The Show

Curtains were drawn. An enthralling show of standup comedy put up by some unknown names came to a close with a thunderous applause. They had delivered what they had promised. The audience was left itching for more. It had gotten over earlier than expected. The audience reluctantly exited the auditorium.

The only soul in the crowd who had been waiting at the entrance throughout the duration of the show was Rijuta. Two tickets in her left hand, her cellphone and purse in her right. She stood near the gate, in the left corner, fiddling with her phone helplessly and taking awkward steps left and right restlessly. She glanced at her watch again, for the umpteenth time. It was thirty-three minutes past seven. He hadn’t turned up. And he didn’t have the courtesy of informing her. It wasn’t normal. She was angry. But more than that, worried.

Gloomy thoughts clouded her mind. Had Raghav met with an accident on the way? Had he some other emergency in the family? Or had he just slept off? Why didn’t he respond to her innumerable texts and calls? Should she have waited outside for some more time? Did he not turn up because he didn’t like her? Was this the end then? She had no answer. But she only hoped that he had only slept off- the unlikeliest of reasons. As she saw the crowd leaving the auditorium, she called his number again.

Jaane kyun log pyaar karte hain?

She never liked his caller-tune. But he wouldn’t budge. This song gave her more reasons to believe it could be worse than what she was expecting. She sighed. He didn’t pick her call up, again.

Inside the auditorium, after the show was over, few enthusiasts had stayed back to meet the cast in the green room in order to get their autograph and chit-chat about their interest in comedy or about the state of live performances in the country, in general.

Raghav was basking in the glory of having successfully enchanted the audience with his maverick comedy. The first event is always special. The air of success only made it sweeter. He was among the most sought-after performers during the ‘autograph time’. He was beaming with pride. But he was worried that he couldn’t find Rijuta. He had expected her to come running to him at the end of the show. But she was nowhere to be seen inside the hall.

Didn’t she like his surprise? Even if she didn’t, why would she leave without meeting him? Did she not recognize him during his performance? But the performers had introduced themselves at the end of the show, he defended in his thoughts. Did she leave the auditorium before they introduced? It was weird. He remembered to have specifically asked her to get a front seat for the two of them, without waiting for him. Did she still wait for him outside? Did she leave because she thought he hadn’t turned up?

As he hurriedly reached the drawer where the performers leave their belongings before taking the stage, he found his phone. 23 missed calls. 7 text messages. As he read through the messages, he realized his mistake. He rushed outside. Rijuta was standing there, sweating. He slowly walked up to her. His eyes met hers. But before he could explain, she had started walking away in anger.

Raghav begged, “Never a surprise again! Sorrrryyyyyyyyy!”

The Package

Sudip was vigorously typing out the plot of his first novel. While working full-time on weekdays, it was obvious that Saturdays and Sundays had to be spent researching and accentuating his storyline. Sreejita was supportive of her husband’s eccentricities. She hadn’t protested when Sudip had suddenly popped the idea that he wanted to author a book. She took care of the household chores without bothering him. She put up with him elaborately discussing his thoughts on the plot in bed at night. In fact, she was the one who had suggested the broad storyline for this novel. Sudip had liked it and had started penning it down. She enthusiastically responded every time he asked for her advice on the plot even when she was busy. This weekend, she had to visit her ailing grandmother. She would be away for three days. Sudip had decided to stay back and work on adding pieces to the increasingly complex puzzle that he has set out to create- his novel.

Triiiiiing. Triiiiiing.

Sudip was left perplexed for a couple of seconds before he could identify the familiar sound as the doorbell. Irritated for having to leave his work mid-way, he got up and started zombie-walking towards the door.

Who could it be? He glanced at his watch. It was 2:35 PM.

As he reached the door, he peeped through the keyhole. There was either no one or the keyhole was naturally so hazy with dirt that he couldn’t make out if there was someone outside at all. Unlatching the door, Sudip peeked outside. There indeed was no one. But there was a package that lay unattended. Without touching it, he stepped outside and tried looking if anyone was around. It was an apartment that he lived in, and he could see the door of the flat opposite his, the staircase and the elevator. There was no one. He walked down a floor to the ground-floor, looking for the security guard. He was nowhere to be seen. Irritated, he mumbled something to himself. Sudip was not someone who would complain about missing security guards. He usually didn’t meddle in the matters of his apartment complex. Walking back to his door, he found the package still there.

Not sure what to do, he carried it inside. It was not as heavy as he had expected from the size. The carton was a cuboid about the size of a laptop along its length and height. Sudip lifted the package to see what’s underneath. There was a white paper-label pasted on the package. He turned it and put it upside down on the drawing room table. The label read his name in bold: Sudip Chattopadhyay. The address was listed in block letters. All in print. Not hand-written. The sender’s name was missing. Curiosity only heightened.

