Stories by Subhash

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:ddee4dba35]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.


[/tscii:ddee4dba35]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:e1bb6f28d4]Happy New Year


She licked the salt from her hand and drank the shot, in one go, then a long swallow of beer that met the tequila’s burn as it rose.


Everyone clapped and cheered. With that one act she had crossed the barrier. She was no longer the rustic girl from the mofussil. Now, she was one of “them”. No longer would she have to hear those derisive jeers and taunts which pierced her heart – dehati, behenji, ghati – for now she would “belong”.


“Hey, Mofussil, that’s not the way to have a shot,” Cute Girl said.


“Please don’t call me Mofussil,” she said and looked at Cute Girl. Cute Girl was one of those sophisticated synthetic beauties who looked real chic – her role model.



“Then let me see you do a Los Tres Cuates.”



“What’s that?”



“The Three Chums. The best way to drink tequila. Look,” Cute Girl said. She put some salt on her palm, licked it off, downed the neat tequila shot, picked up a wedge of lime and pressed it between her teeth biting hard into it.



The girl they all called Mofussil sprinkled some salt on her left palm and picked up a tequila shot from the bar with her right.



“Be careful,” a voice said, “It’s her first time.”



“Oh, come on, killjoy. She’s a tough girl. She’ll drink all of us under the table,” Cute Girl said.



It was now or never. Once she proved her capacity to drink she would gain real respect in this crowd. She downed the shot in one go. As the shot hit the pit of her stomach, a rash of gooseflesh raced up from her insides, tremors reverberated through her body up the back of her neck resonating into her brain and she felt her brain she might explode – like a terrible black orgasm.


And then she felt a high, a high she had never felt before.


Everyone cheered and a voice said, “Let’s drink to that,” and they all had a few shots. In quick succession. One after another.


“Let’s hit the dance floor,” someone shouted, and propelled by unseen hands she was in their midst swinging away on the dance floor to the rocking music. The atmosphere in the disco was electric, fantastic, like she had seen in the movies. She felt wonderful, mesmerized, and with her inhibitions dissolved in the alcohol inside her, she let her hair down and danced so unabashedly and vigorously that soon she lost herself in the ultimate state of frenzied ecstasy she had never felt before. This was the hep, hot and happening way to celebrate New Year’s Eve – not sitting with a pizza and ice cream watching the boring New Year’s Eve programme on TV like she had done for the past few years and her roommate was doing right now.


She danced continuously without break. The dance-floor was packed with bodies, rubbing against each other. Suddenly, the lights went off and it was pitch dark. The DJ announced, “Ten seconds left for the New Year.” And then he began counting: “10, 9, 8, …, 3, 2, 1” and suddenly all the lights came on and everyone seemed to have gone berserk. Hooters, whistles, horns, drums, shouts – all had raised the noise level to a din. Total strangers hugged and kissed her wishing her a Happy New Year. The reverberating music, the crowd, the dancing strobe lights, the smoke, the cacophony, her exhaustion and the alcohol inside her – it made her head swim so she negotiated her way and swayed across to the nearest sofa and slumped down on it.


She tried to focus on the dancing couples. Everything was a bit hazy. Her head began to swim even more and she felt thirsty and reached out for the glass of water across the table. As she stretched across the table she swayed and rolled back uncontrollably into her chair. Her stomach seemed to be full of mercury, ice-cold and enormously heavy. Her face felt hot and beads of perspiration began to appear on her forehead. She pushed herself forward again, trying to reach the glass, and knocked it across the table. Her brain began to fade, and she leaned her elbows helplessly on the glass edge of the table and felt her head fall on her wrists.



“You’re okay?” Cute Girl asked.



“I don’t know, “ she said.



“Come,” Cute Girl said holding out her hand, “Let’s get some fresh air.”



She took Cute Girl’s hand and followed her like a zombie into the dark. Outside it was cold, and she could sense a maze of hands groping her, supporting her unsteady body and propelling her towards the car park.



She felt there were two persons within her as result of the baleful double personality that comes into being through drunkenness. The first acted as if without any brain at all, in a mechanical, vacant manner, and the second observed the first quite lucidly, but seemed entirely powerless to do anything.



“Shove her in the backseat,” a male voice said.



“And you come in front,” the man in the driver’s seat told Cute Girl.



The car drove off into the darkness, and hearing a shuffling noise in the rear the diver asked, “Hey, what are you guys up to?”



“Giving her a drink.”



“Be careful, she’s already had too much,” Cute Girl said.



“Just priming her up!”



“It may be her first time



“Really? Then she’ll need more priming. I’ll give her one more swig.” And he forced the bottle into her mouth.



“Shall we do it here?”



“No. Not in the car. We’ll go to our usual place.”



“Shit! Bloody Shit!”



“What happened?”



“She’s puking.”



“What?”



“Bloody drunken bitch! She’s vomiting all over me. Stop the car before the whole place is covered in puke.”



They stopped the car.



“She’s badly sick,” Cute Girl said, “It was her first time and she’d had too many shots. I told you not to force booze down her throat.”



“What do we do?”



“Let’s clean her up and go ahead.”



“Shit! She’s still puking. It’s bloody nauseating. I’ve lost it.”



“Disgusting! Let’s dump her here.”



“Here? No. Let’s drop her back,” Cute Girl said.



“Drop her back? Are you crazy? And ruin our New Year’s fun?”



“We’ll get into trouble.”



“Bullshit. She’s so drunk she won’t remember a thing.”



So they dumped her in a desolate spot and drove away to enjoy the New Year.





Wallowing in her stinking vomit and shivering uncomfortably, she stared vacantly into the dark sky, never so frightened, never so alone. She wanted to cry but tears refused to well in her eyes and her throat felt dry. Her recollections and images of the terrible night were just vivid flashes in a void. Her head throbbed with pain and her body ached as she retched again and again till there was nothing left inside her. Feeling totally shattered and enveloped by unimaginable agony she lapsed into a zombie-like state of suspended vacuum.


And at exactly the same moment, her roommate, drifting off to sleep tucked in her comfortable warm bed, after watching the boring show on TV, is thinking about her, wishing she had accompanied her to the party. Wondering with envy what she’s up to she dials her cell number to wish her Happy New Year. The mobile phone rings in her puke-drenched purse, but the totally inebriated girl is dead drunk, passed out stone-cold, oblivious to her surroundings, so her roommate send her an SMS: “Happy New Year”.


[/tscii:e1bb6f28d4]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:798ff8d671]A chase

“Wake up, I’m sending you on a mission,” my father said, shaking me off my bed.



“Mission!” I jumped out of bed and got ready in a jiffy.



My father is a detective and, once in a while, he sends me on undercover assignments. My father is all I have got in this world after God took my mother away.



“Surveillance?” I ask, as we stand discreetly at the bus stop outside Taraporewala Aquarium on Marine Drive.



“Yes. A simple tail-chase. Look to your right; keep your eyes focused on the gate of the working women’s hostel. A woman will come out soon. Follow her, shadow her, like a tail, but very discreetly, and the moment you lose her, ring me up on your mobile.”



Suddenly, a tall woman wearing a bright yellow dress appeared at the gate. My father gave me a nudge, and then he disappeared.



The woman walked towards Charni Road Station, crossed the over-bridge to platform No.2, and waited for the train to Churchgate. She got into the ladies compartment and I followed her in, for though I am a boy, I’m still below twelve. She sat down and I observed her, unseen, standing in the crowd. She must have been around 25, maybe 30, and with her smooth fair creamy complexion she looked really smashing in the bright yellow dress. What I liked about her the most was her huge strikingly expressive dancing eyes.



At Churchgate, she leisurely strolled down the platform, whilst everyone else rushed by. She browsed at Wheeler’s bookstall, and then stopped at Tibbs, bought a Frankie, and walked towards the underground exit. I too love frankies, so I quickly bought one too, and followed her, careful not to be seen. We both walked, me behind her, munching away, straight down the road towards Nariman Point, till she stopped at the Inox Multiplex.



Shit! I hoped she wouldn’t go for an Adults movie, but luckily she bought a ticket for ‘Madagascar’ and I followed her in.



I really enjoyed the rest of my mission. She was quite a fun person, and spent the day enjoying herself, seeing the sights, browsing books, window shopping, street food, eating things I love to eat, doing the things I like to do.



It was smooth sailing, till suddenly she stepped into a beauty parlour.



Now I needed backup, so I called up my father. But he told me to abort the mission and to meet him at our usual favourite place in the vicinity – Stadium next to Churchgate station.



We chose an inconspicuous table in the middle of the restaurant and sat facing the entrance. I told him everything. He listened intently.



Suddenly I saw the woman in yellow standing bold as brass at the entrance of the restaurant looking directly at us. I felt a tremor of trepidation, the ground slipped beneath my feet, and when I saw her coming directly towards our table, I wished the earth would swallow me up.



My father smiled at the woman, “Hello, Nanda.”



‘Hello Nanda?’ This was too much! First he sends me after her on a tail-chase, shadowing her all day, and now ‘Hello Nanda’!



She sat down, looked at me curiously.



“You’ve met, haven’t you?” father asked.



“No, she said.”



“No? You’re sure? Try to think. You must have seen him somewhere before.”



“I’m sure. I never forget a face. This is the first time I am seeing him. He’s cute.”



My father winked at me in appreciation.



But who was this woman, I wondered, so I asked my father, “Who is this aunty?”



It was the beautiful woman with dancing eyes who looked lovingly at me and answered, “Don’t call me aunty. I’m going to be your new mother.”
[/tscii:798ff8d671]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:40a48d4709]Thriller

I waited in anticipation overcome by tremors of trepidation, secretly hoping he would not come. But he did come. Right on the dot. Sharp ten o’clock at night. As planned.



He said nothing when he entered. The moment I recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn’t seem to notice. He turned around, as if he had forgotten something, took two quick steps and bolted the door.



Hoping to conceal my emotion, I began to speak in order to gain my composure: “Please be seated, sir,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”



“Whisky and soda,” he said, loosening the knot of his tie, as he moved towards the sofa. He sat down and gave me an appraising look.



I took my time getting up from my chair, taking care to make my movements deliberately slow, in order to hide my fear and nervousness. I walked towards the fridge, my back turned in his direction, but still I could feel his eyes piercing me.



Soda, glass, opener, ice-bucket and a bowl of peanuts ready on a tray, I opened the liquor-cabinet. At first my hands instinctively touched a bottle of cheap whisky, but then I hesitatingly picked out a bottle of the best premium whisky. After all this was a first-class client. And maybe his last drink. Let him enjoy it.



I carefully set the loaded tray on the table in front of him and sat down on the chair across. I poured him a stiff drink and opened the bottle of soda.



“Put lots of ice,” he said, in a commanding voice. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “What about you?”



“No,” I said handing him the glass, “I don’t drink on duty.”

“Duty?” he laughed looking me in the eye. He took a sip of the whisky and closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue, as if waiting for the whisky to caress his brain. His was not an unpleasant face. In fact he looked quite handsome.



“Without any effort I could go straight to sleep,” he said with his eyes still closed. Then suddenly he opened his eyes, looked directly at me, and with a mischievous smile he said, “But there’s plenty to do tonight, isn’t it?”



“Yes indeed!” I said to myself. “There was plenty to do tonight.” In my mind’s eye, I tried to visualize how I was going to do it.



The man shifted on his seat, took out a wallet from his hip pocket and stylishly extracted ten crisp red thousand-rupee notes and put them on the table in front of me.



I did not pick up the money. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s on the house.”

“Who said so?” he snapped an angrily.

“The person who sent me here,” I answered.

“What else did he say?”

