Lonavala. A sort of farmhouse. Why don’t you come and see it?”

“No, No,” Girish said, “I’ve got an important appointment in Pune.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning. At ten.”

“And where are you going to spend night?”

“I don’t know. Some hotel or someplace.”

“Why don’t you spend the night with me? I’ve got a bottle of Scotch and we’ve got so much to talk. I’ll drop you first thing in the morning in time for your appointment. It’s only an hour’s drive to Pune. I’ll get my car serviced too.”

I could sense that Girish wanted to go, so I said, “It’s okay. I’ll manage. She’s definitely coming to pick me up.”

Sanjiv looked at me in a curious manner, so Girish said, “This is Pooja. My co-passenger. I promised her father I’d deliver her safely to Pune.”

“Hi, young lady,” Sanjiv said. “Girish and I are batch mates and shipmates. We’re meeting after a long time.”

I knew that both of them were dying to talk to each other, have a good time, so I said to Girish, “You get down at Lonavala. I promise I’ll look after myself. I’ve got my mobile with me and I’ve got her number also. I’ll ring up my Papa the moment I reach Pune.”

I insisted, and egged on by Sanjiv, a hesitant Girish got down at Lonavala, but not before we exchanged each other’s cell numbers and he requested the lady across the aisle to look after me.

It was only after the train left Lonavala on its final leg to Pune did I notice that Girish had forgotten his ‘Mills & Boon’ romance paperback. I took out the book from the rack and opened it. On the first page was written in beautiful cursive handwriting:

To My Dear Girish,

In remembrance of the lovely time we had together in Port Blair.

Snehal

PS – Remember, there is a thin line between pity and love.

As I looked at the message something started happening within me. Snehal? It couldn’t be? Or could it? Snehal! A loving person. That’s what the name means. Maybe it was just a coincidence. Is Snehal a common name? Maybe. And there may be so many Snehals in Pune.

The Deccan Queen is rushing towards Pune. There will be a Snehal waiting for me at Pune railway Station. And do you know, what is the first thing I am going to ask her?

I am going to ask her which is the best restaurant in Port Blair.

And whatever her answer, I am going to take her to Vaishali restaurant on Fergusson College Road at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. And I'm dying to see the expression on her face, and Girish's too, when they see each other at the rendezvous.

I will not return the Mills & Boon romance book to Girsish.

’ll keep it for myself. I want to read it on my journey back to Mumbai by the Deccan Queen.

And then I'll tell my Papa all about the lovey-dovey rendezvous in Vaishali.

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