Ride of Retribution

The room where they sat, face to face across each other, was dark and dingy. The inmate’s clothes lay half scattered on the bed that stood inside. The couch was the only real furniture which consumed space of the room beside the two chairs which were occupied. Four men nearly of the same height and build, all armed to the hilt, stood stiff converging on the two gentlemen who sat engulfed in deadly silence. Each of these four men wore the same formal outfit, though the organization for which they worked never mandated any uniform. The doors were shut and not a single sound from the adjacent busy road could make way inside the room. It was a sultry summer evening in the busiest square of the city, yet from inside the room it felt like an island devoid of human society outside it. The silence was definite and absolute, only the humming noise of the old table fan kept against that hush. Two goggled men guarded the tattered door and the chauffeur sat uncaringly inside the shining black Benz parked nearby.

Taureeq unbuttoned the holster from the insides of his jacket and menacingly pulled out his 0.32 Magnum. He neatly placed it on the table. He yanked out the bullet case from his pocket and began loading its contents one by one inside the revolving chambers of the 0.32. Taking a long drag of his half smoked Marlboro, he placed the gun back on the table between him and Robert. The device had a sinister shine about it, and from it one could guess the number of lives it had claimed. Foreboding and without mercy, brutal. To the point and to the target

‘There are two ways we can go about this Robert.’ Taureeq began in his cold tone, inviting a threatened look from him. ‘One without .. and the other, with it’ he exclaimed plainly suggesting at his revolver. Robert didn’t say a word in return. He kept observing Taureeq. A man who had the blood of hundreds on his hand. The chosen mercenary of the Badshah family. He would shoot at the drop of a hat if the boss desired. As for Robert himself, he was only a carrier. The mule. His only job was to ensure that boss's cocaine reached the end users, who were in hundreds. He therefore seemed to wonder what had brought Taureeq, the accomplished gunman, to his not much of a house. Perhaps a deal had gone wrong and Taureeq had come to exact his life as its cost. Or perhaps they wanted to close loops of a hot one, no ends open, and he was perhaps the last one to be shut. Or was he simply intimidating to get something done that he can't get done. He was to soon find out.

‘It’s actually our old frienship that I ‘m honouring. Actually, assignments like such are taken care of by the ones standing around you. A simple task you know. Just the bangs. Saves all the literature’ Taureeq concluded non chalantly.

‘What do you want?’ Robert wanted to keep things precise and to the point.

‘Nothing you know. Just the usual. Payment’ replied Taureeq

“Payment for what?’ 

‘You are a smart man Robert. I believe a lot of that smartness comes from your excellent memory. So why don’t you spend some of that memory instead of asking questions which by the standards of even these men around us are stupid ’ Taureeq commanded, though with a smile.

The fan hummed away. Taureeq sank back in his chair and comforted himself as if he was ready to wait for as long as it would take for Robert to recall what he wished him to. There was no reply from Robert. Nothing came from him for a very long time. Taureeq went from being quiet, to whistling to shaking his leg impatiently. 

He suddenly leaned forward and burst ‘Don’t fuck with me Robert. I don’t have all day’

‘Well, my friend I can’t remember what you are suggesting. I don't owe boss’ Robert confessed trying to sound calm.

‘Alright. I’ll help you out’ Taureeq declared and took his revolver in his hand. ‘You remember botching up the Reqett deal. Does that word ring a bell, eh?’ Taureeq had bend ominously close at Robert.

‘Nothing brother’ Robert nodded his head disappointingly.

‘You like games, don’t you?’ Taureeq hid his perturbed self.

‘You know how it is Taureeq. Nothing is hidden from you. Martha is gone. It’s me and my brother now. Debts, cops, a dozen crime busting agencies vying to extract info from me. My neck is on the line. I’m no more myself. My mind is just dead. All after Martha was taken away’ Robert revealed with a placid sincerity.

‘I don’t give a damn. You get me?! You wanted out right. Here’s your chance. Just pay for what losses you caused and you are a free man. Your register would be closed and you can start afresh. You have my word. You have the boss’s word’ Taureeq declared unfazed by Robert’s confessions and placed his gun back on the table.

‘The boss never told me he wanted payment. I’ve run errands so many times without a fee. I guess boss took that one fucked up assignment and wrote it off toward my unpaid remuneration. I know boss forgave me. He promised me he did. And it just isn’t his rule to break his own promise’ Robert argued.

‘Guess what. These are new house rules. Boss is old and hangs by his bed. He has his grandson to play with in his large garden. Work is left to me and he doesn’t mind the way I run things. I run the syndicate now. I decide things now. And I decide in the larger benefit of the org. I can't agree writing off a loss of millions. Either you pay or work for us as I say. If you don't, you have to buy your freedom, the freedom of your brother and the rest of your kins. I decide your life now. You will eat as I wish. You will dream as I wish, you will breathe as I wish now. And I wish to put a price tag on your freedom. You’ll have to purchase it’ Taureeq was convincing in his tone. 'Or as a second choice you may choose to work for us again. The same thrillin' life of money and women which you once swore by. Limitless power and all what you want. In case you've forgotten, everything you want could be yours. Just hop back in'  Taureeq offered and sank back confident of the fruits of his little speech. Robert paused and carefully thought his response. He looked to his left and right and looked at Taureeq again. The silence was complete. “Martha wouldn’t have wanted this you know. She wanted me to leave all this. She wanted me to live clean’

‘Last time I saw, Martha was in a coffin under six feet of dirt Robby. You don’t have to worry about her. Do what’s right for you. Take this chance. This is where you belong, always belonged. It's either this or payment and ofcourse the choice of ..you know..being with Martha. (The gathering save Robert broke into giggles) Look, I know about all your cash and where they are stacked. All your grand pretension of poverty cannot fool me Robby’ Taureeq smirked tauntingly as he spoke his words. Soon after these words were uttered, silence reclaimed their conversation. This time it was more certain and brooding. An air of unpredictability hung between the two men. Taureeq continued to wear his mocking smirk and Robert was engulfed by an uneasy calm, the one which precedes a storm.

‘Who put her there Taureeq?’ Robert asked, looking dead straight into Taureeq’s eyes.

‘Excuse me?’ Taureeq queried. A certain unsettledness had suddenly seized his form.

‘Who put Martha in the coffin?’ Robert repeated, pronouncing each word slowly as if he demanded an answer. There was an unmistakable resolve about Robert’s mannerism. It seemed as if the tables had suddenly shifted. Robert had gripped the moment by its scruff and now Taureeq found himself fidgeting under Robert’s gaze.