“That you are a very special guest.”

“And?” he asked.

“That I should be very discreet. Shouldn’t even breathe a word to anyone.” I paused, and then said, “It’s okay. You can trust me.”



He smiled and said, “Take the money. I always pay for everything. I am a man of principles.”



Suddenly I could feel the venom rising inside me. A man of principles my foot! Hypocrite. That’s what he was. Where were his principles when he had killed my husband and concocted lies that it was a gruesome accident. And then quickly disposed off my husband’s body at sea – into the Davy Jones’s Locker. Murderer. That’s what he was. An unscrupulous mendacious murderer. And tonight he was going to pay for it. Everything was in my favour. I had recognized him but he did not know who I really was. For him I was just a nameless face. A one-night stand. To be used, discarded and forgotten. And though he could not possibly realize it, it was he who had reduced me to this. And now he had unknowingly walked right into my hands.



“Is it enough?” he asked, pointing to the money on the table.



“My normal rate is fifty thousand,” I said. I wanted to embarrass him for I had glimpsed into his wallet when he took out the money. I picked up the ten thousand rupees from the table, tucked them in my blouse, and said, “But for you, it’s okay.”



He smiled, looking intently into my eyes for a few seconds. Then he gulped down his drink, got up form the sofa, came around the table and stood behind me. I sat still, waiting for his next move. He put his hands on my shoulders and said matter-of-factly, “Let’s go to bed.”



When I woke up, for a moment I could not imagine where I was. The silence was so intense that I could hear my heart beating. The room was not quite dark, for the door of the bathroom was partly open, and the light in it had been left on. As I turned and I saw him lying beside me, I felt a sudden flush of passion. It was after a long time that I had really enjoyed it. But I quickly controlled my feelings and carefully observed the sleeping man. He breathed steadily, like a man immersed in deep sleep, fully satiated. But I had to be sure. “Hello,” I whispered near his ear.



No answer. He was dead to the world. Very slowly, very silently, I slipped out of my bed. I slowly bent down near the bedside table, unplugged the two-pin electric plug from the socket on the wall and carefully coiled the wires around the base of the table-lamp. I picked up the table-lamp in both hands holding the plug carefully, and stood for a while, looking at the man to see whether I had disturbed him. His breathing was as regular as before. I took a couple of tip-toe steps and halted, took a few steps more and waited, and so on, until I reached the bathroom door. Then I quickly went inside and locked the door.



I yanked out the wires form the table-lamp, and with my teeth, removed the plastic cladding from the open ends exposing at least two inches of naked copper on both the wires.



I smiled to myself. In my hands was a weapon of death. A set of coiled wires, one red and one black, long enough, a two-pin plug at one end and the other end exposed, naked.



I retraced my steps, tiptoed, leaving the bathroom light on and the door a bit ajar, so that I could just about see slightly. I put the plug in the socket. Then I uncoiled the wires, carefully holding one wire in each hand, a few inches away from the naked exposed copper, my hands apart. I switched on the electric switch with my left toe, got on the bed and slowly advanced on my knees towards the sleeping figure. The man was lying on his back, sleeping soundly, dead to the world. I decided to aim for his eyes. Simply thrust one live wire into each eye. Hopefully death would be instantaneous, the electric current flowing though his brain; even if it wasn’t, at least he’d be unconscious and then I could take my time.



The live wires had almost touched his eyes when some invisible force seemed to have grabbed my wrists. I froze. And felt a turbulence of conscience.



“I don’t want to be a murderess. What do I gain? And then what’s the difference between him and me? What about his family? Why should I make them suffer for no fault of theirs? And maybe what he said was indeed true; that it was just an accident, like he had reported,” said one part of me, pulling my hands back.



“Revenge! Vengeance! He deserves it,” desperately urged the other part of me, pushing my hands forward. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Do it now. Fast!” And slowly my hands started moving forward.



Suddenly the man started turning and, panicking, in a reflex action I instantly pulled my hands back. In the confusion, the naked wires touched; there were sparks and then total darkness. My blood ran cold. There was no movement from the man. Instinctively I guessed that the man had turned over on his side, his back towards me.



I tiptoed to the bathroom, retrieved the table-lamp, kept it on the bedside table and tucked the wires underneath. Then I lay down on my bed as if nothing had happened. The centralized air-conditioning was still on; but the bathroom light had gone off. Probably only the local light fuse had blown, but I didn’t know where it was.



I had muffed up a golden chance. The man was lucky to be alive. Sheer luck! But I knew try again. Again and again. For he did not deserve to live. And with these thoughts I drifted off to sleep.



When I woke up in the morning, I saw that the man was still fast asleep. The dawn had broken. I opened the window and let the sunlight in.



“Who’s that?” he asked, startled, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight.



“You must go to your room now,” I said. “Someone may notice.” I walked towards the sofa, picked up his clothes and threw them to him.



He dressed hurriedly and quickly walked to the connecting door between our rooms. He opened the door, paused for a moment, and turning towards me he said, “Good Bye, Mrs. Morris. They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn’t easy. You can take my word for it.”



With these words he left my room, silently closing the door. I sat in dumbstruck silence, a deathly grotesque deafening silence. And I never saw him again.

[/tscii:40a48d4709]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:4f4dd4804a]LPO

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, while I am loafing on Main Street, in Surat, I meet an old friend of mine.





“Hi!” I say.





“Hi,” he says, “where to?”





“Aimless loitering,” I say, “And you?”





“I’m going to work.”



“Work? This early? I thought your shift starts in the evening, or late at night. You work at a call center don’t you?”



“Not now. I quit. I’m on my own now.”



“On your own? What do you do?”



“LPO.”



“LPO? What’s that?”



“Life Process Outsourcing.”



“Life Process Outsourcing? Never heard of it!”



“You’ve heard of Business Process Outsourcing haven’t you?”



“BPO? Outsourcing non-core business activities and functions?”



“Precisely. LPO is similar to BPO. There it’s Business Processes that are outsourced, here it’s Life Processes.”



“Life Processes? Outsourced?”



“Why don’t you come along with me? I’ll show you.”



Soon we are in his office. It looks like a mini call center.



A young attractive girl welcomes us. “Meet Rita, my Manager,” my friend says, and introduces us.



Rita looks distraught, and says to my friend, “I’m not feeling well. Must be viral fever.”



“No problem. My friend here will stand in.”



“What? I don’t have a clue about all this LPO thing!” I protest.



“There’s nothing like learning on the job! Rita will show you.”



“It’s simple,” Rita says, in a hurry. “See the console. You just press the appropriate switch and route the call to the appropriate person or agency.” And with these words she disappears. It’s the shortest training I have ever had in my life.



And so I plunge into the world of Life Process Outsourcing; or LPO as they call it.



It’s all very simple. Working people don’t seem to have time these days, but they have lots of money; especially those double income couples, IT nerds, MBA hot shots, finance wizards; just about everybody in the modern rat race. ‘Non-core Life Activities’, for which they neither have the inclination or the time – outsource them; so you can maximize your work-time to rake in the money and make a fast climb up the ladder of success.



“My daughter’s puked in her school. They want someone to pick her up and take her home. I’m busy in a shoot and just can’t leave,” a creative ad agency type says.



“Why don’t you tell your husband?” I say.



“Are you crazy or something? I’m a single mother.”



“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t know. My sympathies and condolences.”



“Condolences? Who’s this? Is this LPO?”



“Yes ma’am,” I say, press the button marked ‘children’ and transfer the call, hoping I have made the right choice. Maybe I should have pressed ‘doctor’.



Nothing happens for the next few moments. I breathe a sigh of relief.



A yuppie wants his grandmother to be taken to a movie. I press the ‘movies’ button. ‘Movies’ transfers the call back, “Hey, this is for movie tickets; try ‘escort services’. He wants the old hag escorted to the movies.”



‘Escort Services’ are in high demand. These guys and girls, slogging in their offices minting money, want escort services for their kith and kin for various non-core family processes like shopping, movies, eating out, sight seeing, marriages, funerals, all types of functions; even going to art galleries, book fairs, exhibitions, zoos, museums or even a walk in the nearby garden.



A father wants someone to read bedtime stories to his small son while he works late. A busy couple wants proxy stand-in ‘parents’ at the school PTA meeting. An investment banker rings up from Singapore; he wants his mother to be taken to pray in a temple at a certain time on a specific day.

Someone wants his kids to be taken for a swim, brunch, a play and browsing books and music.



An IT project manager wants someone to motivate and pep-talk her husband, who’s been recently sacked, and is cribbing away at home demoralized. He desperately needs someone to talk to, unburden himself, but the wife is busy – she neither has the time nor the inclination to take a few days off to boost the morale of her depressed husband when there are deadlines to be met at work and so much is at stake.



The things they want outsourced range from the mundane to the bizarre; life processes that one earlier enjoyed and took pride in doing or did as one’s sacred duty are considered ‘non-core life activities’ now-a-days by these highfalutin people.



At the end of the day I feel illuminated on this novel concept of Life Process Outsourcing, and I am about to leave, when suddenly a call comes in.



“LPO?” a man asks softly.



“Yes, this is LPO. May I help you?” I say.



“I’m speaking from Frankfurt Airport. I really don’t know if I can ask this?” he says nervously.



“Please go ahead and feel free to ask anything you desire, Sir. We do everything.”



“Everything?”



“Yes, Sir. Anything and everything!” I say.



“I don’t know how to say this. This is the first time I’m asking. You see, I am working 24/7 on an important project for the last few months. I’m globetrotting abroad and can’t make it there. Can you please arrange for someone suitable to take my wife out to the New Year’s Eve Dance?”



I am taken aback but quickly recover, “Yes, Sir.”



“Please send someone really good, an excellent dancer, and make sure she enjoys and has a good time. She loves dancing and I just haven’t had the time.”



“Of course, Sir.”



“And I told you – I’ve been away abroad for quite some time now and I’ve got to stay out here till I complete the project.”



“I know. Work takes top priority.”



“My wife. She’s been lonely. She desperately needs some love. Do you have someone with a loving and caring nature who can give her some love? I just don’t have the time. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”



I let the words sink in. This is one call I am not going to transfer. “Please give me the details, Sir,” I say softly into the mike.



As I walk towards my destination with a spring in my step, I feel truly enlightened.



Till this moment, I never knew that ‘love’ was a non-core life process worthy of outsourcing.



Long Live Life Process Outsourcing!

[/tscii:4f4dd4804a]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:30f5427161]get your money worth


Here is an apocryphal story; I heard long back, and it's inner meaning had a profound positive effect on me:


On his first visit to India, a rich merchant saw a man selling a small green fruit which he had never seen before. It looked fresh and juicy and the merchant was tempted, and curious, he asked the vendor, “What is this?” “Chillies, fresh green chillies,” said the hawker.


The merchant held out a gold coin and the vendor was so overjoyed that he gave the merchant the full basket of chillies.


The merchant sat down under a tree and stared to munch the chillies. Within a few seconds his tongue was on fire, his mouth burning and tears streamed down his cheeks. But despite this discomfort, the merchant went on eating the chillies, chewing them one by one, scrutinizing each chilli carefully before he put it into his burning mouth.



Seeing his condition, a passerby remarked, “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you stop eating those hot chillies? ”


“Maybe there is one that is sweet,” the merchant answered, “I keep waiting for the sweet one.” And the merchant continued eating the chillies.


On his way back, the passerby noticed that the merchant’s condition had become miserable, his face red with agony and copious tears pouring out of his burning eyes. But the merchant kept on eating the chillies, in his search for the ‘sweet one’.