Sudip tried to tear open with his hands the tapes that wrapped the package. He made a mess of the tapes but somehow was able get through after an irritating several minutes long effort. He removed the cardboard flap and looked inside. It seemed to be a heap of papers. Carefully picking one sheet of paper from inside, he tried to make sense of what’s inside. It was a letter. He wondered why he was delivered this package. Emptying the package, he found all kinds of papers- some handwritten, others printed; some stamped and legal, others casual and friendly; some from banks, others from lawyers. Sudip did not know what to make out of all these. But there was one thing he knew: it was a mystery he had to solve.

When Sreejita called in the evening, Sudip carefully concealed the story of the mystery package. He didn’t want her to get upset. He spent hours reading through the multiple letters exchanged among several of these unknown characters, documents of will, property and marriage, and notices from banks and judges. This was a puzzle and he badly wanted to solve it. He took out an A4 from his drawer and started scribbling notes as he read through each of these papers a second time. He had almost forgotten his dinner. Sreejita had to call and remind him. Sunday was no different. The entire day was spent trying to understand what these documents conveyed. There was a message and he had to uncover it.

Late Sunday night, Sudip had started to make some sense of what was there. Contrary to what he had expected, he had started to feel very uncomfortable. The story seemed to fit largely to the plot that he was coming up with- with added condiments of mystery, seasoned with a dose of reality; or so it seemed. After all, the stamps and the letterheads could hardly have been counterfeit.  

Sudip took his glasses off and shut his eyes. He was disturbed. How could it have been possible that he was writing a story that had already occurred but of which he had no clue? But that was not his biggest worry. How would someone know of the story he was working on and the eerie similarity with events that had already taken place? The only person who knew of his novel was his wife.

Cringgg. Cringgg.

“What happened? Is everything okay? Why are you calling so late?”, cringed Sreejita, sounding worried.

“Did you tell anyone about my novel?”

“Umm, no, I don’t think… why? What happened?”

“Nothing”, and after a moment of pause, Sudip hastily said in a disappointed tone, “Go back to sleep. We’ll talk when you’re back. Good night!”

Before she could respond, he had hung up.

When Srijeeta got back from her grandmother’s the next day, she found sheets of papers lying all over the room. Sudip was sitting in the reading room, looking tense. The suspense was driving him crazy.

She smiled at him. He did not smile back.

“Do you know what happened?”, Sudip started off, trying to set the context.

“Yes, I do.” Srijeeta was calm as usual.

“This is no time for joke. I couldn’t sleep properly for the last two days. I skipped office today.”

Srijeeta held his hands and took him to his bed. As she caressed his forehead, the soothing touch made Sudip almost fall asleep. Srijeeta offered no explanation. She only said, “Let’s just say that I got inspired by a real-life incident in my family. Remember, this story was my idea? I decided to make your life a little easier; and two of your days a little complex.”

Sudip was speechless. Solving the mystery all by himself had done him more good, he had to admit. He was better equipped to write.

Sreejita continued, “I had an experience. You have the craftsmanship of an author. I have a story and you know the skills of the language. That’s why we make such a good pair. Good night!”

The hiking trail

My doctoral fellowship at the University of Hamburg was nearing completion. An avid traveler, I wasn’t happy with the fact that my workload did not allow me to explore Germany the way I would have liked. But, I knew it was time. I had over a week to go before I had to defend my dissertation. And I thought I was comfortable.

“Do you know a good trail around where I could go hiking?”

Friedrich was pouring dark coffee, trying to make another attempt at understanding what problems his research actually solved. Does it make sense? Did I waste three years already? Is this it? There seem to be missing links. No? Whenever these questions popped up on his head, Fred (as we fondly called him) poured mugs of coffee. We all had our moments with coffee and abstract questions.

Fred was startled for a couple of seconds- “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“You weren’t expecting that I would go hiking?”

“Yeah, right!”- he reluctantly nodded in agreement.

“Schlagsdorf. My grandparents used to visit there. You can trek from there for several kilometers. They say it’s a nice trail with a scenic view. There’s a lake too. But beware, there are wild animals. The villagers at Schlagsdorf have spotted all kinds…”

Before he could finish, I had left. Leaving Fred startled again. And possibly annoyed.

I was at my desk, googling. It took me ten minutes. And I was already packing.

When I was at Schlagsdorf two days later, the villagers looked at me suspiciously. This was not one of the touristy hiking trails. Of all things, they weren’t expecting an Indian. The little German that I had picked up helped me converse with them about the dangers of taking the different alternative routes. I wouldn’t budge. I decided I would take the Bretzin- Vogelsen- Am Deich trail.

The forest was mildly dense. The altitude gain was not very tiring. At times, broken trees and naturally shaved greenery offered views of the lake. I removed my sunglasses every now and then to bask in the real colors of nature. Far away, across the lake, the snow adorning the unnamed mountains looked like straight out of some wallpaper. The chirping and fluttering birds scared and pleased me at the same time- over and over again.