‘Wh..What the hell do you mean who put her there?’ Taureeq’s voice was slippery. He carefully and slowly budged his palm toward the sitting revolver without taking his eyes off Robert. Robert didn’t move his eyes as well. Their glance was locked as if both knew what the other was thinking. As if both knew what was coming. Neither showed any sign of movement. They were transfixed in their gaze upon each other as silence filled the room. Before anyone in the room could fathom what was happening, the only door of the room flung open violently. It was dark outside and the road lamps hadn’t been lit yet. It was difficult to comprehend the identity of the man who barged in. But he had come determined at his task. The first shot he took was at the man who stood the most near to Robert. The rifle boom was deafening, as the man standing beside Robert in black suit flew back a couple of feet and landed still on his back with a loud fall, blood gushing out of his bullet ridden chest. He had taken two. In the commotion, Robert leaped on the table and grabbed the Magnum, removed its safety lock in a flash and began firing blindly at Taureeq’s direction. Taureeq had by then lifted the cover of the table and hurled it at Robert preventing his bullets from penetrating beyond its wood. But Taureeq was unstoppable. He punched the tossed table cover with his bare fist and removed it. Taureeq was making his way out amidst the gunpowder - rain and smoke, as the man at the door covered the exit and kept aiming and shooting at the guards one by one, taking them out effortlessly. The man was unfailing in his aim and he was fatally quick. He gave no chance for those burly armed men to even unholster their guns. He had planted bullets in each of them sending them to dark pits of hell. One of the bullets had taken out the light of the room and it was pitch dark inside. Only the recoil sparks of the guns, which ran ablaze, lightened the room frequently like thunder. Taureeq was now on the floor, cusping his head with both hands as he lay kissing the ground as bullets flew over his head. In seconds the room fell silent. The hanging light creaking and gnawing madly due the force of the bullet shots it had taken. The humming table fan had fallen silent, its blades twisted and mangled. Every man standing was either dead or groaning, except Taureeq who grovelled for his life under the feet of the other two men with gun, one at the door and the other Robert. Their barrels were still chimneys.

Footsteps approached Taureeq. It was Robert. He leaned and whispered near Taureeq's ear ‘Get up buddy’. Taureeq was so frozen in fear that it took Robert’s brother, who had lowered his gun and had walked from the door to grab Taureeq by his collar, to lift him up and make him sit on the chair where he sat earlier. Robert walked near him, placed the gun’s nozzle on his temple and asked in perfect control ‘I won’t ask again.....I mean it..I won't. Who ordered the hit on Martha. We both know she didn’t die in any random gang firing. No one would have dared touch her. She was my woman. So hurry up you don’t have much time, I’d rather not see you die painfully and slowly’ Taureeq just kept on panting, his mouth dry and silent. Sweat streaming down his cheeks. Robert allowed Taureeq a few seconds before he started to stutter ‘Y...you kn..know. Nothing ev..ever hh..hhappens without the boss’s approv...’ Taureeq hadn’t completed his sentence when Robert pumped all the remaining bullets into his chest from point blank range. Blood spurt out in thick stream and puddled near Robert’s feet. The body of Taureeq fell silent after a few throbs. He died instantly on the chair, his hands spread hanging by his sides. Robert took out Martha’s photo and looked at her as if sharing with her his accomplishment. He kissed her and tucked it back inside his wallet. But he couldn’t step away from Taureeq’s lifeless form. He kept staring at it.

‘Come’n Robby. Cops will be here. Gotta get out’ Benjamin, Robert’s brother, warned him as he pulled his hands trying to drag him away. Robert finally looked away, he looked at Benjamin and hugged him. Tears rolled down his eyes. But there was no voice, no wailing, no sobbing. The job was only half done. The brothers remained in each other’s hug for a minute.

‘Just a moment Benji’ Robert said and walked towards the closet. He brought out a device which had wires tapped all over and clicked it ON. When the beeping began, he placed it on the chest of Taureeq alongwith a cleaned maimed bullet. He looked at Benjamin. He felt no need to tell him what it was and from whose body he had recovered it. He had preserved it all along. Making it wait silently with an aim, which no gun would give it. The two men stepped out of the house and shut the door behind them. The guards outside the door lay dead and were covered in blood and the chauffeur slept still with his head resting on the steering wheel as a narrow line of blood trickled from his forehead and gathered on the car’s base. Robert stole a glance at Benjamin and smiled. Benjamin kicked the motorcycle to life and said ‘It wasn’t tad bit tough. The two here at the door were merrymaking. It took me exactly two bullets to lay them, not a shot wasted. Our friend in the Benz was taking dirty to his girl over his phone, I walked straight to him and he didn’t even care to look. I pulled the trigger right between his eyes’

Robert noticed a crowd of onlookers. They stood mute. They had witnessed everything. But he trusted them. He trusted them to keep things to themselves for they knew his tale. The boy who grew up an orphan, sheltered by Ahmadi Badshah, made to do his dirty work, which he wouldn’t let his nephews and sons soil their hands with. His perished fate reincarnated by Martha, when he was verging on self destruction. The woman who showed him light, gave him a new life and set him upon a new purpose, was ruthlessly taken away. It was their town's open secret that Ahmadi’s men had taken her life. No way he was going to let her replace the leash on his dog. 

Benjamin asked him while turning the bike’s accelerator ‘Where to?’

Pausing momentarily Robert replied ‘To where it all began’

‘Are you sure Robby?’ Taureeq wanted to be sure, that his brother who had just shot his first bullets ever, was up for killing the town’s most dreaded gangster.

‘I am not. But then I wasn’t sure you would come in perfect time and we would execute our little plan to the hilt back at the room. I wasn’t sure I could ever pull the trigger but five bullets are now buried in Taureeq’s heart. I am not sure if I will put bullets in Ahmadi’s head. But I want to have Martha’s revenge. I want the blood of each and every man who was there when she died, each and every one of them. Of that I’m sure’ Robert confided with an air of surety.

‘Godspeed to both of us then!!’ Benjamin murmured as he turned the accelerator with full force and the two brothers sped away under the watch of the lifeless throng. The crowd howled and screamed and ran inside their homes as Robert’s house was engulfed in flames after a loud explosion which followed their departure. The ride of retribution had just begun for Robert.

Timeless

‘What the heck do you think you are doing ?’ a furious Anand raged. ‘Flee or stay till I thrash you into pulp’ he warned.  The neighbourhood bullies scurried away. The scoundrels had resorted to their reprehensible antic of pulling down the dangling trouser of the harebrained Jaga. The target of their mockery stood shell shocked, stuttering hard to mouth the right words. Unlike the brain inside his head, his perfectly normal legs were trembling out of weakness. To his childlike wits, pulling up his pants at that moment seemed as complex as building a spaceship. So his fallen pants remained vanquished at his feet and he began to weep like a toddler. It provided for a perfect dose of laughter for the gathering around him. The customers of the nearby betel shop and grocery store were visibly amused by the sadistic hilarity in Jaga's humiliation. All  laughd in chorus.

Anand rushed to Jaga's aid. He placed his briefcase by his side and bent down to lift the latter’s pants, which sat crumpled on his feet screaming to be restored to its proper position.  Anand never tolerated anyone tormenting or ridiculing Jaga. Nor did he ever reply to the hackneyed question as to why he was so protective of Jaga, causing a pervasive suspicion that he was privy to some covert cause. But the truth simply was that Anand felt so outraged over the disgraceful repetition of such insensitive query that he invariably chose to stay quiet, instead of spitting on their faces the simple answer that as a man it was his rudimentary purpose to prevent undue harassment to another, more so when that poor soul was one who could not tell the difference between sun and moon.