“Stop at once, or you will die,” the passerby shouted. “There are no sweet chillies ! Haven’t you realized that? Look at the basket - it’s almost empty. And have you found even one sweet chilli yet? ”


“I cannot stop until I eat all the chillies. I have to finish the whole basketful,” the merchant croaked in agony, “I have paid for the full basket and I will make sure I get my money’s worth.”




Dear Reader – Read this story once more, reflect on it, and apply it to your life. Don’t we cling on to things that we know we should let go (at first hoping to find ‘sweet one’ and even when we discover that there is no ‘sweet chilli’ we still continue to shackle ourselves to painful, harmful and detrimental things just to ‘get our money’s worth’ when we should let go and liberate ourselves).
[/tscii:30f5427161]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:40e0deaaaf]ROMANCE

What does a beautiful woman do when a handsome young man looks at her in an insistent, lingering sort of way, which is worth a hundred compliments?

I’ll tell you what she did. First, she realized that I was looking at her, then she accepted the fact of being looked at, and finally she began to look at me in return.


Suddenly her eyes became hard and she grilled me with a stern stare that made me uncomfortable.



Scared and discomfited, I quickly averted my eyes and tried to disappear into the crowd. I felt ashamed of having eyed her so blatantly. ‘What did she think of me ?’ I wondered.


But soon, by instinct and almost against my will, my eyes began searching, trying to find her again. There she was. At the fruit-stall. Buying fruit.


She was an exquisite beauty - tall, fair and freshly bathed, her luxuriant black hair flowing down her back, her sharp features accentuated by the morning sun, her nose slightly turned up, so slender and transparent, as though accustomed to smelling nothing but perfumes.


I was mesmerized. Never before had anyone evoked such a sensation in me. An unknown force propelled me towards the fruit-stall. I stood near her and made a pretence of choosing a papaya, trying to look at her with sidelong glances when I thought she wasn’t noticing.


She noticed. And looked at me. Her eyes were extremely beautiful -enormous, dark, expressive. And suddenly her eyes began to dance, and seeing the genuine admiration in my eyes, she gave me smile so captivating that I experienced a delightful twinge in my heart.

She selected a papaya and extended her hands to give it to me. Our fingers touched. The feeling was electric. It was sheer ecstasy. I felt so good that I wished time would stand still.


I can’t begin to describe the sensation I felt deep within me. I tried to smile. She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her eyes and briskly walked away.


Three months have passed since. She has never missed her date with me, same time, same place, every Sunday - at precisely Seven o’clock in the morning. But, my dear Reader, do you know? Not a word has been exchanged between us. We romance using the language of the eyes. And part with an unspoken good-bye. Once I was slightly late for our rendezvous. And I could see her eyes desperately searching for me. And when she found me, her eyes danced with delight.


Me and my lady love. We live in this world but love in another. Romancing in our own enchanting secret ethereal world. Can any love can surpass our silent love? Our enchanting love. It feels like non-alcoholic intoxication. Supreme Bliss.




Should I speak to her?
I do not know.


Why doesn’t she speak to me?


I do not know.
Does one have to speak to express love?
Are words the only way to communicate love?


Maybe we both want our beautiful romance to remain this way. Esoteric. Our lovely love. So exquisite. So pristine. So divine. So fragile. So delicate. So sensitive. So delicately poised. So silent. Just one word would spoil everything, destroy our enthralling state of trancelike bliss, and bring everything crashing down from supreme ecstasy to harsh ground reality.


I think it’s best to let our lovely romance go on for ever and ever, till eternity.


Do you think so? How long should we go on like this? ‘Dating’ with our eyes on Sunday Morning !

[/tscii:40e0deaaaf]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:01c9cda963]AFTER QUITTING SMOKING


One of the things that deters smokers from quitting decisively in one go is the fear of withdrawal symptoms. This results in smokers resorting to half-baked remedies like gradual reduction, nicotine patches, low tar cigarettes and various other futile therapies. In my opinion this exaggerated importance given to withdrawal symptoms is just a big myth, a ploy, an excuse by addicts to avoid giving up smoking. The so-called withdrawal symptoms are nothing but craving. The best and most effective way of quitting smoking is to just stop smoking, totally, in one go, and then never to smoke again. Don’t be afraid of the so-called “withdrawal symptoms” – you can easily tackle the craving. You can take my word for it – I successfully did it and conquered the craving for smoking once and for all.




I have described how I quit smoking. I’m sure you must have read it here in my blog (If you haven’t I’ve pasted the article below at the end of this one for you to read). Now let me describe to you the day after I quit smoking.




I woke up early, at five-thirty as usual, made a cup of tea, and the moment I took a sip of the piping hot delicious tea, I felt the familiar crave for my first cigarette of the day. I kept down the cup of tea, made a note of the craving in my diary, had a glass of hot water (quickly heated in the microwave oven), completed my ablutions, and stepped out of my house, crossed the Maharshi Karve Road, and began a brisk walk-cum-jog around the verdant tranquil Oval Maidan, deeply rinsing my lungs with the pure refreshing morning air. which made me feel on top of the world. The Clock on MumbaiUniversity’s RajabaiTower silhouetted against the calm bluish gray sky, was striking six, and I felt invigorated. I had overcome my craving, and not smoked, what used to be my first cigarette of the day.


I then went on my daily morning walk on Marine Drive to Chowpatty and on my way back I spotted my friends ‘N’ and ‘S’ across the road beckoning me for our customary post-exercise tea and cigarette at the stall opposite Mantralaya. I felt tempted, but my resolve firm, I waved to them, looked away and ran towards my house. They must have thought I’d gone crazy, but it didn’t matter – I had avoided what used to be my second cigarette of the day. I made a note of it my diary, as I would do the entire day of all the stimuli that triggered in me the urge to smoke – what I would call my “smoking anchors” which could be anything, internal and external, tangible or intangible – people, situations, events, feelings, smells, emotions, tendencies, moods, foods, social or organizational trends, practices, norms, peer pressure; and most importantly how I tackled and triumphed over these stimuli.





After breakfast, I didn’t drink my usual cup of coffee – a strong “smoking anchor” which triggered in me a desperate desire to smoke, and drank a glass of bland milk instead, thereby averting what used to be my third cigarette of the day. It was nine, as I walked to work, and I hadn’t smoked a single cigarette. It was a long day ahead and I had to be cognizant, observe myself inwardly and devise strategies to tackle situations that elicited craving for smoking – recognize and neutralize my “smoking anchors”, so to speak.




Anchoring is a naturally occurring phenomenon, a natural process that usually occurs without our awareness. An anchor is any representation in the human nervous system that triggers any other representation. Anchors can operate in any representational system (sight, sound, feeling, sensation, smell, taste). You create an anchor when you unconsciously set up a stimulus response pattern. Response [smoking] becomes associated with (anchored to) some stimulus; in such a way that perception of the stimulus (the anchor) leads by reflex to the anchored response [smoking] occurring. Repeated stimulus–response action, reinforces anchors and this is a vicious circle, especially in the context of “smoking anchors”. The trick is to identify your “smoking anchors”, become conscious of these anchors and ensure you do not activate them.




The moment I reached office I saw my colleague ‘B’ eagerly waiting for me, as he did every day. Actually he was eagerly waiting to bum a cigarette from me for his first smoke of the day [“I smoke only other’s cigarettes” was his motto!]. I politely told him I had quit smoking and told him to look elsewhere. He looked at me in disbelief; taunted, jeered and badgered me a bit, but when I stood firm, he disappeared.




I removed from my office my ashtray, declared the entire place a no-smoking zone and put up signs to that effect. The working day began. It was a tough and stressful working day. I was tired, when my boss called me across and offered me a cigarette. I looked at the cigarette pack yearningly, tempted, overcome by a strong craving, desperate to have just that “one” cigarette. Nothing like a “refreshing” smoke to drive my blues away and revitalize me – the “panacea” to my “stressed-out” state! It was now or never! I politely excused myself on the pretext of going to the toilet, but rushed out into the open and took a brisk walk rinsing my lungs with fresh air, and by the time I returned I had lost the craving to smoke and realized, like in the Oval early in the morning, that physical exercise is probably the best antidote.




People may think I’m crazy, but even now I rush out of my office once in a while to take a brisk walk in the open and not only do I lose the craving for a smoke but I feel distressed and invigorated as well. Conversely, once I rushed into a “no-smoking” cinema when I desperately felt like a smoke while strolling in the evening. Often, after dinner, when I used to feel like a smoke, I rushed into the Oxford Bookstore next door, for a long leisurely browse till my craving dissipated. And, of course, one has to change his lifestyle, activities, and, maybe, even friends. Always try to be with likeminded people who you would like to emulate – if you want to quit smoking try to be in the company of non-smokers.




It was simple after that, but my diary for that defining day makes interesting reading of smoking anchors – saunf or supari after lunch, afternoon tea, the company of smokers, paan… But the crucial test came in the evening. My dear friend ‘A’ landed up for a drink. Now ‘A’ is a guy who doesn’t smoke in front of his kids and wife (I’m sure she knows!). So since he doesn’t smoke in his own home he makes up in other people’s houses. But mind you, he doesn’t bum cigarettes – in fact he gets a pack and generously leaves the remaining behind for the host.




We poured out a rum–paani each, clinked our glasses, said cheers, and sipped. ‘A’ lit a cigarette and offered the pack to me. At the end of a hot, humid and tiring day, the fortifying beverage induced a heavenly ambrosial sensation which permeated throughout the body and what better way to synergise the enjoyment than to smoke a cigarette along with the drink and enhance the pleasure to sheer bliss. Till that moment, for me, drinking and smoking were inextricably intertwined – they complemented, accentuated each other and accorded me the ultimate supreme pleasure. I enjoyed my smoke the most along with a drink. I realized that drinking was my strongest “smoking anchor” and if I had to quit smoking permanently I would have to give up drinking forever. So that’s what I did. At this defining moment of my life, I quit drinking forever. It’s been almost four years now and I do not smoke and I do not drink.




I will never smoke again – I have quit smoking forever. I may be tempted, but I know I can overcome the urge, for I have mastered the art of taking charge of my “smoking anchors”. And from time to time, I shall look at my old diary to remember and cherish that cardinal day of my life – ‘the day after I quit smoking’.



[/tscii:01c9cda963]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:079fed9bf7]STORY PART -1

“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.

My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her ex-pression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.

“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.

I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.

She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”

“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”

“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”

“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.

“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.

“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside. ‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!

“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.

“No,” Manisha was firm.

“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”

But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.

“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.

“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.

“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked.

“Come on Vijay,” she said derisively,coming close and looking directly into my eyes.

“You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”

If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.

“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.

“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.” But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.

“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”

When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”

“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.

That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. Whether you like it or not. Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that aspect and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.

In marriage one has to be rational. Manisha would be an encumbrance, maybe even an embarrassment. It was a mistake - my getting engaged to her. She was the girl next door, we had grown up together and everyone assumed we would be married one day. And our parents got us engaged. At that point of time I didn’t think much of it. It was only now, that my eyes had opened; I realized the enormity of the situation. I was an upwardly mobile executive now, not a mere clerk, and the equations had changed. What I needed was someone like Swati. Smart, chic and savvy. Convent educated, well groomed and accustomed to the prevalent lifestyle, a perfect hostess, an asset to my career. And most importantly she was from a well-connected family. I tired to imagine what life would have been like had I married Swati.

Sanjiv was so lucky. He was already going places. After all Swati was the daughter of the senior VP.

Suddenly I returned to the present. I could bear my mother calling me. I went inside. Manisha was helping her pack my bags, unaware of what was going on in my mind. I felt a sense of deep guilt, but then it was question of my life.