I didn’t remember how long I had come when I spotted a house. In the middle of nowhere. Almost.

It was one of those houses which appeared to be an ideal location for shooting horror movies. Thankfully, the sun was bright. And I knew I would be sorry if I was not being curious. It wasn’t the typical German village house- it was a makeshift wooden house but decently big- one that would probably fit two rooms and a kitchen and a toilet. As I inched closer, I could hear faint sounds. It was difficult to make out what sounds they exactly were because of the noises that the birds made outside. But it was a distinct sound that came from inside the house.

I took my Swiss knife out and slid it under my left shirt sleeve.

“Tuck, tuck, tuck.”- I knocked.

No response.

“Tuck, tuck, tuck, tuck.”

None yet.

I pushed the door a little. It made a sound typical of old wooden doors- it wasn’t loud but flat. The door was ajar. It gave me a glimpse of what’s inside. There was no one to be seen. Gathering a little more courage and even more impoliteness, I pushed it wide open and entered the room. The room looked naked, with very few furniture lying around.

“Anyone in there? Hello?”

I heard a rush of footsteps from the other room. The sound of birds and other animals grew aloud. I consciously held the knife strongly, expecting an encounter.

To my surprise, it was a middle-aged man in round glasses. He was shorter than an average German. His tattered shirt and shorts gave an impression that laundry was infrequent. Thankfully, he did not appear dangerous. Psychopath, I mean. But more importantly, he started speaking in English. Probably because I looked like I belonged to the Indian sub-continent.

“What are you doing here?”- he sounded half-angry and half-irritated.

“I was just hiking and I saw this house. Thought I would drop by.”

“Okay, what do you want?”

Not sure what to say, I asked for a glass of water. Befitting of a tired traveler.

He went in to get water as I prepared my next set of questions.

“So…umm, you stay here alone?”

“Yes!”

“Why don’t you move to the village down there?”- I pointed in some direction which was hardly right. But he got the idea, I think.

“I cannot. I have work here.”

“May I know, what kind of work?”

“No!” –he blurted out.

I wouldn’t push any more, but he had gained my attention. But I was unhappy I couldn’t know more.

Watching my face turn from inquisitive to disappointing, he added- “Some experiment. Only time will tell if I will succeed. And if I do, you’ll know.”

He must be a scientist, I thought. So, I offered to introduce myself. He wasn’t interested. He just nodded.

I bid goodbye and left, without shaking hands.

The next part of the trail was difficult. Made partly by the abrupt gain of altitude and the uneasy noises of animals, and partly by the various interpretations of his experiment in my mind. I was restless. And tired at the end of the trip.

Back in Hamburg, my dissertation went well. I flew back to India. Proud and with new experiences.

Forty years later…

I was visiting my son Piyush at his residence in Mumbai. My grandchildren were not as elated to see me as I used to be when my grandparents visited me. But I had come to accept it. Generation gap, as they say.

After dinner, they were busy with their devices, the names of which I can’t remember these days. When it was bedtime, Piyush went to switch on music.

I protested- “Why do you want to play music now? Let the kids sleep peacefully.”

Piyush chuckled. I knew he was mocking my ignorance.

“Baba, this will help them sleep peacefully.”

I was not sure how. He did not have to explain.

The music flowed. It was not music as we understood in our days. It was the sound of nature. Birds, animals, leaves, water- all mingled into a rhythm so beautiful that with lights turned off, it was difficult to tell that you were still in Mumbai.

Piyush elaborated -

“Baba, some French musician by the name of Aubert, spent more than half his life in a German forest to create this music. He studied birds and animal sounds in closed rooms to recreate their sounds as closely as possible with musical instruments. Imagine the arrangement of instruments he would have required. And the synchronization. He did it all alone, they say. I don’t believe, though! He gave his music a French name I cannot recall. But this is turning out to be an entirely new genre. For those of us living in cities, the only sounds we hear belong to the incessant traffic. I don’t know when I last heard birds chirping or water hitting rocks. Doctors are saying it’s therapeutic. Every city-dweller should listen to it before going to bed.”

I stood still in silence. Trying to recall what I had heard and seen. His experiment was successful. I longed to go back to Schlagsdorf.

I asked Piyush, “Is he still alive?”

“No, Baba. It was unfortunate. He was killed by an animal while he was wandering in the forest. He was found dead by some hiker. The recordings were discovered from his forest-house. The music was well documented- so it could be released. It was an instant hit! And students are trying to learn from his notes.”

I did not know whether I should be happy that I had met the legend or sad that he died lonely. I went back to my room, soaking in the music that was being created forty years back in my presence! It was supposed to let you sleep peacefully. But I could not sleep.

The wise potato

The aging, somewhat disfigured potato felt bad I didn’t pick it. I could sense it.