A year ago when Anand had arrived at Sunrise Colony, with a truck load of furniture, surveying the area for the correct address of his soon to be home and to join his first employment, he was quite affable to the people of the locality. At thirty Anand had no intention of getting married and starting a family. He had made up his mind that, unlike his friends, he was going to devote his life to the upliftment of the needy and impoverished, instead of reconciling with the unexciting and commonplace way of life. As a first step he had offered to serve an organisation which had similar goals. They pay was minimal but he didn't care. Money wasn't a problem. He had been bequeathed dizzying amount of wealth from his industrialist grandfather.

In the beginning, Anand was not so acerbic on the tormentors of the social pariah that Jaga was. But soon Anand repeatedly noticed that almost every passerby  somehow considered it his inviolable entitlement to deride Jaga in one manner or another. It wasn't as if he didn't suppress his natural revulsion against the whole affair. However, when he confronted his conscience he held himself equally guilty for not raising his voice in protest.  That moment onwards, Anand dutifully stood between Jaga and anyone who purported to trouble him. He even tried to reason with the incorrigible frolic mongers that it's unkind to treat anyone in their manner, hypothetically putting them and their family members in Jaga’s position. He realized that he was wasting his time.  The only difficulty was that Anand could not remain around Jaga at all times.

Anand was most disturbed upon knowing that, though the plight of Jaga was a household tale of the whole community, none treated him with the love he deserved. Forget love, on the contrary they made him their amusement toy. The priest of their temple, Madhav Babu, had found him as fragile as a sapling, fully wrapped in a thin white linen sheet of cloth, leaving his pink face adorned by his gem like eyes and his pursed lips, hanging to its life by a thin thread. Madhav babu was strolling down the flight of temple stairs to make his customary walk around the deity chanting hymns of dawn puja, when for no apparent reason he felt like peeping inside the small dark chamber just around the corner. The murky cavity which was used as a dump yard for unused material had sheltered a newborn life. The priest forthwith took Jaga in his arms and strolled out under light and checked for signs of life in its tiny form. He was assured of it when he noticed his furtive breathing. He wasted no time in taking him to their community health centre where the Lord Almighty not only restored to him his life but also ensured that the child would have the love of a father. Thence the priest and Jaga lived under the same roof provided by the temple committee where the former became inextricably entwined to his fate of being a devoted father to Jaga, who was given up for dead by his own. As time passed Jaga's frame grew stronger and he looked healthy and fit with no hint of his endangered infancy presenting itself about his appearance. But it didn't take long for his kin to discover that he wasn't mentally able as other children. His mind hadn't kept pace with his age. At fifteen he had the brains of a five year old.

Many blamed it on providence, many on past life sins and many figured that it could be the result of the lack of mother's milk. Madhav babu was unable to cope with this misery. He had invested his dreams of being succeeded by his adopted son but that hope was reduced into a mirage with his son's newfound disability. It was too much for the ageing man and he took ill. A man's old age is perhaps livened by his family and his children's prosperity. That was not to be in the priest's case. Dark imaginings and sorrow took their toll on him. He reduced into a living straw and finally one stormy night he breathed his last. The whole night Jaga sat besides his father rambling to him unsure of what to make of his still lying frame. The next day his body was cremated on the banks of the Mahanadi. Everyone returned except Jaga who sat their for two days clueless as to where his father had vanished from the pyre. When he strolled back, life was not the same for him. The pitiless society blamed him for the priest's demise. They ostracized him. The doors of the temple room were forever closed for him. He was banished, back to nature's lap. He found shelter under the large Peepul tree in the center of the colony where he remained resigned to his dreadful fate, surviving on scraps thrown in by a kind few. Till the powers that rule providence sent Anand as his saviour.

On a bright autumn morning as Jaga lay gaily immersed in his senile delusions , Chintu and his partners in crime hurled a bagful of cow dung at Jaga. The poor chap was startled from his sleep as if earthquake had jolted him. He woke up to find the smelly waste smeared all over his shrunken belly. Anand saw this. Outraged, he threw his handbag where he stood and rolled up his sleeves readying himself to catch hold of the rogues and give them the beating of their lives. But being alien to the geography of the area, he looked helplessly as the scoundrels melted into the myriad lanes and by lanes of the neighbourhood. The next day he ensured that Chintu’s pristinely shining white school uniform was given the same treatment that its wearer had meted out to the innocent Jaga. He waited till Chintu got down his father’s scooter, waved him good bye and sauntered along the pathway towards the school gate. Just when the rogue was about to step inside, Anand took a perfect aim at him and forcefully flinged a polyethene bag brimming with fresh manure at him. It landed exactly where it was supposed to. The dung lay plastered on his spotless shirt, partially dripping down to his feet. The whole gathering around him broke into laughter. Anand emerged from his hiding and strolled towards a stunned Chintu.

The gang was never going to take this insult of their leader, lying down. So they beat Jaga black and blue, a night later. Leaving his arms and face swollen beyond recognition. When Anand saw this he swore then and there that he wasn't going to leave Jaga at the mercy of his tormentors. He took him in, & let him live with him. He held his hands and guided him inside his house. He fed him warm soup and boiled rice. He took a close look at his wounds and applied ointment on them. They stayed together from that day onwards. Anand purchased a set of toys for Jaga to keep him from straying out of his house in his absence. He didn't feel embarrassed at all when he bought those in a large transparent polythene bag for his seventeen year old friend.  Jaga fell in love with the toys. He would play with them for hours when Anand was away. When he came back from work, he would take him out for a stroll under his watch.

Soon the neighbours stopped troubling Jaga. Word of Anand and Jaga's friendship spread far and wide. People in the locality began to revere Anand. Persons who dismissed Jaga as a madman began inquiring from Anand about his well being. Such was his unadulterated and unpretentious sincerity in caring back for Anand, that the latter claimed he'd found a true friend in Jaga. People started paying visits to Anand's house and many even wanted to say 'Hello' to Jaga. When summoned by Anand, he would come out and offer a perfected namaskar to their doting guests, and quickly amble back into his room. Women prepared special dishes and sent them over for the friends. At times when Jaga remained adamant not to open his mouth for a morsel, Anand would announce that he too wouldn't touch his food and conjure up an act of pain in his stomach. Within moments, Jaga would surrender, assume his favourite lotus position ready to be fed. During idle Sunday noons a relieved Anand would loudly sing songs of friendship and Jaga would incoherently join him.

At times when Jaga would be engrossed arranging and rearranging the plastic puzzles Anand would confide in him about his inner feelings. He would tell him that he understood his destitution as he himself was an orphan. He would often caress Jaga's head when he'd be fidgety and scared for no reason. Jaga would wake him up in the middle of night pulling his hands demanding him to take him for a walk outside. It would take a great deal of explaining and cajoling for Anand to convince him against his wish. Despite many inconveniences and annoying antics of Jaga, Anand never regretted having brought him along. When it would rain with gurgling thunder and blinding flashes of lightning, Jaga would hug Anand tightly and sit close to him. Anand would always quickly return his embrace. With passing time, Anand discovered certain remarkable traits in his friend. He came to know that Jaga was an avid observer and a quick learner. Whenever he had to hurry for his office without performing cleaning chores, he often returned to notice that his bed and other places were pristine, his dishes and sheets put exactly the way he normally kept them. Jaga remembered the names of birds and animals that he'd told him. The two friends would secretly make fun of a few chosen men of their colony and their peculiar funny habits and mannerisms. In the best of his days, Jaga would even mimic the most funny ones, whatever he remembered of it. He often pleasantly surprised Anand with his ability to remember about the latter's most annoying habits. Anand was elated. He couldn't have asked for more.