“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked after Manisha had left. “Why were so rude to Manisha, so distant? She loves you so much!”

“I don’t love her,” I said.

“What?” my mother asked surprised, “Is there some else?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Manisha is not compatible anymore. She just doesn’t fit in.”

I could see that my mother was angry. Outwardly she remained calm and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.

“Who do you think you are?” she said icily, trying to control herself.

“You know Manisha from childhood, isn’t it? For the last two years you have been engaged and moving around together. And suddenly you say Manisha is not compatible?” My mother paused for a moment, and then taking my hand asked me softly, “What happened last night?”

I told her. Then we argued for over two hours and till the end I stuck to my guns. Finally my mother said, “This is going to be difficult. And relations between our families are going to be permanently strained. Think about Manisha. It will be so difficult for her to get married after the stigma of a broken engagement. Forget about last night. It’s just a small incident. Think about it again. Manisha is the ideal wife, so suitable for you.”

But I had made up my mind, so I told my mother, “If you want I’ll go and talk to her father right now and break off the engagement.”

“No,” my mother snapped. “Let your father come home. He will decide what to do.”

The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Standing outside along with my father were Manisha and her parents.

“I have fixed up your wedding with Manisha Patwardhan on the 30th of May of this year,” my father thundered peremptorily in his usual impetuous style.

“Congratulations,” echoed Manisha’s parents, Mr. and Mr. Patwardhan.

I was dumbstruck. Manisha was smiling coyly. My mother was signaling to me with her eyes not to say anything. She was probably happy at the fait accompli. I felt trapped. I excused myself and went up to my room. I locked the door. Someone knocked.

“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get ready and come down.” “Come soon,” said Manisha from the other side of the door.

I took out my notepad and wrote a letter to Manisha:


Dear Manisha,

Forgive me, but I have discovered that I can’t marry you and I think that it is best for us to say goodbye.

Yours sincerely,


Vijay


I knew the words sounded insincere, but that was all I could write for my mind had bone blank and I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; just one sentence to terminate our long relationship. I knew I was being cruel but I just couldn’t help it.

I sealed the letter in a postal envelope, wrote Manisha’s name and address on it and put it in my bag. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave.

Everyone came to the airport to see me off. Sanjiv and Swati had come too. They were located at Pune and I was off on a promotion to Delhi.

“I’m really very sorry about last night,” Swati apologized to us. She took Manisha’s hand and said tenderly, “Manisha, please forgive me. You are truly an ideal couple – both made for each other.”

As I walked towards the boarding area Manisha’s father Mr. Patwardhan shouted to me jovially, “Hey, Vijay. Don’t forget to come on 30th of May. The wedding muhurat is exactly at 10.35 in the morning. Everything is fixed. I have already booked the best hall in town. If you don’t turn up I’ll lose my deposit!”

I nodded to him but in my mind’s eye I smiled to myself – the “joke” was going to be on him! Then I waved everyone goodbye, went to the waiting hall, sat on a chair, opened my bag and took out the letter I had written to Manisha. I wish I had torn up the letter there and then, but some strange force stopped me. I put the envelope in my pocket and remembered my mother’s parting words: “Please Vijay. Marry Manisha. Don’t make everyone unhappy. Manisha is good girl. She’ll adjust. I’ll talk to her.”

During the flight I thought about it. I tried my utmost, but I just could not visualize Manisha as my wife in my new life any more. Till now I had done everything to make everybody happy. But what about me? It was my life after all. Time would heal wounds, abate the injury and dissipate the anger; but if I got trapped for life with Manisha, it would be an unmitigated sheer disaster.

I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.

To be continued…

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[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:05c70d7918]Story Part-2
[PART – 2]

[continued from Part 1]



I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.


I walked towards the red post box and stood in front of it, indecisive and confused. I took a deep breath, took out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it – the address, postage stamp – everything was okay.


I moved my hand to post the letter. A strange force stopped my hand in its tracks. I hesitated, and in my mind I tried to imagine the severe ramifications, the terrible consequences of what I was about to do.


At first Manisha would be delighted, even surprised, to see my handwriting on the letter. And then she would read it…! I dreaded to even think about the unimaginable hurt and distress she would feel… and then her parents… and mine…the sense of betrayal and insult…relationships built and nurtured for years would be strained, even broken, forever. And poor Manisha…everyone knew we were engaged…how tongues would wag…the stigma of broken engagement…the anguish of my betrayal of her love… she would be devastated… may even commit…


Suddenly my cell-phone rang interrupting my train of thoughts. ‘Must be Manisha monitoring me as usual,’ I thought getting irritated at her – Manisha’s suffocating familiarity and closeness seemed like manacles and I was glad I was getting away from her. I decided not to answer, but my mobile kept ringing persistently, so I looked at the display. It wasn’t Manisha, but an unknown new number.


“Hello,” I said into my cell-phone.


“Mr. Joshi?” a male voice spoke.


“Yes. Vijay Joshi here. Who is it, please?” I asked.


“Sir, we’ve come to receive you. Please come to the exit gate and look for the board with your name.”


“I’m coming,” I said and looked the letter addressed to Manisha in my hand.


No. Not now in a hurry. Providence was giving me signals to wait, reflect, and think it over, not to do something so irretrievable in such a hurry. So I put the envelope in my pocket and walked away from the post box towards the exit.


I settled down well in my new job and liked my place in Delhi. Every morning I would put the envelope in my pocket determined to post it in the post box outside my office on my way to work but something happened and I didn’t post the letter to Manisha. Meanwhile I rang up Manisha, and my mother, every evening, and made pretence that everything was okay. The stress and strain within me was steadily building up.


Every time I looked at the envelope I felt as if was holding a primed grenade in my hand. With every passing day, the 30th of May was approaching nearer and nearer. Time was running out, and I knew I would have to unburden myself of the bombshell pretty fast. So one day, during lunch break, I decided to post the fateful letter and get it over with once and for all.


As I was walking out someone from the reception called out to me, “Hey, Mr. Joshi, is Mr. Gokhale in his office?”


Gokhale was my boss, and he was out on tour, so I said, “No, he’s gone on tour. Anything I can do?”


“Sir, there’s a courier for him,” the receptionist said.


“I’ll take it and give it to him when he comes,” I said, signed the voucher and took the envelope from the courier.


The moment I looked at the envelope an electric tremor of trepidation quivered through me like a thunderbolt.


I cannot begin to describe the bewildered astonishment and shocking consternation I felt when I saw Manisha’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope. Beautiful large flowing feminine writing with her trademark star-shaped ‘t’ crossing, the huge circle dotting the ‘i’… there was no doubt about it. And of course her favorite turquoise blue ink. There was no doubt about it but I turned the envelope around hoping I was wrong, but I was right – the letter to my boss Mr. Gokhale was indeed from Manisha; she had written her name and address on the reverse, as bold as brass!


My pulse raced, my insides quivered, my brain resonated and I trembled with feverish anxiety. At first impulse I wanted to tear open the envelope and see what was inside, but I controlled myself, tried to mask my inner emotions, put on a fake smile of geniality for everyone around, gently put the letter in my pocket and began retracing my steps back to my office.


I discreetly felt the two envelopes in my suit pocket – one, my unposted letter to Manisha; and the other, much fatter, Manisha’s unopened letter to my boss Mr. Avinash Gokhale.



To be continued…

[/tscii:05c70d7918]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:17dc81270f]Story Part-3

[Part 3]


[continued from part 2]


I locked myself in my office, sat down, calmed myself with a glass of water, took out the two envelopes and put them on the table in front of me. My unposted letter to Manisha would now have to wait – I thanked my stars that some mysterious hidden restraining force had stopped me from posting it every time I tried to.


I picked up Manisha’s envelope addressed to Avinash Gokhale. It was sheer serendipity that I happened to be at the reception when the courier arrived – otherwise I would have never known.


I looked at the envelope. The whole thing was incredulous. Why on earth should Manisha write to Avinash Gokhale? What was the connection? How did she know Gokhale? What had she written to him?


Had my simpleton mother blurted out something to her – told Manisha or her parents what I’d said – that I didn’t want to marry her? My mind went haywire with strange thoughts. Revenge! Yes, revenge. Stung by my betrayal, Manisha had somehow found out the name of my boss, from Sanjiv or Swati most probably, and was out to ruin my career – wreck vengeance on me for ditching her. Written to Avinash Gokhale what a jerk I was. These things mattered in my company. My heart skipped a beat. I felt a tremor of trepidation. I suddenly realized that I had to swiftly interrupt this pernicious line of thinking and insidious train of thoughts.


No, No! It was just not possible. No chance. Manisha was not the vindictive type. She would never do such a thing. Especially to me. She always loved me so much. And I was sure my mother would not have been so indiscreet and would have kept our conversation to herself.


But then anything is possible. I couldn’t take any chances. Dying with curiosity I desperately felt like tearing open the envelope and reading the letter. I had to get to the bottom of this mystery. It was simple. I would open the letter in the privacy of my house. Steam-open the envelope very carefully so no one would even discern. Then I would read it and accordingly decide the further course of action.


I wondered why Manisha had sent this letter so indiscreetly to the office address with her name and address written so blatantly. Was it on purpose? She could have spoken privately to Gokhale, or even e-mailed him. Why this bold as brass missive? Was it on purpose? She wanted me to know…No. No. It was too bizarre!


I had an impulse to call up Manisha then and there and get it over with once and for all, but I stopped myself. I had to know first what she had written in that letter before I could do anything.


The suspense was killing. I felt restless and uneasy. When I feel tense I go for a long walk. That’s what I did. I went for a long walk around my entire office, each department, making pretence of MBWA [Management By Walking Around]. When I returned to my office it was four, still an hour to go. The next hour was the longest hour of my life.


The moment it was five, I rushed out of my office. The moment I opened the door I ran bang into the receptionist. “Mr. Joshi, Sir. That letter for Mr. Gokhale – you want me to give it to his PA?”


“No. No. I’ll give to him personally,” I said feeling the envelope in my coat pocket.


She gave me a curious questioning look so I hastily said, “Don’t worry, I’ve locked it carefully in my drawer,” and hurriedly walked away.


I rushed home to my apartment. I put some water in a pot to boil and then carefully held the envelope over it. I had to steam it open very meticulously and delicately – no tell tale signs.


Soon I had Manisha letter in my hands.


Dear Avinash… she began. Oh … great… Dear Avinash indeed! Already on first name terms – Thank God for small mercies it wasn’t Darling Avinash , Sweetie-pie or something more mushy!
[/tscii:17dc81270f]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:4ce12c879d]Story Part-4
[Part 4]


[Continued from part 3]


Dear Avinash,


The suddenness with which you popped the question left me so dumbfounded that I am still recovering from the shock. Shock? Maybe that’s the wrong word, but the swiftness of your proposal, out of the blue, on our very first date – well I am a simple girl and it really left me dazed.


You called once. I didn’t answer. You didn’t call again. I really appreciate that. That was very gentlemanly of you.


You sent me an e-mail. Explaining your feelings. Apologizing for what you did at the spur of the moment. Said sorry for having hurt my feelings. Please don’t say sorry. You haven’t hurt my feelings at all. Maybe outwardly I didn’t show it, but in fact, inside, I felt so good, so happy, that a suave man like you found a simple ordinary looking girl like me so attractive.


Avinash, please try to understand. I also feel the same way about you. I can’t exactly describe the emotions I experienced when we were together. Is it love? I don’t know. It’s the first time it’s happened to me that I’ve felt so attracted to someone. I really feel like being with you, forever, spending the rest of our lives together. Thanks for proposing to me, Avinash – I accept.