“I haven’t bought a refrigerator yet, so I can’t take too many of you”, I muttered in my defense.

The potato stared meekly at me, “Really? That’s why?”

“Well, of course”, I half-lied.

He kept interrogating, “Why don’t you replace the one in your hand with me?”

“Because you were down there, hidden behind him. And many more. I have already picked your friend, someone else will pick you. What’s the big deal?” I shrugged.

The potato responded calmly, a tinge of sadness spilling through his words, “He’s not a friend. I am old. He pushed me off the queue to grab the prime spot.”

“Oh, come on. That lady there- you see? She’ll pick you.”

“No, tell me- Do you humans also treat your old fellows in this manner?”

Not recognizing where this was going, I said, “What are you talking?”

“I have been waiting here for the last two days, rotting. My lord has been trying to sell me off but…”- he showed me the scars.

“But won’t you anyway get killed if I take you home?”

With a sense of wisdom characteristic only of aging potatoes, he responded, “In our world, that’s how we prefer dying. I’ve heard stories of how you prefer getting killed in a war rather than in a road accident.”

“Umm, I wouldn’t prefer either, but yeah, it’s kind of true.”

“For us, jumping into the frying pan means getting cleansed of all our sins before we die. It’s an honorable death. And in our next life, we might as well be reborn as human beings.”

I was awe-struck- “Do you really want to be reborn as a human being?”

“Unless you too leave your old men to rot”, asked the potato, a shred of doubt clouding his face.

While I was wondering how to respond, I was distracted by a poor man in a tattered shirt haggling with the thelawaala over the price of potato. They settled for a discount for the bad potatoes.

Before I could turn to the old potato, he was gone. Sitting pretty in the poor man’s basket, with his contemporaries.

I was relieved.  Or so I thought.

From the basket, he looked skywards, apparently thanking for the act of Providence. Then he turned toward me- “Do you believe in God?”

“No!” I almost chided him.

 “Then, have you ever wondered why most of your old folks happen to believe in God?”

I could take it no more. I hurriedly paid for my potatoes and left.

For Rent

The doorbell rang twice in quick succession, paused for a moment, and rang a third time.

“Coming”, yelled Gaurav, as he reluctantly got off his comfortable bean bag.

Just when he was about to unlatch the door, the bell rang a fourth time. Probably the guest hadn’t heard the approaching footsteps- so, with the door ajar, Gaurav could see the tall figure in front of him appear somewhat embarrassed. The middle-aged man standing outside in a loose shirt and denim jeans had his head shaved clean.

Before Gaurav could ask, the man smiled at him and extended his right hand, “Hi, this is Harshil.”

“Gaurav”, he shook Harshil’s hand.

“I saw the ‘For Rent’ board there, and was wondering if you could show me around.”

“Sure, let’s go”, said Gaurav, not with much enthusiasm.

Every Sunday, this was the drill, he knew. Already into the third week, Gaurav still hadn’t found a tenant who wanted to move in.

The house was at a prime location, slightly off the main road, which offered the dual advantage of convenience and not having to live through noise and dust of the city. But no potential tenant ever talked about the rent he would charge; they simply did not come back. Did they not like the rooms and the garden? Very unlikely, but then what is it?

Gaurav kept Harshil waiting outside as he went into his room to fetch the bunch of keys.

The exterior of the house looked well-maintained. Indeed, it had been painted a month back when he had decided to rent it out. The elegance of the architecture would impress anyone. Harshil was no exception- but he chose not to express.

It was the ground floor. The door was unlocked and pushed wide open. The interiors were visible faintly in the dark. Gaurav went inside what looked like a drawing room. He navigated through the room without stumbling onto the furniture, reached for the windows and jerked open with his palm. Harshil waited for light to pour in before looking around.

“We’ll clear the mess of furniture when you decide to move in.”

“That’s not a problem.”

 “Okay, this is the drawing room. Let’s go see the dining and bedrooms.”

Harshil nodded. While Gaurav moved inside, Harshil stayed back to evaluate the room further. He looked satisfied.

“This is the dining hall. There’s the kitchen and a small garden just as you step out of the kitchen. That one is the bedroom.”

“Where’s the bathroom?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s there, to the right, next to the kitchen”, pointed Gaurav.

Harshil imagined where he would place the dining table. He realized space was not a constraint. He touched the walls, and then rubbed them with three fingers. The bedroom was spacious too- no complaints there.

But he found the kitchen weird. He did not expect what he saw: everything was wiped clean, unlike the other rooms he visited. The racks had some basic utensils from which water was dripping. Harshil was scared. Does someone stay here, cook and eat here?

He looked for Gaurav. Rushing to the dining room, he couldn’t find him.

“Gaurav!”

No response.

As he walked towards the bathroom, he was relieved to see Gaurav inside washing his face.