A year had passed since the day Jaga was ushered into Anand's house And the latter was always curious to know about Jaga's actual date of birth. But he never asked anyone. He'd been toying with the idea of celebrating his pal's birthday and once when the two friends were lost in banter, Anand declared  ' I don't know when exactly you were born, but let's just celebrate the day we began to share this roof over our heads, as your birthday. It'd be a celebration of our friendship too. What do you say ?' Anand wasn't quite sure if his friend understood his message. The latter simply looked out of the window and said "Sky.. Big Sky". 'Yes, that's a big sky my friend just about as big as your heart.'  replied a smirking Anand. He got ready in a jiffy and announced to him that he'd be back in an hour with his favourite cartoon toys from T.V. and ofcourse unputdownably delicious snacks. Jaga was unduly adamant that Sunday evening to accompany Anand. Anand had to speak a few harsh words to quiet him down. Something he regretted all the way he walked to their town's most busy Chinese restaurant. He would make it upto him when he got back, he assured himself.

But the delightful soul that Jaga was, soon forgot his savior's chides and became busy in conducting a fierce talon fight between a rubber dinosaur and a plastic dragon. A few hours later when Jaga was in the loving arms of sleep which had rescued him from boredom, a relentless rapping on the door jostled him out of it's embalming hold. When he opened the door he saw two uniformed policemen posted outside like twin poles. He quickly dropped his toys and raised his left hand to salute them. Realizing his mistake he immediately put down his left hand and raised his right. He'd learnt  about it during the Republic Day parade at the town gallery, where he had accompanied Anand. He remembered how uniformed men like the ones standing before him gave and took salutes. He was a bit perplexed when no salute was returned by them. Even more puzzled were the two gentlemen who received the honour. One of them strolled inside after important queries by him weren't replied with any rational answer by Jaga. His eyes fell on a framed photograph of Anand, which he surveyed it with rapt attention. Then he turned around to show it to his colleague, who took a deep breathe after taking a good look at it.

A police van in an untimely hour in front of the most unlikely house of their peaceful colony had naturally attracted a small crowd. The elderly men of the locality curiously gawked at the Policemen and the women stood far behind them trying to figure what was going on. Why had the Police come to Anand's house ? they wondered and exchanged hisses among themselves. The Officer came outside with Anand's photograph and quickly swapped his glances between it and what looked like a small card sized document and asked the crowd aloud

'Is this man Anand Majhitia ? And does he live in this house ?' 

'Yes..yes' came the half hearted chorus reply.

'Where is his family ?' he continued probing

'He has none Sir' replied the grey bearded man standing just near him.

'And who is this man ?' the officer asked pointing his finger at Jaga.

'That's Jaga Sir. But he's not Anand's relative. They are just fiends, living in one house.' the same man answered gleefully.

'I need to take him to the Police Station' said the officer.

 'He's of no use Sir. He's a lunatic.' someone objected.

The officer took a good look at Jaga and nodded his head as if he now understood where the salute came from.

'' Someone has to come to the Station' he announced with pretentious regret

'But why Sir ? What's he done ?' the same old man asked

'Just come.' the officer blurted dismissively.

The van roared to life as two of Anand's neighbours hopped inside it following the officers. It sped away with the rest of the onlookers trailing it's dwindling form swallowed by smoke and dust. Jaga strolled back inside the house and shut its doors.

At the entrance of the Police Station a white mini van was parked. The men got down from the vehicle and were led to the back of the mini van. A constable rushed and flung it's doors open. The two men who had accompanied the officers hissed and damned and turned their heads away aghast. Anand lay still inside it, on a decrepit stretcher covered with starched white cloth upto his neck. Had it not been for his still chest, one could not have said whether the man was in slumber or asleep for good.

What happened Sir ? asked one of the men in between stutters.

'He was hit by a speeding car. Probably died on spot.'

This time Jaga was inconsolable when he saw his friend being torched. When his adoptive father had left him, death was not an idea that his mind had known then. But today, even for a feeble minded fellow like him, flaring up the body of his friend was beyond his tolerance. How could he stand and watch while they burnt his friend. It took three sturdy men to subdue his relentless attempts at salvaging his friend's blazing body. Only when it had been fully devoured by the insanely dancing flames and the bits of his flesh and bone had been reduced to smoking ash, Jaga was let off. He howled for an hour, sure of his loss. Like an infant deserted by his mother, thrown into the dark confines of nothingness, with no light to guide him, with no hand to caress him during hopelessness, no gentle voice to reassure him and no one to shelter him from his fears, forsaken and forlorn he cried and cried till the source of his tears dried up. Someone saw him lying unconscious and brought him to his residence. People feared that miseries would return swiftly to Jaga's life, when he would open his eyes, now that his friend, his liberator had abandoned him, once again leaving his survival to the mercy of the cruel. But Anand didn't abandon his friend. To even think of such a thing was to disgrace the great soul that he was.

Anand had made his friend the nominee for receiving twenty five lakh rupees of his insurance policy. But confident of the fact the he'd be swindled, he had put all of it in a trust constituted in Jaga's favour and made its trustee his mentor cum boss Mr. Bimal Mishra, the man who also ran "Sharan', a philanthropic organization for the care and upliftment of abandoned and forsaken children. The fifteen paged 'Trust Deed' stipulated that the money could only be spent on his treatment, education and if need be other of his necessary expenses. So that he could attain the best flight to his destination with  dignity. Anand had never disclosed that he'd purchased the house where they lived and that he had made a will whereby it now stood tranfserred in Jaga's name, also protected by the trust, in case Anand's allies turned against him. At no cost he could have gone without ensuring a roof over his beloved friend's head.

A week later Mr. Bimal won over Jaga and convinced him to come with him to 'Sharan'. Jaga now resides there in a cozy quarter allotted to him. How soon time flies. Jaga has managed to find his laughter. He is adored by all his mates at 'Sharan', as much for his affability as for the fact that he was the great Anand's friend. After all Anand had been Bimal babu's most hardworking deputee in building 'Sharan' from scratch to what it is today. He deeply connected with all the teenagers living under 'Sharan's roof.  Though many times Bimal babu asked him to bring Jaga there, Anand had respectfully denied saying that he needed his personal care, concealing within himself the truth that he too needed Jaga's company.

When Anand is reminisced at 'Sharan', Jaga keenly listens to the tales of his dear departed friend and smiles over whatever he understands of it.  They also ask him about their friendship. He is unable to answer, yet. Many have spotted him staring infinitely at the garlanded portrait of his friend, put up on the wall of the auditorium. As if the two are engrossed in a clandestine communication.  Memories of his friend are not hard for him to recall. They are the only good memories he has in his life. They are immortally etched in his mind just as the eternal sun and stars painted on the heavenly canvass.