What I want to say now I don’t want to say over the phone, or e-mail, so I am writing this letter. I am writing this because I believe that there is no place for secrets between husband and wife. Please read it carefully and destroy it. For my sake. Please. Read what I have written, think about it carefully, and I’ll wait for your reply.


You know Vijay, don’t you? Vijay Joshi. Of course you do. He works with you in Delhi. You are his boss.


In fact, I came to Sanjiv and Swati’s party in Pune just to see what Vijay’s boss looked like. Of course, I’d also come to help out Swati, but I was more interested to know how Vijay is doing in his new job in Delhi and maybe say something good about him. But the thunderbolt struck and we ended saying sweet nothings to each other. I hope Swati didn’t notice, as she seemed the busy hostess most of the time, and I haven’t told her, or anyone, about our hush-hush dinner-date the next evening in that lovely romantic garden restaurant.


Now, let’s talk about Vijay. Vijay and me were neighbors ever since I remember. Our families are very very close, deeply bonded to each other. Vijay and I are the dearest of dearest childhood friends, inseparable buddies who grew up together. Vijay has always been my most intimate confidant. I have always told him everything. Except about you – about us. It’s the first time I have hidden something from Vijay. And I’m feeling so guilty about it.


Avinash, I really love Vijay. But not in that way. Vijay is my friend, yes; buddy, yes; even soul mate, yes; but I just can’t imagine Vijay as my lover. Like I can visualize you!


Now brace your heart, Avinash!


I am engaged to Vijay. And our wedding date has been fixed on the 30th of May. Everyone knows about it.


This was fixed long back by both our families. My marriage to Vijay – a foregone conclusion and implicit happy culmination of our friendship. I too was happy. Till I met you. Now it is different.


What do we do, Avinash?


I just can’t bear to tell Vijay myself. To him it will be a terrible betrayal, a stab in his back. I can’t break his heart. He will be devastated.


I don’t have the guts to tell my parents; or his, either. They will be shattered, the hurt very painful and relationships will be strained forever.


So what do we do, Avinash?


I have an idea. It may sound bizarre, but let’s give it a try. Why not make Vijay fall in love with someone else?


Avinash, why don’t you introduce Vijay to some nice girl out there? Someone smart and chic, like Swati. I think he likes girls like that – I’ve seen him stealing canny glances at Swati when he thought I wasn’t looking. Right now he is lonely, vulnerable, and I am sure you there are many lovely, mod, savvy, attractive women out there in Delhi who are also lonely and vulnerable. You’ve just got to match them and hope for the best.


Avinash, try to understand. I want Vijay to call off our engagement. I want him to “break” my heart. It will be better that way, isn’t it? For me, for you, and for all of us.


Avinash. Am I asking too much of you? You like the idea, or is it too weird? Or can you think of anything better?


I am waiting for your reply. Please send me e-mails only. Don’t ring up or write – we have to very careful of hidden ears and curious eyes.


And remember to destroy this letter right now.


Yours lovingly,


Manisha.
[/tscii:4ce12c879d]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:576e89778d]Story Part-5

[Part 5]


I read the letter once again, slowly, carefully, word by word, till the last line – “And remember to destroy this letter right now”.


It was unbelievable – this bolt from the blue from Manisha. I laughed to myself. I thought I was smart, but it was Manisha who was playing the double game.


I put the letter on the table, closed my eyes, and tried to think clearly. It was crazy – a classy snob like Avinash Gokhale falling for a pedestrian Plain Jane like Manisha Patwardhan! Yes, Love is blind – Love is truly blind! Or, is it?


Instinctively I picked up my cell-phone and called Manisha.


“Hi, Vijay,” Manisha said, “what’s up?”


“Just thought of you, so called to say Hi,” I said.


“How’s life out there?”


“Good. I like Delhi. You’ll like it too – when you come here.”


“Come there?”


“You’re going to come here and stay with me in Delhi after we get married, aren’t you?”


“Of course,” Manisha said smoothly – so smoothly, so slickly, so effortlessly, so glibly, without even the slightest demur or trace of dither, that, for a moment I was struck dumb.


“Hey, Vijay, what happened?” Manisha asked.

“Nothing,” I answered, “everything okay out there?”
“Oh, yes, I’d gone to your place this morning – everyone is fine.”


“Your parents?”


“My Mum and Dad are fine. Everyone is okay – just waiting for you to come. When are you coming to Pune?”


“I don’t know. There’s lots of work.”


“Come on, Vijay. Don’t tell me you can’t come for a day or two, at least on a weekend. I’m sure there’s not that much work that the heavens will fall if you are not there.”


“It’s not that – my boss here is a funny guy.”


“Funny Guy?”


“A painful killjoy called Avinash Gokhale,” I said, and listened carefully, but I couldn’t even detect even the slightest gasp or tremor in her voice as Manisha continued talking smoothly and glibly as ever, “Never mind, Vijay, you just work hard,” and then she effortlessly changed the subject to the latest happenings in Pune and started off with mushy ‘sweet nothings’ about how much she missed me.


Listening to her, for a moment, I thought the letter in front of me was a forgery, but then I knew Manisha’s handwriting too well. I was too flabbergasted to continue the conversation so I quickly said bye and kept the cell-phone on the table.


I never imagined Manisha could be so secretive, so mendacious. It was strange – how close one can be to a person and yet know nothing about her. And Avinash Gokhale? I worked with him every day, spent hours together, yet knew nothing about him, except that he was brilliant workaholic and a recluse – a most boring and private person who always kept to himself, never mixed around, never socialized or attended parties, a pain in the neck who everyone avoided and the only thing he ever talked was about work.


Made for each other – two secretive loners – Manisha Patwardhan and Avinash Gokhale.


But why was I so bothered? Good Luck to them! My problem was being solved. I had to just quietly wait and watch, do nothing, till my boss found some nice smart chic girl for me. Can anyone be luckier? Life was going to be exciting!


I carefully put Manisha’s letter back into the envelope and resealed it meticulously with a glue-stick. No one could have suspected that it had been steamed open. Now all I had to do was to quietly put it in the mail folder of Avinash Gokhale before he reached office on Monday morning.


Suddenly, I was jolted out of my thoughts by the ring-tone of my cell-phone.


“Hello!” I said.


“Is that Mr. Joshi?” a sweet mellifluous feminine voice said.


“Yes. Vijay Joshi here,” I said.


“I’m Vibha speaking.”


“Vibha?” I asked surprised. I didn’t know any Vibha.


“Oh I’m sorry Mr. Joshi, we haven’t met. I’m Vibha Gokhale. Avinash Gokhale’s wife.”


[ to be continued ]
[/tscii:576e89778d]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:05bd01f074]a story
Posted by subhash in Be Happy on December 15, 2007 5:34:00 PM







Winter. Early morning. Chill in the air. I stand alone on the meter gauge side of the lonely island platform of Mettupalaiyam Railway Station and stare at the peaks of the Blue Mountains (the Nilgiris) silhouetted in a veil of mist in the distance.

Nothing much has changed here since the last time I came here on my way to Ooty. Almost 17 years ago. The place, the things, the people – everything looks the same. As if frozen in time. But for me there is a world of difference.

Then I was a young bride, full of inchoate zest, in the company of my handsome husband, eagerly looking forward to the romantic journey on the mountain train, on my way to our honeymoon at Ooty.

And now! The same place which then felt so exciting now feels so gloomy. Strange. But true. What’s outside just doesn’t matter; what’s inside does. I try not to reminisce.

Remembering good times when I am in misery causes me unimaginable agony. I look at my watch. 7.30 A.M. The small blue toy train pushed by its hissing steam engine comes on the platform. Dot on time. As it was then.

The same December morning.The same chill in the air. Then I had the warmth of my husband’s arm around me. Now I feel the bitter cold penetrating within me.

I drag my feet across the platform towards the mountain train. Scared, anxious, fear in my stomach, I experience a strange uneasiness, a sense of foreboding, a feeling of ominous helplessness - wondering what my new life would have in store for me.

I sit alone in the First Class compartment right in front of the train. Waiting for the train to start. And take me to the point to no return. Wishing that all this is just a dream. But knowing it is not. And suddenly, Avinash enters. We stare at each other in disbelief.

Time stands still. Till Avinash speaks, “Roopa! What are you doing here?”

I do not answer. Because I cannot. For I am swept by a wave of melancholic despair. My vocal cords numbed by emotional pain. And as I look helplessly at Avinash, I realize that there is no greater pain than to remember happier times when in distress.

“You look good when you get emotional,” Avinash says sitting opposite me.

In the vulnerable emotional state that I am in, I know that I will have a breakdown if I continue sitting with Avinash. I want to get out, run away; but suddenly, the train moves.

I am trapped. So I decide to put on a brave front, and say to Avinash, “Coming from Chennai?”

“Bangalore,” he says,

“I’d gone for some work there.”

“You stay here? In Ooty?” I ask with a tremor of trepidation for I do not want to run into Avinash again and again; and let him know that I had made a big mistake by not marrying him - that I had made the wrong choice by dumping him, the man I loved, in search of a ‘better’ life.

“I stay near Kotagiri,”Avinash says.

“Kotagiri?” I ask relieved.

“Yes, I own a tea-estate there.”

“A tea estate?”

“Yes. I am a planter.”

Now I really regret my blunder 30 years ago. Indeed I had made the wrong choice.

“Your family – wife, children?” I probe, curious.

“I didn’t marry,” he says curtly.

“There’s no family; only me. All by myself.”

“Oh, Avinash. You should have got married. Why didn’t you?”

“Strange you should be asking me that!” he says.

“Oh my God! Because of me?”

Avinash changes the subject, “I’ll be getting off at Coonoor. My jeep will pick me up.” He pauses, then says, “And you, Roopa? Going to Ooty? At the height of winter! To freeze there!”

“No,” I say, “I’m going to Ketti.”

“Ketti?” he asks with derisive surprise.

“Yes. What’s wrong with going to Ketti?” I protest.

“There are only two places you can go to in Ketti. The School and the old-age home. And the school is closed in December,” Avinash says nonchalantly, looking out of the window.

I say nothing. I can’t. I suffer his words in silence.

“Unless of course you own a bungalow there!” he says turning towards me and mocking me once again.

The cat is out of the bag. I cannot describe the sense of humiliation I feel sitting there with Avinash. The tables seem to have turned. Or have they? There are only the two of us in the tiny compartment. As the train begins to climb up the hills it began to get windy and Avinash closes the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange sort of intimacy. I remember the lovely moments with Avinash. A woman’s first love always has an enduring place in her heart.

“I am sorry if I hurt you,” Avinash says, “but the bitterness just came out.”

We talk. Avinash is easy to talk to and I am astonished how effortlessly my words come tumbling out. I tell him everything. The story of my life. How I had struggled, sacrificed, taken every care. But still, everything had gone wrong. Widowed at 28. Abandoned by my only son at 52. Banished to an old-age home. So that ‘they’ could sell off our house and immigrate to Australia. ‘They’ - my son and that scheming wife of his.

“I have lost everything,” I cry, unable to control my self. “Avinash, I have lost everything.”

“No, Roopa,” Avinash says. “You haven’t lost everything. You have got me! I’ve got you. We’ve got each other.”

Avinash takes me in his comforting arms and I experience the same feeling, the same zest, I felt thirty years ago, on my first romantic journey, on this same mountain toy train, on my way to my first honeymoon.

[/tscii:05bd01f074]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:428097ce50]
Cupids Arrow


1995. The fourteenth of February. Valentine’s Day. I felt good. My eyes feasted on the snow-clad Himalayan Mountain peaks painted honey-gold by the first rays of sunlight. Behind me, deep down, was the resplendent Doon valley.