“Everything okay?”,Gaurav turned.

“Umm…can you follow me to the kitchen once?”

As Gaurav stepped away from the bathroom mirror to accompany him to the kitchen, Harshil saw something on the mirror that almost made him faint.

Even when Gaurav had moved aside and Harshil was staring right at the mirror, it was Gaurav’s face that lingered on the mirror in grey.

“What happened? Let’s go to the kitchen.”

Numb with fear, Harshil followed Gaurav. In the kitchen, there was another man slicing vegetables now, with his back facing them.

“Meet Harshil”,Gaurav introduced him.

The man turned to Harshil with a knife. Instead of water, this time it was blood dripping. There were two Gauravs in the room- the new one was an aged version of who had so long been accompanying him. As the two Gauravs started laughing, Harshil fell on the floor. His body was found later in the day outside the wall that separated the garden from the alleyway.

In the evening, the doorbell rang again. Gaurav opened the door.

“You did not talk about the rent. Shall we discuss?”,Harshil smiled at Gaurav.

Road to happiness

He punched his tickets and rushed to board the 9:12 AM train. Local trains in Mumbai reminded Arun of the story where a glass full of stones still had space for sand and that same glass could still absorb water. No guess as to how many people could be jammed in a compartment would be an overestimate. Bank balance and time balance dictated that he took the train to office. The early morning sweat dripping off the forehead onto a neighbor’s freshly ironed shirt, the unintentional shoves of survival and the abuses that concealed frustration were his incentives to do better at the annual appraisal.

“One day, I won’t have to take the train. I will take the taxi. God willing, I will have my own car”, he thought. Every day. Almost.

On other days, he thought, “I am new to the city. Who knows, maybe, I will get used to this?”

“No way!” he countered himself. Not much of an argument, though.

Arun spent the first thirty minutes of his time in office everyday cursing the traffic in Mumbai and his fate, discussing the former with his colleagues and the latter to himself.

Three years had passed.

Arun had learnt the tricks of the game. He no longer feared the crowd. He no longer envied the Audis and BMWs stuck in the traffic jam in a parallel road. He did not loathe the smell of the sweat. He did not find the shoves and pushes rude. He found the abuses amusing. He had learnt to laugh at the jokes of his fellow travelers. He started to find the occasional breeze refreshing. Now that he had learnt which door the sun shone brightly at, he could find an appropriate spot that struck a balance between the heat and the cold.

He had made acquaintances. The ones who did not ask beyond where he worked. Not how much he earned. Not his career plans. They did not ask the very questions he was uncomfortable with. He often wondered, “How did they know?”

Then he thought, “Maybe, they were all like him.”

Before he got down, Arun waved them good-bye. He now spent his first thirty minutes in office differently. He listened. And laughed over tea.

When he got back to his cubicle, he sat down relaxed, watching the Windows machine boot up. Those forty seconds. He knew the solution to a major puzzle he could not crack three years back.

The answer was Tolerance.

With practice, he had mastered it. He was happier.

Happy Independence Day

Bankim knew he was running late. He hastily slipped into his trousers and quickly buttoned and zipped it, his eyes all the while fixed on the television screen. The Prime Minister was readying himself for hoisting the National flag. Bankim glanced at the wall clock- it was past 7 AM and the minutes hand was steadily moving from 12 towards 1. He knew the clock was running around five minutes early. Bankim had developed this habit of setting the clock before time since his school days- when during examinations he would never be able to finish the last question, adjusting the time helped Bankim pace his answers a little better. Quickly drawing two fingers on the crease of the backside of the collar, Bankim turned up the volume of his television. The National Anthem would start in a few seconds.

‘Do you know what’s worth fighting for…’ rang his cellphone. He was taken aback by the ringtone but realized that he had set it only last night.

Couldn’t have chosen a worse time, Bankim thought to himself- whoever was calling had no sense of timing. After all, it was the morning of the 15^th of August, when the nation of 1.2 billion was gearing up for, umm…a display of, patriotism. As Bankim lifted his phone from the dining table onto his palm, he noticed that the call was from an unknown number. But more importantly, it began with +1. Bankim exhaled a deep breath and prepared himself. He muted his television set.

Hello?

Am I speaking to Mr. Bankhim Chatterjee?

Yes? Who’s this?

Srinivasan. I’m calling from San Jose.

Sir, I’m really sorry… I am running a little late. I will be in office in 10 minutes. I’ll be on call as soon as I get there. This traffic congestion in Mumbai! You know, Sir. Terrible.

Bankim could see the National Anthem playing on the television. It was on mute. He couldn’t muster the courage to turn on the volume lest his boss discovered that he was still at home. The honking of vehicles on the road next to his apartment kept his hopes of passing on the lie alive. The Prime Minister was standing upright, his right palm exposed, steady. The camera panned slowly away from the fluttering Tricolor and scanned the crowd- an uncharacteristically disciplined one in attention position.