He has recently begun his lessons on English alphabets and he enjoys it to the core. It's fast sharpening his mind. Someday he'll find smartness. He has abundant good wishes pushing him ahead to that goal. He loves being at 'Sharan' but misses his home where countless memories lie bundled. They await for him to return to them. He plans the same.




**   ' Timeless ' is a work of fiction.and any resemblance in it with any person, place or incident is purely coincidental. 

Old

‘I love you Sir’ she sighed.

‘What ? You do ? he queried with unconcealed sense of victory.

She nodded shyly.

‘Come’on Zoya. You know I’m married. ‘ he tested her

‘I don’t care. I just..I just love you’ she reiterated, unfazed.

‘You’re so beautiful and smart. What can a middle aged loser give you. You can get any dashing man any day’ he replied, intending to corner her.

‘I want you’ she fumed

‘Ok tell me why?’ he queried with apparent sincerity.

She fell on his feet and raised her head like his devotee, demurely receiving his glare and said ‘What do you want to know Sir. That I have been fancying your admiration since the day you walked into our branch office as our new Manager?. That I’ve been, ever since, dreaming to be cosseted by you. That your eloquent introduction to your own self still reverberates in my ears ? That you’ve unparalleled intelligence, besides an incredible personality and looks that tell of a boyish allure about you? A combination which is dwindling faster than the ozone layer. That you’ve managed to make me want you by staying away from me when every other man under this roof has made elaborate attempts of winning my heart. If that was your grand plan to keep me interested, then my love, it has worked wonders. For my heart pines for your love. It has abandoned all indulgences that ensured its gaiety and embarked on a quest to forever become yours ’ she explained.

He was elated. All his senses reveled in a peculiar contentment of having won desirability.
He suppressed his expressions and wearing a grim smirk retorted ‘What about Arnav? The whole office knows that you guys are seeing each other. You can’t fool me there. He makes for a very suitable option anyway. He's handsome and has a promising career’ 

‘Arnav ? !! He’s an infant before you. A thousand Arnavs cannot equal the masculinity of your little finger's tip. I doubt whether even after taking seven births he’ll be able to stand face to face with your shadow’ she teased him with tantalizing grace.

He gulped down his pride and blurted out nervously ‘You..really want me to believe that. From what I hear, a dozen of our ladies are devoting crucial working hours into devising sure shot schemes of becoming his wife..err..girlfriend..whatever. And you, being the most pretty and sensible woman that I’ve ever known, wants to tread in the exact opposite direc….”

‘Oh Sir, did you just call me pretty? Oh, my!!!Thanks Sir. Lucky me.. Everyone calls me 'beautiful’, but the way you remark of me as 'pretty'... it's much more.." she interrupted him and blinked like an anxious bride.

‘Ok ok. Tell me truthfully. You and Arnav never had an affair ?’ he probed again

‘Sir what should I do to evoke trust in your suspicious heart. It harbors fears of a teenager. Tell me Sir, had I had anything to do with Arnav, wouldn't I have been in his arms instead.' she emphasized.

The picture of her in Arnav's arms brought a stark bitterness to the velvety ambience and he shut his eyes to prevent further imagining.

 'Arnav may claim that he’s mad for me, but I’ve always told him that I belong to Sir and that only he holds claim to my body and soul’  she continued with a hint of impatience.

It was enough for him. He wished to confess about his hurting beneath his rugged veneer

'You know my wife always loathes me. She leaves no stones unturned in convincing me that I'm a man who has since long, lost all his charm and attractiveness, to be precise, within a couple of years of our marriage. That even a promiscuous lady who is offered with my company as her only option, will prefer to die single. That I'm pot bellied, more suited to do chores than flirt around. She has absolutely no fear that someone may find me attractive or may make indecent propositions to me. She's more confident of never losing me to any woman, than she is about the taste of her delicacies which she's been cooking for a decade. Even my friends think the same. And you want me to believe you ?' he sighed and sank on his thickly cushioned made to order revolving chair.

'Believe it Sir. You're everything that I've always wanted ..in fact you are the ideal man for every sensible woman out there. Witty, good looking, kind. Your eyes speak the agony of your heart, ages before your lips do. They draw me like a charmer draws his victim. I'm the victim Sir. I've chosen to be their victim.'I've been waiting for you since millenia. If it be your wish then let's walk out to the world and show them how wrong they are about your persona and popularity. Even to your wife so that the dumb woman talks to my Sir with some respect the next time around.' she suggested earnestly.

He delved in her sparkling blue eyes, mysterious as the deep blue seas themselves. They inspired faith in one moment and in the next they challenged it. For him, the biggest truth now remained that she had fallen down on her feet and begged him to take her as his beloved.  It’s time he called his old mates who, unlike him, would have lost their gloss and charm to time. He pictured them hiding their ageing forms behind the façade of expensive dressing and relentless makeovers. Coy to accompany their wives in public gaze.  And here he was, rendered the ultimate object of desire by the most desired woman herself, despite his marriage and all his listed inadequacies. It was time he reminded his detractors, that he may be old but magnetic nevertheless. It’s time he told them about his charisma.

‘Karishma ?! Who’s Karishma ? I demand to know.

He opened his eyes to the intimidating stare of his round faced, nagging wife, infuriated at the hint of another woman’s name on her husband’s lips. The pressure cooker’s loud whistle went off  in the nearby kitchen, announcing the prepared brunch. The radio in the living room had been long singing devotional songs. Countless chirps of busy birds broke the peace of morning. He lay still on his bed, evading his wife’s persistence to know about the lady whose name, she thought her husband was chanting in his dream. Aahh !!, the dream. He reminisced his dream. Its glimpses reminding him of his inescapable reality. The lady from his office was gone and he lay with his sagging belly and impending oldness on his cot as the 'Inverter' powered table fan hummed monotonously near his ears. He looked at the air conditioner. It hung dead stripped of electricity. Someone yelled 'Damn these early morning power cuts. They never let you finish your dreams.'



**   'Old' is a work of fiction.and any resemblance in it with any person, place or incident is purely coincidental. 

Angel Eyes

Pranab frequented 'Sip' more than he consciously wanted to. His desperation to indulge in romance puppeteered his volition in arduous and often unabashed pursuance of that ambition. Pranab's visits had earned him the glorious distinction of a 'Royal Guest' in an eatery where perhaps one would only rarely find a second visitor of his age group. He stuck out like a sore thumb in the vibrant and juvenile gathering. But for the fact that waiters always kept hovering around Pranab, the guests would have found out his motives. Most passed him off as someone related to the business of that eatery. It's a good thing that a clandestine scheme had been devised between Pranab and the floor manager of 'Sip' owing to his apparent customer loyalty. The waiters had been instructed to keep the table at the southern end of the lounge always available for the man. He was never to be returned for the lack of accommodation. That was the instruction.  Also the waiters of 'Sip' memorized Pranab's choices in the menu card like their bed time prayers. Ofcourse it had more to do with an edict of their immediate boss and a habitual repetition of the same servings, than any truth about the analogy 'Customer Is God'. In those countless times Pranab ordered the 'cappuccino', 'apple's ale' or 'grilled chicken sandwich', the waiters broke into hiss hiss disgusted by his repetition of the same old treat for his tongue every day, day after day.