I breathed in slowly, mouth and nose together, relishing the pure, cold, nourishing mountain air. I felt on top of the world. Standing in the middle of nowhere on a refreshingly cold bright morning. Undecided what I was going to do; or where I wanted to go.


What greater freedom than not having anything to do or anywhere to go. I felt I was flying like a bird in the sky, with no one to take my freedom away.


“Something exciting is going to happen today,” said a tingling sensation within me, as if I were on the top of a high roller-coaster ready to plunge into unknown depths.


Suddenly, at the spur of the moment I decided to visit Victor, and with a spring in my step started walking towards Landour.


“Who’s Piyu ?” I asked.

“ Piyu ?” Victor said, his voice feigning ignorance but his eyes gave him away.


“Yes. Piyu . It’s written here in this book __________ ‘ To my darling Victor, with fond memories of those wonderful moments at Port Blair. Remember them. Till we meet next time. Love Piyu ’.________ In such lovely cursive feminine handwriting. So delicate. If her handwriting is so good, she must be very gorgeous. A real beauty! Tell me. Who’s she?” I asked teasingly.


“Shalini, you shouldn’t pry into others’ private matters,” Victor said.

“Private ? This is no personal dairy. It’s ‘Selected Stories of Anton Chekhov’. I’m taking it to read.”


“No,” Victor shouted and started to move his wheelchair towards me.

I know I had touched a raw nerve. “I’m sorry,” I said and gave him the book.


He opened it and stared at Piyu’s handwriting.

“I thought there were no secrets between us,” I said.

“There aren’t,” he said.

“Except Piyu ?”

“Please Shalu…….”

“You want to tell me about her?”

“Okay,” Victor said. And he told me. About Piyu. And him. And their days in Port Blair. Maybe not everything. But whatever he wanted to tell me, that is.


“Piyu ? A funny name ?” I said.

“That’s what I called her. Like you call me Victor.”

I left it at that and said, “Now there are no secrets between us?”

“No,” he said and gave me the book, “Read it, Shalu. There’s a story called ‘The Darling’. You’re just like the heroine. Always trying to mother me.”


‘That’s because you are a naughty boy,” I teased.

“Naughty boy? I’m almost an old man. You should play with girls of your own age.”



“Play? You think I’m a small kid to play Barbie Doll? And you’re not that old either. You are only thirty.”



“Twice your age.”

“Girls mature faster,” I said. “And your mental age is the same as mine.”

“Come on. You’re just a kid compared to me. I am a man of the world. With experiences.”

“Like Piyu ………” I bit my tongue and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Piyu is a closed chapter,” Victor said.

“I’ve forgotten her,” I said “Piyu will never come between us again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise”

“Shalu, why don’t you come more often?” Victor asked.

“I didn’t want to disturb you too much,” I replied.

“Disturb me?” he smiled. “It is impossible to disturb me. You see, I never do anything. Every day is a holiday for me, from morning to evening.”


“Don’t speak like that,” I said.

“Okay. But please come more often. You make me feel food.”

“You too make me feel good,” I said. It was true. Talking to someone who needs comforting seems to make one’s own troubles go away. “I’ll come on Wednesday. We’ve got a holiday.”


“Promise?”

“Yes. We’ll discuss Anton Chekhov,” I said holding up the book.

“The Darling?”

“The Darling!” I said.

“Okay. Bye. Take care,” he said and lovingly looked at me as I began to walk away.



Victor had come into my life on a cold and rainy evening just a few months back. I slipped and fractured my leg playing basketball. It was a simple fracture.


Victor was convalescing from a severe injury to both his legs. His was a complex case, and for months he was confined to a wheelchair not knowing whether or when he would be able to walk again.


Actually, his name wasn’t Victor - he was Vivek. But everyone called him Victor.


At first I called him Victor uncle. But as our friendship grew, somewhere on the way, the ‘uncle’ dropped. And now there were no secrets between us.


On Tuesday evening I rushed to see Victor bunking the self-study period.


“A clandestine visit,” I joked.


“Better be careful, Shalu. If your warden finds out, she may think something.”


“Let her,” I said, “I came to tell you I won’t be coming tomorrow.”


“Oh, no! I was looking forward to discussing Anton Chekhov with you.”


“Daddy is coming to Dehradun for some urgent work. He wants me to meet him at the station. He rang up the Principal for permission.”


“That’s great. I’m dying to meet your Dad. Make sure you bring him up here to Mussoorie.”


“I’ll try,” I said.

“You must. I want to ask him for your hand,” he said, tongue-in-cheek.

“How cute,” he said.

“I’ll miss you,” he said.

“Take care.”

“You too. Okay Bye,” I said and rushed back to my hostel.

On Wednesday morning I left Mussoorie at six by the first bus and reached Dehradun railway station just in time for the express from Delhi which steamed in at eight.


Daddy was the first to get down from the AC coach and the moment he saw me his face lit up and he gave me a tight warm hug and smothered my cheeks with kisses.


“Please Papa,” I said embarrassed, “People are looking.”


“I feel so good when I see you, Shalu,” he said.


Papa kept the bag he was holding next to me and said, “Look after this. I’ll get the rest of the luggage.” He beckoned to a porter and went in.


‘Rest of the luggage’ ? I wondered. Normally Papa traveled light, with just one bag.”


Soon there were three bags, a basket and a tall young woman with a small child in her arms standing beside Papa.


“Shalu, this is Ms. Bhattacharya. We traveled together from Delhi,” Papa introduced the woman, who smiled a hello, and we began following the porter to the exit.


I looked at the woman through the corner of my eye. She was really very beautiful. Fair, with a skin like smooth cream. She looked straight ahead, as if looking at a distant object, and walked on ex-pressionless.


But I noticed the way my Papa stole glances at her when he thought I wasn’t looking and I knew that she was much more than a mere fellow passenger. I felt a tingle of excitement. So Papa was falling in love. Ten years after mummy had gone.


My father walked with a spring in his step, pulling his stomach in and thrusting his chest out.


“You seem very happy, Papa,” I said mischievously.


“Yes. Yes.” he said, “I’m so happy to see you, Shalu. You look so good.”


He opened the door of the taxi and looked at her, trying to mask the undisguised love in his eyes. It seemed a desperate case of thunderbolt.


I decided to have a bit of fun, quickly got in the car, and said, “thanks, Papa, for treating me like a lady.” Then I looked at her and said, “Bye Auntie, and shut the door.”


“Auntie is coming with us,” Papa said, “Shalu, you sit in front.”


“It’s okay, I’ll sit in front,” Ms. Bhattacharya said.


“There’s place for all of us at the back,” I said. “We can keep the basket in front next to the driver.”


I shifted, she sat next to me with the baby on her lap, Papa next to her on the other side and we drove in silence through Palton Bazar towards Rajpur road. I kept quiet, waiting for Papa to tell me everything, but he too remained silent, probably because of the driver.


He got off outside an office. “You two can go to the guest house and freshen up. I’ll join you after finishing my work.


We sat alone at the breakfast table. The baby was sleeping inside. I looked at Ms. Bhattacharya. She looked so elegant yet youthful. Late twenties. Maybe younger.


I was dying to ask her everything, wondering what to say, when she looked into my eyes and spoke softly, “Shalu, I want to be your mother.”


I was touched by the way she phrased it. I can’t begin to describe the emotions I felt, but instinctively I blurted out, “Why didn’t Papa tell me?”


She touched my hand and said, “He felt shy, embarrassed. You know how he is. He wanted me to tell you. And leave the decision to you.” She paused, and said, “I know it’s difficult for you. I promise we’ll do what you want. But try to understand. Your Papa feels very lonely.”


“And you Auntie ?” I asked.


“I am lonely too,” she said, tears welling up in her eyes. Suddenly she started to cry into her handkerchief, “I’m sorry,” she said, got up, and went into her room.


I sat confused. She had been so calm and composed. And suddenly she broke down. Had I said something wrong? Maybe I was too young to understand. All I wanted was that Papa should be happy, everyone should be happy; even she should be happy.


Ms. Bhattacharya came out of the room. She had washed up, done up her face and looked so beautiful, so vulnerable, that I instantly felt like hugging her. Something inside told me that she would make Papa very happy; and me too.


“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just that sometimes you wait for a moment and when it comes you don’t know what to do with it.”



“I like you,” I said. “I know you’ll make Papa happy. Only I wish Papa had told me. Shall I call you mummy?”


She smiled, “Come on Shalini. Be my friend. Call me Priya.”

“Okay,” I held out my hand, “Priya, let’s be friends.”

“Even I wanted your papa to tell you,” she said.

“He must’ve been embarrassed,” I said.

“Embarrassed?”

“To tell me that he’s fallen in love at his age.”

“He’s only 43.”

“And you?”

“28. Oh come on, I shouldn’t be telling you my age.”

“You look 25,” I said.

She blushed. The baby cried. She went inside.

I went into my room and lay on the bed. What a day! I just couldn’t wait to tell Victor all this. He’d die laughing. Maybe I should marry him. We are so happy together. If Papa can marry Priya, why can’t I marry Victor? 43 and 28, 15 and 30? Adult love , Puppy love !


I drifted into sleep. When I woke up, Papa was sitting beside me on the bed.


“It’s past one,” he said. “Let’s go for lunch.”

“Why did not you tell me, Papa?” I asked.

His cheeks, his ears became red. He avoided my eyes.

“I guessed it the moment I saw you two at the station,” I said.

“You’ve really grown up, Shalu,” Papa said. “I’m so happy you have accepted her and your little brother.”



“Brother?” I said dumbstruck, and slowly comprehension dawned on me. I closed my eyes. All sorts of thoughts entered my brains. And suddenly everything was clear. “Oh yes. My little brother.”


Lunch passed off in a trance and soon we were on our way to Mussoorie. I’d wanted to go alone by bus, but Papa wouldn’t hear of it. He had work at the site office near Mussoorie and Priya wanted to see my school. She hadn’t been to Mussoorie before.


It was almost five when Papa got off at the site office and we were cruising on the Mall on the way to my school. Priya was looking out of the window as if searching for something. Suddenly she asked the driver to stop.


“I have to get something. Please look after the baby for a moment,” she said.


I took the baby in my lap and saw her enter Hackman’s, the biggest departmental store in Mussoorie.


She returned fast. “A small gift for you, Shalu” she said giving me a gift-wrapped packet and an envelope containing a greeting card.


I opened the envelope. It was a ‘Thank-you’ card.

She had written a message on the inside of the card:

“ To my darling daughter and friend, Shalini…….”

I kept on starting at the beautiful handwriting, unable to read further. Instantly, I recognized the same unique familiar lovely cursive handwriting, so feminine, so delicate.


Tremors started reverberating in my stomach, like a roller-coaster. My pulse was racing. The car negotiated the steep road going up the slopes of Landour.


“Priya, look,” I said pointing out of the car window, “that’s the oldest building in Mussoorie. It’s called Mullingar. Isn’t it just like the Cellular Jail?”


“Yes,” she said.

“You’ve seen Cellular Jail ? ” I asked.

“Of course,” she said. “Many times.”

“You’ve been to Port Blair? ” I persisted.

“Yes. I’ve lived there. It’s a lovely place,” she said.

“How lucky,” I said. “I’ve only seen pictures of Cellular Jail.”

Silence. Pregnant silence. Then I spoke, looking at her child seated on her lap, “Baby. He’s so cute. How old is he?”



“Six months,” she said.

“You haven’t named him?

“Oh yes,” she said, “we call him Baby, his real name is Vivek.”

“Vivek?”

“Yes. Vivek ,” she said “Isn’t it a nice name?”