I understand, Bankhim. But will our customers understand? You should have anticipated and left from home early.

Bankim was silent. His eyes were fixated on the television screen.

Bankim, you still with me?

Sorry, Sir, I’m here.

I am requesting the customer to postpone the call by half an hour. They’ll shout at me for this. But there doesn’t appear to be a better way out. Is half hour good?

Yes Sir.

Bye.

Goodbye Sir.

Both hung up.

Bankim angrily muttered, Happy Independence Day, Sir.

Bankim did not unmute the television. He turned it off. Next, he slipped his feet into his oversized shoes, tied the laces, hurriedly combed his hair without looking at the mirror and left with the door-key in one hand. He pulled the door hard and it shut aloud.

While in the auto-rickshaw, he saw kids running around with tiny flags. He was reminded of his childhood when he went to school for the flag-hoisting ceremony, his father cycled him straight from the school to the field to watch the ‘parade’ and heard patriotic songs blare from the loudspeakers installed at random locations. Bankim hated himself for working at a place that had holiday on 4^th of July but not on 15^th of August. What kind of independence is this! I will quit my job today itself, thought Bankim.

The auto-rickshaw came to a jolting halt.

How much?

Sir, as much as you wish. Today’s a special day. My grandpa fought with the British and got us independence. The government still couldn’t decide whether to reward him. How can I ask for anything?

Carefully drawing a hundred-rupee note from his wallet with the tip of his two fingers, Bankim handed it over and left without speaking anything or waiting for change to be tendered. On the way to the elevator, he thought- I was over-reacting, maybe.

He reached his seat and hurriedly dialed the conference number. From the other side, he could hear the client join the call.

Happy Independence Day guys, said an American voice.

The trip

As the green landscape bade adieu to the speeding car that wheeled through what could be used by high-school teachers as an example of oxymoron- the beautiful badlands, Barun experienced lack of oxygen. Psychologically. And a little later, biologically. Or may be, in the other order.

Too educated to experience the slowdown of time around him, he wanted the journey to end. It had been back-breaking. He had never driven so far up. And for so long. As trees almost disappeared from his rear-view mirror, he smiled at what was printed on it: Objects in the mirror are closer than they appear. Lies, his heart protested. He turned on the music to divert his attention from the reducing oxygen level. Within minutes, he knew it wouldn’t work. He undid one button of his shirt to let air in.

Barun slowed the car down in the middle of the road. There was no vehicle in sight. He killed the engine and heaved a deep sigh. Looking at the watch and then outside the window, he knew it was time for sundown, except that he didn’t feel darkness was imminent. His mind asked him not to trust the watch. He took a Diamox to fight altitude-sickness. Instant relief wasn’t promised. At least, he saw no signs!

For Barun, it was no longer a journey- it was a challenge. He had fought at home and at office to earn this break. He was escaping the pollution, the population and the games of probability he was tired of playing. He did not know why he acted like he did. You could call it madness. Or revolt. Or a burst of energy bottled only to be released like shaken soda.

He hadn’t spoken to anyone for almost a day! None except the tea-stall or dhaba owner where he stopped to get himself rejuvenated. He did not feel very good. He wanted to make a phone call. He knew he could not. There was an intense feeling of simultaneous push and pull- one forcing him away from the regularities of civilization to the world of unknown and the other luring him towards familiarity with utmost energy. This was a dilemma he hadn’t expected. Familiar triviality versus Alien grandeur!

As brain overruled his heart, he jumped into the car, tied his seat-belt and gave life to his engine. He was headed for the nearest village. As he approached, he saw houses converted to motels to accommodate travelers scattered here and there. A few, very few- were up to his ‘standard’. He checked in one of them. He badly wanted a hot-water bath.

“It takes half an hour to boil water here.”

Disappointed, he went to the bathroom and washed his face with cold water.

“Is there a phone here? An STD booth?”

“Yes, sir, there’s one down there but it usually remains offline.”

“What do you have for dinner?”

“Whatever we eat, we’ll serve you. Rice, dal, chapati, vegetables. It will be very tasty, I promise. If you want chicken, we can get it for you tomorrow.”

He wouldn’t wait to have chicken the next day and taste was the last thing on his mind.

Barun heard weird sounds all night and kept squirming in his bed. He wanted to run away. In the morning he left without even a cup of tea. As he drove through the curves, he lived in constant fear of death. What was happening? Was it because of the lack of sleep last night? Was it acrophobia? Was it loneliness? Was it his difficulty in accepting his new way of life?

As the tires rolled dangerously close to the edge of the road, Barun woke up in sweat, gasping.

On his bed. In his room.

The first thing he did was to go straight to the next room where his daughter was getting ready for school. He picked her up and hugged her.

“Papa, when are you leaving for your tour?”