"Sip" had bagged itself the niche of being the most visited frolic zone for youngsters of the near and far corners of the city. The distinction was not however equally welcome among elders of the town. All kind of foolhardy indulgences were heard of being encouraged inside the place. Be that as it may it held its pride for being an addiction among the adolescents of the town. It was often remarked by it's most avid admirers that one must personally visit the place and spend some moments there to get a real sense of why the place is such an incredible rage among teenagers. Pranab never cared about or met with those reasons. He had his own reasons. It was in many ways the most fundamental of all. He looked out for meeting some girl and befriending her, with no dubious intentions whatsoever. He considered himself purged of all evil motives, especially ones with which those boys in the darker parts of the eatery pecked away at the necks of their female companions.

The eatery had two distinct zones tailored to cater to the desires of its two 'most visiting' categories of guests. The bedazzling lighting buttressed by vibrant upholstery and airy spacing among the tables in the eastern part of the cafeteria, just around the entrance, made it the 'look -no-further' preference of the friendly gangs. They flocked there, treating it like some extension of their living rooms, with their legs mostly not on the ground and their words mostly heard by even those to whom they were not spoken. Everyone moved beyond their personal grudges and remorse in the embrace of the enveloping aroma of the bakery. Much unlike the farther part of it where the lighting was near dark and the whole zone was cut off from the rest of the place by a huge wall of translucent glass, allowing partial imagery from the other side, just ample to tease one's imagination. The glass separation allowed it all the exclusivity that would suffice to entice pubescent hormones. They said that the ambience beyond it was euphoric forever. Glimpses of the alluring ecstasy stole its way out, the maddeningly loud decibels escaping everytime someone opened the glass doors. It'd gradually die down with the gradual closing of it. It was amazing how the two spots, sharing the same roof over their heads (not the ceilings for they were strikingly distinguishable from each other) shared nothing when it come to their purpose and their occupants.  

Pranab walked into 'Sip' on a Thursday morning, something which he never did. His homemade brunch was his favourite. He wore a fade proof smile. He drifted to his designated couch, simultaneously eyeing for promising tables. He noticed none. His grin left him like a disgruntled ally as he settled down. He closed his eyes and thought of his dream of dawn. He sat on the exact same chair where he was seated, staring  away at someone. Everytime he tried to make out who he was looking at, a power cut would ensure that everything turned to blinding dark. Power would resume the moment he would turn his head somewhere else. This went on for an uncomfortably long time before he saw two people walk out hand in hand. By the moment he was summoned by his senses to the real world he had managed to discern a beaded bracelet on the girl's slender wrist which had the words ANGEL EYES embedded on it. The climax of his dream was the cause of his chivalrous smile. He'd been led by it to expect that it was a sign of soon to be found romance. The smile had of course faded when he'd noticed that 'Sip' was teeming with couples that day. He hadn't noticed carefully.

The table fork slipped out of his fidgety fingers and met the granite floor with head turning levels of clink clank, jumping on its four pointed tips and turning over its head and musically tossing itself around before it was finally disciplined by Pranab. When he resumed his seat he discovered that his fork had distracted many eyes. He quickly nodded his head gesturing at all of them, his wordless apology. As he was steadily shifting his pleading eyes from one table to another, unlike the usual fleeting glimpse he affords himself, that he saw her.

He was fairly surprised on having missed her the first time around when he'd surveyed the tables and their claimants. No one could miss noticing her even in the most congested throng swarming with distracting faces. Pranab was seated at about ten feet away from her just in the mid of her right and her north. She didn't seem to have noticed Pranab, much less his toddler gaze fixed on her. Pranab savoured the glimpse and sat stunned under her spell. He didn't mind. It wasn't easy to penetrate beyond the reflecting surface of the goggles she'd worn. Somehow he caught her as she blinked her dreamy eyes behind the transparent glares and with each blink something inside Pranab succumbed to her allure. She looked lost in some distant by gone land of fairies. Her gleaming hair cascaded on to her perfectly broad shoulders and lay collapsed like benevolent admirers swooning about her angelic face. When she closed her eyes momentarily, everything priceless turned worthless. He was fixated on her visages like a infant glued to the plastic spinning merry go round, suspended right on the top of his cradle He had no doubt that her face was the most unblemished formation of the Lord's hands. Her faultlessly carved nose ran for just the adequate length, before silently surrendering it's feet to the depths of her face. Her moist lips reminded him of unplucked fresh red berries in dew drenched gardens. For a moment he felt something gentle flutter inside him and challenge the calm of his heart. It made him weak.

Pranab guessed she must be averagely built, may even be petite. Her fingers seemed like unbloomed lotus petals, supple and fragile. Her nails were prominently polished in magenta and portruded non menacingly from her fingers, a feature he hadn't seen about many girls. As his eyes roved along her contours and were on their way to her heaving bosom, they were distracted instead, by glimpse of a  open book on her table, besides the other usual lady stuff. She kept reading its pages and looking at the glass walls over at the entrance in alternate turns. She did it in infinite pattern. Pranab was amused. He wondered. What precisely was she doing ? May be she was learning by heart something for her exams, or memorizing vereses of her favourite poem. She did it in such kiddish fashion that Pranab found himself giggling, something he was not accustomed to doing in 'Sip'. She put her index fingers pin pointedly at the words and glided it across the page row by row,every page. Pranab was rapt by her elementary mannerism. He had been lured to inadvertently break out of his self imposed grave disposition, A smile had long dropped by and remained hung to his lips. Pleasantly startling the staff of 'Sip' who had concluded that their place of employment and Pranab ji's joys were mutually exclusive naturally doubtful therefore of his intentions behind his unusually recurring visits to their restaurant.

His eyes were keenly anticipating her next move. The palpable curiosity in them, was like that of a twelve year old. God knows what she read. A glittering smile consumed her face which in turn infused in Pranab such ethereal bliss that he was transported heavens apart in a moment and in the next, pulled back by her magnetism. Pranab sat charmed just like he'd figured he would be, on his first encounter with the fairy from his treasured fable, one whom he secretly planned to marry and make his beloved wife. The waiter in maroon costume brought her a glass of fizzy carbonated liquid teeming with restless bubbles, eager to swim up to the brim and find their freedom. The waiter didn't stop to take her gratitude but simply turned and marched away. The girl slowly moved her hands in the direction where the glass had been placed without taking her left hand off the pages she seemed to be engrossed in. All along she kept her eyes shut and chanted something. It all seemed weird.

Her cellphone began to buzz aloud. Thrice, four times, six times. She didn't pick it. The ring died. It rang again within seconds. Her hands didn't leave the surface of the pages. Pranab was getting restless. A waiter passed by and Pranab caught hold of him and commanded pointing his finger at the girl 'Could you please tell the lady over there that her phone is ringing ? The man resumed his erect posture and exclaimed with spotless politeness 'Sorry Sir, Can't do that...can't disturb her like that.

'Can't you see, she is not picking up her phone.

 I think Sir, maybe she doesn't want to take the call.'

'What ? Are you kidding me ? She's in a restaurant, chilling out, why wouldn't she take a simple call ? ' Pranab shot back in purposeful tone.