“Yes,” I answered. I patted the driver on the shoulder and said,

“Seedha Le Chalo. Drive fast. To Landour Hospital.”

“Hospital ?” Priya asked flabbergasted.

“I want you to meet someone,” I said.

The car stopped outside the hospital. “Come,” I said, and Priya holding her baby in her arms followed me towards the door of Victor’s room. I opened the door and said, “Go in Piyu. Victor is waiting for you. For both of you.”



I didn’t wait to see the ex-pression on her face. I quickly turned and ran to the car. “Driver be quick. Take me to the site office. Fast.” I shouted at the driver.


As the car descended towards the Mall, I took out Anton Chekhov’s book from my purse. I’ll have plenty of time to read it now. Maybe I’ll keep it as a souvenir to remember Victor.


I opened the book, the first page :

‘ To my darling Victor…………..Till we meet next time. Love. Piyu.’


I turned the page and began reading Chekov’s lovely short story ‘The Darling.’


2007. The fourteenth of February. Valentine’s Day. I’m on my way to meet someone special. And when I see them I instantly know that the Cupid’s Arrow I had fired twelve years ago had struck the bulls-eye.


I’m feeling good. Don’t ask me why. Happiness goes when you speak of it.
[/tscii:428097ce50]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:276a588b1d]Mystery in Mussoorie

LAL TIBBA



“Excuse me, Sir,” said a feminine voice, “Do you have change for twenty rupees? Even two tens will do.”


I put down the bunch of grapes which I was examining and looked up. She proffered a crisp twenty rupee note, folded into half at the centre, the reverse side of the watermark turned upwards and she held it in such a way that I could not fail to notice something written on the watermark in neat capital letters in blue ink. I understood at once. An active dead letter drop, vintage David Mackenzie style, used only in emergencies.


“I’ll check,” I said, pulling out my wallet from my hip pocket. I extracted two ten rupee notes and gave them to her, taking her twenty rupee note and putting it into my wallet.


I didn’t make any purchases, but rushed a straight home, walking the fastest mile of my life.


I reproduce below the exact words written on the twenty rupee note:


D E W D O L O E


I dusted out my codebook and deciphered the coded message – ‘LAL TIBBA’.


So that was what David Mackenzie has sent me. It was vintage David Mackenzie. Tell a guy only the place of the rendezvous. Never mention the time. It was too risky. Now all I had to do was to reach Mussoorie by the fastest available means and then trek up Landour to the peak of LAL TIBBA, the highest point in Mussoorie. David Mackenzie would find me. We both knew the area around Lal Tibba quite well. We had many a rendezvous there and had even used it as a dead letter drop once in while. But that was more than ten years ago. I had retired and broken all contact with David. I wondered why he had summoned me. All of a sudden after ten long years. What was the assignment? And why Mussoorie of all places when there were so many secure and convenient rendezvous in and around Pune!


I picked up the telephone and dialed my travel agent booked myself on the next flight to Delhi. Beyond Delhi I would have to make on-the-spot decisions and improvise to shake off a tail, if any.


Of course I had torn up the twenty rupee note that had brought me the coded message, into small pieces but I wondered who the woman was. Maybe she was just a housewife. David Mackenzie has a vast network of contacts – agents, runners, watchers, sleepers. I was certain that I would never see the woman again. Though it had happened so fast there were two things about the woman which made a distinct impression on me. Her eyes were the restless eyes of a woman with a great thirst for life. And from her body emanated the lingering fragrance of her enticing perfume!


I reached Delhi airport took the airport bus to Connaught Place, walked around a bit, ostensibly window-shopping, had a pizza at a fast-food joint, and convinced that I was not being followed, took a taxi to Old Delhi railway station. It was almost 9.30 at night by the time I purchased a second class unreserved ticket to Dehradun and walked onto the platform clutching my small briefcase. And out of the blue, I ran bang into Manisha Rawat.


David insisted that a man and a woman would be far less conspicuous than a single man or a pair of men. So I always teamed up with Manisha Rawat. She worked as a stenographer in our office and like most girls from the hills was extremely attractive, had a flawless complexion and carried herself very well. Then one fine day she got married and resigned from her job. I never maintained contact with her after that, for obvious reasons.


I was wondering how to avoid her when Manisha Rawat called out me, “What a surprise, Ravi. But what on earth are you doing here?”


“Heading for Mussoorie,” I said.


“A/C sleeper?”


“I haven’t got reservation.”


“No problem,” Manisha said. “We’ve got two berths. Me and my son. He is sitting inside. We’ll adjust.” I knew I should refuse, but I could see that Manisha was so genuinely happy to meet me and was yearning to talk to me that I couldn’t do anything else but agree and I joined Manisha and her ten year old son in the compartment.


“I won’t ask you why you are going to Mussoorie,” Manisha said.


“But I’ll ask you,” I replied tongue-in-check.


“I’m going to Dehradun,” she said.


“Dehradun?”


“We have settled down in Dehradun. My husband and I, both of us work in the Survey of India office. He’s an engineer and, by the way, I’m an HR officer now.” She opened her purse, pulled out a visiting card and gave it to me.


“So you are Manisha Joshi now. I’m looking forward to meeting Mr. Joshi.” In my mind’s eye I was visualizing how I could avoid meeting Manisha’s husband.


I was tempted to tell Manisha everything, get it off my chest, but I stopped myself. Life has taught me to leave dangerous things unsaid. I asked her, “Your husband must be coming to the station to pick you up tomorrow morning?”


“No,” she said. “He’s gone to Australia for a seminar. That’s why we had come to Delhi see him off. He left yesterday. But that doesn’t matter. You must come over to my place in Dehradun. It’s on Rajpur road, on the way to Mussoorie. The address, phone number – everything is on the card.”


As I put Manisha’s visiting card in my wallet I knew that visiting her was out of the question. At least this time. Manisha probably realized it too. I noticed she had not asked me anything about myself. She had given me her visiting card and left the ball in my court.


The Mussoorie Express reached the destination, Dehradun, precisely at 7:20 next morning. I engaged a tourist taxi for my onward journey to Mussoorie. En route I dropped Manisha Joshi and her son at their house on Rajpur road.


The road to Mussoorie, coiling like a snake, was surrounded by dense vegetation, and as we made our way up I noticed patches of snow, like lather, which became denser as we neared Mussoorie. It was off-season, quite cold, and getting a room at the Savoy wouldn’t be a problem.


When I reached I was shocked to find that a room had already been booked in my name. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. I couldn’t believe that David Mackenzie would commit such a grave lapse. I tried to smoothen my startled look into a grin and quietly checked in, trying not to arouse any suspicions.


All sorts of confusing thoughts crowded my brain. The coded message, the woman with the restless eyes and fragrant perfume at the fruit stall in Pune, Manisha appearing as if from nowhere after fifteen long years and very conveniently offering me a berth and now a room booked in my name at the Savoy. Coincidence, Red Herrings, or an invisible hand guiding me into a trap?


Complete anonymity was my best weapon I had always relied upon. But now it was useless. Invisible eyes seemed to be following me everywhere. There was only one thing to do now – contact David Mackenzie and ask him what the hell was going on?



I went down to the reception and asked the girl at the counter, “Please can you tell me who made my hotel reservation?”


“Just a moment, sir,” she said and began consulting a register. “It’s here,” she gave me a curious look, “A travel agency. Hill Travels. They rang up from Dehradun this morning at 8:30.”


Dehradun! Manisha? How could she be so naïve? Or was she? I’d have to find out for myself. But first the rendezvous with David Mackenzie at Lal Tibba.


After lunch I walked down the Mall, posing as a tourist, seemingly clicking photograph with my camera. But this was in fact a LASER-DAZZLER or Dazer which could dazzle or flash blind the victim by means of laser beam. Nobody even gave a second look to an inoffensive-appearing, meek-looking man like me, which was really to my advantage.


There was a chill in the air now and I knew it would get bitterly cold so I bought a trench-coat from a Tibetan roadside stall at Landour Bazaar and then turned left and began climbing up the path towards Lal Tibba. At the char-dukan junction I did not take the normal route to Lal Tibba, but instinctively turned right, in a last-ditch attempt to spot any tail, and began negotiating the steep and longer route skirting and traversing and undulating mountainous slopes. It was this instinctive decision that probably saved my life, for when it suddenly started snowing I took refuge under the porch of the entrance to a cemetery. Gradually it stopped snowing and all of sudden rays of evening sunlight filtered through the gaps in the Deodar trees. Indeed the weather in Mussoorie was as unpredictable as the stock market.


As I was about to leave, I heard the bark of a dog. I turned in that direction. A Bhutiya dog was sitting about fifteen feet away from me. It was a friendly breed. I smiled. And then I froze, my blood ran cold for next to the dog was a tombstone, illuminated by a ray of sunlight. And on the tombstone was engraved in large bold letters:


DAVID W. MACKENZIE

BORN 24 MAY 1935

DIED 15 JANUARY 2006


I stood motionless on the Lal Tibba peak which jutted out like a bird’s beak, holding the railing in front of me below which there was a sheer drop of over thousand feet into dense jungle. The cold hung like a cloak of ice around my shivering shoulders. I breathed in slowly, mouth and nose together. The air was so pure that I at once sensed her arrival. A whiff of that familiar fragrance. No doubt about it! It was the same woman at the fruit stall in Pune. The woman with the restless eyes.


“Why did you kill David?” I asked softly. I did not turn around but I could feel the waft of her warm breath on the nape of my neck. Suddenly, at the same spot I felt a needle. With cobra speed I ducked and rammed against her with my shoulders. Then I turned around, pointed the dazer camera in her direction and pressed the button. Despite the weather, the laser beam was quite effective at that short range and soon she began screaming. The manner in which her silhouette was moving it was evident that she was totally dazed.



“Don’t kill me,” she shrieked in anguish. “David was going to die anyway. He had terminal cancer. I just put him to sleep to spare him the agony.”


I look two quick steps and pushed her towards the railing. Her hands, which were earlier cupping her eyes, now gripped the railing. As gripped the railing. As I walked away from Lal Tibba, I could hear her trailing voice, “Don’t’ leave me here. I’m blinded. I can’t see anything. Please don’t go ………..”


I stopped in my tracks. In this profession one operated on the basis of the 11th Commandment – “Thou shalt not get caught”. I closed my eyes with my palms for about half a minute and when I opened them again I could see better in the dark. I carefully scanned the footprints in the snow, where or scuffle had taken place. After a bit of searching I found what I wanted. The syringe was intact. I looked towards her silhouette. She was standing still, gripping the railing. It was evident that she could not see anything.


“Give me the syringe,” I shouted.


“I dropped it,” she said.


“I don’t believe you,” I said.


“No. I don’t have it,” she said desperately. “Search me if you want.”


“Okay. But tell me first. What was in the syringe?”


“Ketamine.”


I smiled to myself. Ketamine. An anesthetic with hallucinatory emergence reaction.


“Take off your coat. I want to check it,” I commanded, and as she started to do so I moved fast. With my left hand I pushed up the sleeve of the pullover and with my right I jabbed the needle of the syringe into her wrist, and injected the entire contents of the syringe into her body.


At first she struggled but soon she gave up and in a few moments slid down on the snow, her body limp. I lifted her body, struggling, using all me strength rolled it over the railing watching it vanish into dark nothingness.



Miraculously, the dazer was still intact around my neck. I was tempted to throw it away, but no – I may indeed need it yet. David Mackenzie was dead, I had taken care of the woman with the restless eyes, but there was still the question of Manisha. I had to be sure, dead sure. It had started snowing again and it was with great difficulty that I made my way down the slopes of Lal Tibba in the enveloping darkness.