“I’m not going. We are going”, smiled Barun, visibly transiting from a state of relief to that of happiness.

Bad smell, good times…

[This article is my entry for "Smelly To Smiley!", held by AmbiPur and Indiblogger]

Seven days. That was how long I was to stay in my home. When I had approached my boss for a leave, he said he would approve my ‘vacation’. I was pleasantly surprised. I hadn’t asked for a vacation. I had asked for a week off. The word ‘vacation’ somehow still evoked images of fun-filled month-long summer holidays. When I was back to consciousness, my colleagues had a good time laughing at my interpretation of the word. I was bent on making the most of my hard-earned vacation. Yes, I had worked weekends. No, I didn’t tell my parents about it, lest they worry.

Anyway, when I got home, I was somewhat disappointed to find my parents fighting over small things. However, I soon found out that those small things were their idea of making me happy in those seven days.

Maa screamed at Baba, “Why did you bring chicken? Don’t you know that he doesn’t get to eat fish when he’s away? You should have brought Hilsa!”

Baba retorted, “What is wrong with you? You forgot that he loves chicken more than Hilsa…”

Arguments went back and forth as I lay tinkering in bed. No one thought of soliciting my opinion!

These little things stopped bothering me in a couple of days.

Now, one of these days, as my mother was away chatting with a neighbor, I smelt something. It did not take me long to identify the smell of scorching milk. Initially I ignored, thinking that the smell might have been from a neighbor’s house, and went back to reading the novel. As the odor grew stronger, I bookmarked the page I was reading, got up and ran toward the kitchen.

What I saw next was something I had seen all my life- milk left for scalding was scorched by overheating. The pan had turned black by the scathed milk, which now dry, held on to the container like an injured seeking help. The smell was not a stranger to me.

As I shouted from the kitchen, inviting Maa to witness the not-so-glorious sight, she came running, with her tongue stuck out between her jaws, having already realized how silly it was of her to leave the milk boiling for so long! She knew she would be forgiven for this misdemeanor. All her life, that’s what she had experienced.

I was angry. “You left it unattended again?”

She defended, “Aha, you see, I have so many things to do…I forgot about it totally! What does your father do all day...”
And then I knew what was to follow: an elaborate explanation of what all things Baba should be doing to help her out. I took my mind away.

Black and white frames zipped past me. Some fifteen years back, when I was a kid in school, my mother had kept me guard to see that milk didn’t get spilled from over-boiling. In some time, I was bored of this duty. A monkey chewing on a piece of jackfruit by our window had distracted me. I walked toward the window. It was immensely entertaining for a boy of ten. I observed it keenly. I was brought to senses only by the smell of burning milk. It wasn’t pungent. It was different. But it meant disaster. Since my mother was near, the odor got to her sooner than I had expected. She was approaching me. She admonished, “How many times did I tell you? Why do you get distracted so easily? Learn to be more patient or you’ll be in trouble later on!”

As my mother shook me up, I traveled forward in time to the present. Nostalgia had engulfed me completely.

I realized that over these years, there has been reversal of role. I had started advising and even scolding my mother. The odor of scathing milk was witness to my growth. Never did I feel so overwhelmed for having been rude to Maa. I wanted the roles to revert. I wanted to go back in time. To be reprimanded. And back to her caring canopy.

Faithful

The black umbrella swayed precariously as wind from the sea gathered strength with every dash of wave breaking on the sand. Awed by the jugalbandi of rain and wind, Shrishti sped up. The sun was already half-masked by the dark clouds. The last rays of sun whispered into her ears, “Fast! It’ll be dark in no time”.

Far way, sailors struggled in mid-sea as their dark outlines gave an eerie sensation about an impending danger. Muttering prayers her mother had taught, she strode with eyes half-open. As she was about to turn right to the path that led to the cottage, Shrishti saw something moving behind one of the rocks that separated the sand on the beach from the holiday cottages that faced the sea.

“Who’s there?”

There was no answer.

Half a mile away, Shrishti’s father moved impatiently from one corner of the lawn to the other, hands behind, all the while cursing his wife for having let Shrishti go to the beach alone.

“How many times have I told you not to let her go to the beach alone? Look at the sky! You just don’t care…What kind of a…”

The mother had not spoken all this while. Clearing her throat, she blurted out, “Why don’t you go and see?”

Here at the beach, Shrishti took tiny steps towards the object. She made an effort to recognize it but the fading light played spoilsport. It moved again. Her mind warned, “Don’t go there. There could be a dangerous man hiding behind the rock.” The inquisitive heart refused to comply. After all, her father was an army officer.

As she approached the rock, she could hear a groaning sound. The crashing waves didn’t let her make out clearly. Four steps later, everything was clear. Jimmy was lying there, one leg stuck underneath the rock. Shrishti immediately folded the wet umbrella and threw it on the sand. Then, with both hands, she tried to lift the corner of the rock under which Jimmy’s legs had got stuck. Soon, she was able to get Jimmy out without hurting him.