'I wouldn't know why Sir'  exclaimed the poor waiter

'Well then just go tell her and we'll find out'

'Sorry Sir. I don't think I can do that'

'Alright I get it' Pranab remarked with a half grin and reached for his wallet. He forked out a twenty and pushed it right into the hand of the waiter, whose palm had by now fully blossomed for receiving the nourishment it sought.

After offering a bow of obligation, the man went straight to the table where the unsuspecting lady was lost in her own world of words, and spoke to her. She didn't budge. She was simply seen making some serious facial expressions followed by some rapid movement of lips. The waiter was struck with nervousness and scampered away, not to be seen anymore. Poor Pranab could not even know what was happening. She wasn't raising her head from the 'God Knows What' book she was drowned in, she wouldn't take her calls and even won't look at the glass when she drank the blue liquid inside it. Pranab decided to himself unravel the mystery. He got up and began walking towards the washroom. She was settled on a table en route to the loo. He planned to steal a swift glance at the book. He had a good twelve feet to cover before he crossed her table. Just when Pranab had reached midway, she shut her eyes again letting out a steady gasp right from the depths of her lungs and began sinking back in the chair, her spinal frame falling towards the wooden support. In a lateral movement of hand she flipped the hardbound cover of the book and closed it in one go.

'Damn', a frustrated Pranab murmured to himself as he crossed her seat exasperated. He caught her fragile musk laden fragrance. It spread in his veins like a rising ecstasy. He strolled away hastily on his path.

Fiercely committing himself to the task of starting a conversation with her, Pranab strode out of the washroom. He'd spent a good fifteen minutes before the mirror in there, choosing and picking from the innumerable introductory expressions that he knew of. Nothing had changed about the lady. She sat embraced by the same enticing aura about her.

Pranab summoned one of the attendants and instructed him to serve the lady with a glass of their best mocktail. He specially instructed him to make it visually enticing. He thought of the colorful glass of whatever she was having a little while ago. He also tutored him to politely point at him and hand over the piece of paper to the lady if she wanted to know who bought her the drink.

Off went the waiter. He was trembling. It was his first day on job and to add to that this tricky deal. In five minutes he returned with a frosty glass of orange colored fluid with tits and pieces of yellow solids floating on the brim besides a diced lemon eating the rim of the glass. A rainbow like straw bobbed up and down the mocktail as the waiter lifted it off the tray and courteously placed it for being savoured.

There was no response. The waiter stood dumbfounded waiting for his cue. He could not decide whether to stay or leave after saying 'Enjoy your drink'. How about giving away the piece of paper anyway ? ' he thought. How would it alter the scheme of things ? he feared and stopped.

What's this ? the lady asked without even opening her eyes.

'That's your drink Ma'm. Sent over by the gentleman over there' came the waiter's reply as he turned around to slightly raise his finger towards Pranab.

Pranab's fingers were restless to gesture a 'Hi'. That would happen as soon as she would turn about, under the guidance of the attendant. That moment never came. The waiter stole a glance at him and sought his order regarding the scrap of paper. Pranab signaled at him and he placed the neatly folded piece on the table and walked away. Pranab looked on, as she neither touched the condensing walls of the glass nor inched her fingers towards the note which was fluttering in the breeze waiting to elope with it from under her ignorance to some place better. Pranab was flabbergasted at the inexplicable non chalance of a seemingly decent lady who'd just been shown a gesture of interest by a man. He would have considered himself fortunate if she would have responded invitingly, but admittedly he was expecting  resentment, some resistance, at least. She didn't even care to read the note which he'd sent along. Pranab decided that he must approach her personally. May be she doesn't believe in indirect propositions, he convinced himself before hand pressing his tousled hair and rectifying creases on his shirt. He got up nervously.

Lost in scheming Pranab didn't notice that a man, about his age, had come up to her. He bent over her table and began picking up her articles. Pranab saw him plant a gentle kiss on her head and take her hand in his. Pranab froze. They began slowly walking out of the restaurant. A speechless Pranab followed their leaving figures like a statue with roving eyes. The moment they stepped out, Pranab noticed that the woman slipped her hand out of the man's grip and pulled out a pair of dark glasses and put it over her eyes replacing the transparent goggles. A moment later she took out a steel rod and stretched it to full length. She began walking beating the rod on the path, partly announcing her movement and partly making out her way forward. Every time the man would extend his hand to guide her, she'd gently shove it away, claiming her independence despite her torment, though unable to make him give up. Ultimately, the man began to walk by her side, step by step, like a silent shadow, eagerly guarding her from any hardship that might fall on her way. Colour faded from Pranab's face

One of the senior attendants, who had been witnessing the whole event, walked up to Pranab and interrupted his thoughts

'Sir, She can't see.'

'What ?' Pranab broke out of his contemplation. 'Yeah'

'Her name is Kamla. The man is her fiance'.

A startled Pranab gaped at the waiter.

'Amazing. Isn't it ? They met at this place a year ago. Matters moved fast. They do when feelings are mutual, don't they ? Mr. Shantanu proposed to marry her exactly a month ago. She lost her eye  in a fire that broke out in her office. She surely lost quite a few things with her eyes. Love wasn't one of them.'

They have been coming since a year. Why the heck didn't I ever see them ? probed an aghast Pranab.

Your schedules never met, till today. replied the attendant.

Why the transparent goggles ? I mean why not the ones which she put on outside. Pranab queried out of perplexity.

Oh. That, Well, I had that figured out before anyone on the staff. 
It's because she doesn't want anybody to know about her handicap. She obviously doesn't want anyone's pity. She wants to live as normally as she can.. She doesn't want those unsuspecting vigorous noises around her to die out of sympathy for her.. Hence the normal goggles. the attendant explained with a warm smile

Someone yelled the waiter's name and he rushed off with the untouched glass of mocktail after shoving the small unopened note back into it's author's hand. Pranab unfolded it slowly. A smirk found its way to his lips as he read the words he'd scribbled for her.

It read 'Till this very moment I thought I knew who had the most beautiful eyes   :) '.



                                                                                       *************


"Angel Eyes" is a work of fiction and any resemblance in it, to any person (alive or dead), place or incident etc. if any, is only coincidental.

A Walk On The Shore

I decide to leave behind my fears, my worries, my affections, my prejudices and my hopes and expectations. I unload them all and surrender my self to emptiness. A void that, at the moment, has all the relevance that one could possible fathom. A void, that everyone evades, I embrace. I offer my deepest apology to it for having nurtured unfounded bias against it. For having abandoned it in the lure of glittering accompaniment, all of which now stand derelict.  It's kindness is immeasurable. For it warmly returns my embrace despite the history of betrayal.  We beckon a absent minded rickshaw puller. He is already past us. His good fortune makes him turn his head and notice us. We move like we will never arrive.