When I rang the door bell of Manisha’s house it was dark. I had not gone back to the Savoy hotel, but caught the first bus to Dehradun from the Picture Palace bus-stand near Landour Bazaar. Though I could read the surprise in her eyes at my disheveled state, she didn’t say a word. She just made me sit down and gave me a cup of tea. So I played it straight. I told her everything the whole story, exactly as it happened; observing her closely I knew she was innocent.


“Ravi, it’s high time you broke off with the looking-glass world,” she said tenderly.


Manisha was right. David Mackenzie was dead. My link broken. Now it was entirely up to me.


“Sleep here and we’ll go and collect your baggage from the Savoy in the morning,” Manisha said.


We reached the hotel at noon to find a police officer waiting to interrogate me.


“Where were you since yesterday afternoon, sir? The hotel staff has reported you missing. Almost twenty-four hours. We were about send a search party.”


“He was with me. In Dehradun,” Manisha answered.


“Full night?”


“Yes,” Manisha opened her purse and showed him her identity card.


“Oh, you are an officer in Survey office, madam,” the policeman said. He gave me a conspirational look and advised, “Better to inform the hotel staff and avoid panic.” And then he walked away, smiling to himself.


I cannot begin to describe the emotion I felt towards Manisha at that moment. But before I could say anything she held my arm and said “It’s okay, Ravi. For old times’ sake. But remember what I said. There’s no point living a lie – a double-life, it’s not worth it.”


The reason why the woman with the restless eyes wanted to murder me became clear only a few days later. When I reached Pune I found a letter asking me to contact Mehta and Co., Solicitors, at Mumbai. The matter was urgent. I rushed to Mumbai the next morning.


“It’s good you came, Mr. Ravi,” Mehta said. “We are the executors of the late Mr.David Mackenzie’s will. He has left you everything he had, except his bungalow – The Anchorage, at Lal Tibba in Mussoorie.”


“Who gets the Anchorage?” I asked.


“Susan Morris,” he said looking at his papers. “In fact, she was the one who came here on the second of February and personally handed over the death certificate.”


I looked at the wall-calendar. Second was Friday, Third was Saturday – the office closed, Fourth, a Sunday, on the Fifth she handed me the coded message and the Sixth afternoon I was on the flight on my way to Mussoorie. Everything was falling into place.


“Who gets my share in case of my death?” I asked.


“Susan Morris. And, of course, you are the alternate nominee for the Anchorage.” He paused, and said, “It’s surprising. We’ve sent her two letters by Speed-post, but she hasn’t contacted us yet. Do you know who she was to David Mackenzie?”


“I’ve never heard of her,” I answered. “David Mackenzie was a bachelor, and bachelors do get very lonely sometimes, don’t they?”


Mehta smiled and said, “We were hoping she turns up fast and we can settle everything. Anyway, we’ll wait.”


“Yes, you wait. She’ll surely turn up,” I said nonchalantly, and walked away, and lost myself in the crowd on the street.

[/tscii:276a588b1d]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:2e9105a359]THE COUNSELOR

“Your relationship has become so demoralized by distrust that it is better severed than patched up.”

“What?”

“Yes. It’s better you split instead of living in perpetual suspicion like this. Why live a lie?”

“How can you say this? You are a marriage counselor; you’re supposed to save marriages, not break them.”

“But then what can I do if you don’t change your attitude?” I said in desperation, “you have to learn to trust your wife; just stop being jealous, suspicious, possessive. Mutual trust is important in a marriage, especially a long distance marriage like yours.”

I looked at the man sitting in front of me. He was incredibly handsome; mid thirties, maybe forty, well groomed, sharp features accentuated by a smart neatly trimmed beard, clean brown eyes, he looked strong and confident, and his outward appearance betrayed no sign of what was going on inside him. And he looked at me longingly, in a lingering sort of way that women secretly want men to look at them.

I blushed, felt good, but quickly composed myself. In such vulnerable situations anything could happen and I had to be careful, so I said to him in a firm dispassionate tone, “I think you better go now. It’s time for your flight.”

“It’s delayed.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. I’m the pilot – the commander of the aircraft. I’ve to report after an hour.”

“I’ll leave? It’s almost check-in time.”

“No! No! Please stay. There’s still two hours for your flight to London . I’ll get you checked-in. There’s something I want to tell you,” he pleaded, “I’ll order some more coffee.”

The airport restaurant was deserted at this late hour and wore a dark, eerie look, with just a few people huddled in muted whispers.

“I want to thank you for giving me this special appointment – agreeing to meet me here at such short notice,” he said.

“It’s okay. It was quite convenient for both of us, enroute catching our flights. A nice quiet discreet place, this airport restaurant.”

He paused for a moment, then spoke guiltily, “I did something terrible today.”

“What?”

“I stole my wife’s cell-phone.”

“Stole? Your wife’s mobile?

“Yes. Just before I left. I took it from her purse. She was fast asleep.”

“This is too much! Stealing your wife’s mobile. That was the most despicable thing to do. I don’t think we should talk any more. You need some serious help,” I said, gulped down my coffee and started to get up.

“No! No! Please listen. It’s those telltale SMS messages!”

“SMS messages?”

“From ‘Teddy Bear’.”

“Teddy Bear?”

“Someone she knows. She’s saved his number. She keeps getting these SMSs, which she erases immediately. This evening when she was bathing while I was getting ready to leave for the airport, her cell-phone was lying on the bed, an SMS came from ‘Teddy Bear’ : “I am yearning for you. SPST.”

“SPST? What’s that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I called the number. A male voice said: ‘Hi Sugar!’ Just imagine, he calls her ‘Sugar’. I hung up in disgust immediately. Then during dinner she kept getting calls and SMSs – must be the same chap: ‘Teddy Bear’.”

“Your wife spoke to him?”

“No. She looked at the number and cut it off. Four or five times. Then she switched her mobile to silent and put in her purse.”

“You asked her who it was?”

“No.”

“You should have. It may have been a colleague, a friend. That’s your problem – you keep imagining things and have stopped communicating with her. Ask her next time and I’m sure everything will clear up.”

“No! No! I am sure she is having an affair with this ‘Teddy Bear’ chap. Had it not been for the last minute delay in my flight, I wouldn’t have been home at that time.” he said. And then suddenly he broke down, tears pouring down his cheeks, his voice uncontrollable, “The moment I take off, she starts cheating on me.”

It was a bizarre sight. A tough looking man totally shattered, weeping inconsolably.

“Please,” I said, “control yourself. And you better not fly in this state.”

“I think you’re right,” he said recovering his composure, “I’m in no mood to fly.” He took out a cell-phone from his shirt pocket, dialed the standby pilot and a few other numbers and told them he was unwell.

He kept the mobile phone on the table.

“Your wife’s?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“She’ll be missing it.”

“No. She’ll be fast asleep. I’ll go back and put it in her purse.” He got up and said, “I’ll freshen up in the washroom and come. And then I’ll check you in for your London flight.”

I looked at the cell-phone on the table, at first hesitant; then curiosity took charge of me and I picked it up. Hurriedly I clicked on ‘names’, pressed ‘T’, quickly found ‘Teddy Bear’ and called. A few rings and I instantly recognized my husband’s voice at the other end, “Hey Sugar, where are you? Why aren’t you answering? Did you get my SMS - SPST - Same Place Same Time. Why did you give me a blank call?.....”

I couldn’t believe this. My dear own husband – ‘Teddy Bear’. Right under my nose. It was unimaginable, incredulous. My world came tumbling down.

I cannot begin to describe the emotions that overwhelmed me at that moment, but I’ll tell you what I did.

I put the cell-phone in my purse, walked briskly to the check-in counter without looking back, and I am on my way to London to present my research paper on ‘The efficacy of counseling in the alleviation of marital discord’ at the International Conference of Counselors.

And till I return, let everyone here stew in suspense.

[/tscii:2e9105a359]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:6fae0c2b29]A MAN A BOY A WIFE AND A LOVER


PART 1 – DEPARTURE

“I’m going,” the man says.

“Don’t go. Please don’t go,” the woman says.

“Don’t go? What do you mean don’t go? You know I have to go.”

“You don’t have to go. You know you don’t have to go. Please. Please. Please don’t go. I beg you. Please don’t go!”

“Come on, Hema, be reasonable, and try to understand. You know I have to go. I promised him I would be there for his school’s Annual Day…”

“No, Ashok, No. You don’t go. His mother can go. He is staying with her, isn’t it? Let her look after him…”

“And I am his father!” the man says firmly, “I promised Varun I’ll be there and I have to be there!”

“You don’t love me! You still love them!”

“You know how much I love you, Hema,” the man says taking the woman in his arms, “But I love my son too. I have to go. Please don’t make it difficult for me…”

Tears begin to well up in the man’s eyes. The woman snuggles her face against his neck and grips him tightly.

“I’m scared,” she sobs.

“Scared? Why?”

“I don’t know. It’s the first time you are going to her after you two split…”

“Please, Hema. I am not going to her. I’m going to meet my son, for his school’s annual day, because Varun rang me up and made me promise that I would be there to see his performance on stage. I’ll meet Varun, attend the PTA meeting, talk to his teacher, see the concert and come straight back to you. I won’t even talk to her, I promise,” the man called Ashok says to the woman nestling in his arms, “Don’t worry, Hema. You know it’s all over between me and Pooja, isn’t it? Maybe she won’t even come, if she knows I’m coming, and even if she’s there I’m sure she too will avoid me as far as possible.”

The woman takes his hand, gently places it on her stomach, and whispers in the man’s ears, “Soon we will have our own son.”

“Yes,” the man says lovingly, caressing her stomach tenderly with his soft hand, “a son, and a daughter, whatever you want.”

They disentangle, then he holds her once more, pushes his face into her warm mouth, kisses her lovingly, and says, “Don’t worry, I’m all yours, and I promise I’ll be right back as fast as possible.”

A few moments later, the man sits in his car, wipes his face fresh with a cologne-scented tissue, starts the car, and drives off.


[/tscii:6fae0c2b29]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:73952ab104]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.

[/tscii:73952ab104]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:6ecc2dba01]
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.......

[/tscii:6ecc2dba01]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:adedbff71b]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.


[/tscii:adedbff71b]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:66a9e73c74]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


[/tscii:66a9e73c74]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:96ace8f60e]
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?”


[/tscii:96ace8f60e]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:40116cef15]
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.


[/tscii:40116cef15]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:5190f93b4b]
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!

[/tscii:5190f93b4b]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:80c9c964bc]
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.


[/tscii:80c9c964bc]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:4af1d06b57]
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.


[/tscii:4af1d06b57]

[pavalamani pragasam]

[tscii:8cba942dcb]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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[vikramkarve]

All these stories were written by me Vikram Karve on my creative writing blog http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com and my other blogs. In fact, this particular story originally titled Don't Delve Too Much by Vikram Karve was published by me in a magazine in the 1990s. I am sorry to see that a person called Subhash is passing off these stories as his own - this is very sad indeed.
Regards
Vikram Karve
Pune
India
http://vikramkarve.sulekha.com
http://karvediat.blogspot.com
http://karve.wordpress.com
http://vikramwamankarve.blogspot.com

[AudazJay]

Copyright infringement?? You should sue the impersonator if it's true, Mr. Vikram. Anyway, just finished reading all your short stories. They are lovely but the characters depict a loneliness in them. Maybe you should start writing more jovial characters in future..or maybe you had and I didn't know about them. Nevertheless, great writing skills. Keep writing.
@PP maam, thanks for introducing us to these stories. I really enjoyed reading them :)