As she picked the puppy in her arms, Jimmy caressed her in gratitude. The next moment, Jimmy looked eastwards. He was trying to indicate something. Shrishti looked in that direction. It took her a few seconds to realize what Jimmy was trying to show. It was an ear-ring- the one that her mother had lost last morning.

The ear-ring was special. It was gifted to her mother by her father on their anniversary, three days back. The vacation had turned somewhat sour when she was not able to find the ear-ring after the bath the previous day. The father had said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get you another one.” But mother wouldn’t listen. She had walked miles down the shore looking for it. After a futile effort, she had given up, but her mind was lost in the sorrow of having lost the special thing. For the last two days.

Shrishti picked up the ring and the umbrella and ran towards the cottage.

“Mamma, see what Jimmy has found!” , shouted Shrishti excitedly as she held out her right hand, while stooping to release Jimmy who ran through the lush green lawn and then up into her father’s arms.

The glistening ear-ring in Shrishti’s right hand was visible even in the dark.

The whole family smiled. And Jimmy clearly was part of it.

The halt

A bottle, almost half-filled with mineral water rolled off the edge of the tray with a noise that was just enough to wake him up. Water spilled over onto the floor.

“Ah, Rashi, didn’t you cap it properly after drinking?”, the fifty-something man admonished his daughter, as he stooped to pick up the bottle with his left hand while using his right foot to shove the shoes away from the mess.

The man was not more than five-and-a-half feet tall. He wore an old-fashioned pair of glasses that concealed his mischievous eyes with an air of intelligentsia. Half-bald by the combined forces of age and heredity, this stout man had the appearance of a typical small-town businessman. His daughter, in her early twenties, was certainly not very beautiful but was pretty enough to exact lengthy glances from young passers-by.

The train journey hadn’t so far been very memorable. Nested in one corner of the compartment was the daughter. Just next to her was her father.  A nap between two stations ensured that time flew faster than usual, as they attempted to fight the ennui ensuing with every passing minute. But a sudden jolt had woken them up. The train had come to a halt. But there wasn’t a platform in sight.

“No signal yet again? The railways must be shut down! It’s already running so late”, complained a middle-aged gentleman to the left of this man, wiping sweat off his forehead by the stroke of his forefinger.

The daughter hadn’t paid much attention to the world outside her iPod. She was mindlessly tapping her feet to the beats of a song she played so loud that it almost got the boy opposite her tapping his feet as well! With the train now standstill, the breeze had stopped blowing. The girl removed the earplugs with a sigh of discontent.

A tall man with a mustache came running down the aisle. Startled by his panicky movements, the passengers exchanged confused glances. One of them couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the matter? Is everything alright?”

Paying no heed to the question, he walked past briskly, only to stop again at the same question by an old bespectacled man. This time again, he paid no attention but cared to reply more out of annoyance than courtesy-

“Someone pulled the chain.”

In a moment, all eyes turned towards the window. Men hanging from the door were shouting fiercely at a short young man running with a grey suitcase towards a village. Green pastures disappeared into the horizon. And apparently so did he plan to! Chasing the man would be a futile exercise, considering the fate of the thousand stranded travelers. The railway officials had given up.

Rashi was quick to recognize the suitcase the man was fleeing with. She quickly caught hold of her father’s arm, “Look, it’s that suitcase!”

In no time, the father realized that the suitcase that was carefully perched on the upper berth was no longer at its place.

The suitcase wasn’t theirs. Nor did it belong to any of the passengers in that bogie. They had lived in constant discomfort ever since they had discovered it after boarding the train.

“Let’s open and see if there’s an address of the owner”, a tall man who acted like a detective, had advised.

But before he could execute his plan, one lady had disclosed her concern. She'd complained to her husband, “Haven’t you seen those advertisements they show on TV? This might be a bomb. No place in this world is safe. There are terrorists everywhere!”

The husband had dutifully complied by engaging the fellow passengers in a discussion.

“Let’s throw it away”, proposed one. But he dared not bell the cat. In fact, no one would touch it. Some tried to get hold of a policeman in the train but to no avail.

“Okay, we should wait for the next station and inform the police”, suggested an aged gentleman. Everyone had agreed to the only seemingly feasible solution. The next station was an hour away.

“So, we’ll have to wait”, sighed a worried passenger, who embraced his kid, promising safety.

While they waited, the long journey coupled with the May heat had taken its toll on their body, inducing sleep from time to time, despite the cause of worry. The wait had come to a premature halt with the thief running away with the suitcase. The passengers did not know whether to thank him or not.

The father looked at his daughter, smiled at her and caressed her hair. Rashi reciprocated and soon went back to listening to her little device.