A half hour later, I settle his due and push an extra twenty into his fold. It's a barren business, a race lost even before it began. I might be the last customer to have summoned him for the day. He pours out his gratitude and even thanks his stars. He thrusts his weight on the creaking paddles to pull his non polluting three wheeler and rolls away like an exiled ally after man found better company in the aggressively scampering engine pulled  menaces. I turn around and face the sea. It's vast, full of water, of life, of opportunity, of promise and hazards. Though I sense nothing about it, I'm drawn to it like a poet is to plot. There's something about a somber shore that makes it pregnant with solemn musings, which rush into his head who steps on to the sands of it. I fail to think of happy things. I recall having concealed them at home. I tread ahead, struggling to find my feet, partially because of nonchalance and partially because of the frail sand. The strong breeze born in the breast of endless water rides to humanity on the kind waves. It get off the tides at the shore and offers itself generously to waiting faces. People relish its gentleness. But I witness a fickleness about it. At moments it is a sober healer and in the next it turns belligerent causing men and women to panic. It plays seductively behind my ears. I do not surrender. It's annoyed and roughs up my tousled hair, tousling them further. It sticks to its games. I walk on.

The face of the shore is lit up by a dozen laughing expressions and zestful shrieking and yelling. I see overweight frames clad in funny looking beach wear. I pause and muse. I wonder what's more hilarious, the beach wear or the frames. They are oblivious of my observation. They care the least. I steal away. I see unadulterated sons and daughters of the soil, going merrily around their brooding guardians. They offer the shore the respect that shores deserve. Unlike their mature companions, they know better than to dishonour these moments by busying themselves with troubles and worries. I learn from them as I move on.

I see a flock of gulls hovering over the confluence of water and land. They seem to lack the courage to travel beyond, into watery nothingness, where they will have no land to alight on, in case their wings fail them. They make a mess over our heads. All turn up to verify the source of all that squeaking and cawing. A group of tourists break into hearty laughter as one of the birds empties itself right on their mate's wavy strands of hair. He stands stunned. He isn't angry, only embarrassed. It's a good trait yet rare these days. I remember how people have turned inexplicably sensitive and intolerant. Men have lost their characteristic magnanimity and attributes which often distinguish them from lesser beings. Most can't stand a single gesture of dissent or tolerate even the slightest deviation from their expectations. Well it's all part of some grand scheme, I console myself to believe.

I'm fixated on the anguish of waves. If someone would have asked me then the cliche'd question about how does one know whether someone's love is true. I'd have quoted to him the commitment of the waves. I'd have told him " Love is a feeling akin to what the waves have for the shore. They know the "twain shall never meet and stay together, but they keep coming for it. Tirelessly, unconditionally, eternally. Destiny commands them to never hold the shore, yet they come again and again and again for nothing but to hold on to it." Must have been some irredeemable betrayal in some by gone era that the waves must have committed, I thought and shuddered.

My interest wanders off to a group of scantily clad fishermen with their symbolic jute hats on their heads. Such has been their relentless exposure to the sun of all seasons, that it is difficult to tell men from dark boats. They return from their expedition. A few of them shoot wail like verses. But they are happy. I know this because I see no one's head hung or heart laden.

To a bystander, to a tourist, being fisherman is the best way to live the seas. What he doesn't know is that the sea is but a battlefield for the poor fellow. Every morning he dons his best war hat and ventures into the deep of the blue, to its most fertile spots and he sails feigning frolic, yet his eyes belie him upon his return, particularly when he returns empty netted. I for one empathize with him because I remember returning home with no hope to share yet pretending a zeal for life. A fisherman frequents the much craved places in the infinite ocean yet has no eye to cherish its beauty, no heart to sense its ethereal significance and no mind to marvel at its profound mystique. His eyes vie for patches in water where schools of fleshy fishes swim, his heart beats anxiously each time he hurls his tattered net onto the skin of the sea, with his mind plotting and scheming for a profitable catch. Who has time for nature ? he thinks. Nature can happily remain a distant desire for tourists from concrete jungles, not for those who frequent it more than they run to their loo.


A loud wail disturbs my thought. I turn in its search. I spot it. A rebellious child is in no mood to give up his plan to ride the camel. The camel itself is unfazed by the commotion. May be it's used to such occurrences or may be it doesn't bother about anyone around.  Why should it ? It has nothing to be obliged for. If anyone should be, then it is us. We can't do without it. A child cries for it, couples wish to be frozen on it for eternity, its dealer depends on it for his morning bread. The pride on its gaunt face and the smirk perched on its gnawing lips are impossible to miss. The child's won over by some deception, a subtle art, easily and sometimes necessarily practiced on adamant kids. The dealer of the camel spits on the wet sand and grumbles in disgust upon having had his precious time wasted. The delight on the camel's face is resolute and the multi hued bells dangling across his neck begin to sing as he is guided over the spongy sand by his keeper.

I catch glimpse of a tired sun, done for the day, in this part of the world. Bracing itself for a quick dip in the distant water en route to the land where our western brothers and sisters await it. But there is some time left for that.  In the solemn velvety red scattered all round, I see tourists unpack their lenses and click away at the sun. I wonder if those pictures would be able to offer the same sensation as watching it in real.  I, for one, would rather walk here everyday to see the sun set, than hold the picture of it in my hands. Tired wings propel birds back to their aerial homes.

I come to the secluded part of the beach. I have lost the cacophony far behind. Except the gurgling and roaring tides nothing distract my thoughts. The beach is finally lonely. I humor my mistake. I see lovers. They are dispersed all over the place, like hued flora in the garden of intimacy. The serenity of their disposition is reassuring. They cuddle, they hold each other passionately. Some are engrossed in fervent kissing. The world can go to hell kind. Others remain content with holding hands. I even come across few who profess their adoration as they walk into the sunset. I see a lady. her fragile wrists laden with marital bangles thrice their size. 'Fresher', I whisper to myself,  in the path of commitment, sacrifice and tolerance. Did I forget love ? She seems to be feeling conscious about the attention she is inadvertently drawing by the amplified clinking and clanking of her bangles even at the slightest hand movement. But something keeps her unafraid and confident. She is with her man. Who is at peace on her lap, his eyes shut tranquilly, his chest rising and falling steadily, suggesting his soul's flight to another world where their union is independent of mortal sanctions. Suddenly he says something which I can't hear. I'm ashamed of my curiosity, for it seeks to violate their privacy. It's good that I didn't hear him. As soon as he's finished, his lady softly covers his mouth with her Henna adorned palms. He raises his hand and caresses her neck and moves upward with tantalizing pace. She can't prevent her giggles. She bends over his face and her breeze filled hair screens their intimacy. I'm glad it does.

Dusk arrives. I remember my home. I remember my wife. She must have returned from the 'hat'. She must be sulking over my absence. She must be a mess with those large paper bags, with no one to carry them inside from the auto rickshaw. She must have argued with and may have reprimanded the auto walah for looting innocent passengers. She must have yelled my name at least a couple of times before sinking onto the living room sofa. Grumbling over my detachment from chores and my lethargy in running the house, she must have looked at the antique wall clock thrice in two minutes.

I'll soon be there and she'll meet me with unmatched disdain in her tired eyes. If I don't say a word in protest, she'll walk up to me and run her hand over my temple and look very worried about my health, desperately seeking my reassurance. Tables would turn. She'll rush to fetch a glass of my favourite lemonade which she'd prepare in a jiffy and quietly tip toe out while I have my eyes closed in contemplation and come back only an hour later to ask if I wish to have anything special prepared for dinner. I'll ask her to forget all that and let her sit near me. I'll slip my hand on hers and we'll eventually tighten our grip. She'll be on my chest in no time. I'll feel her warm breath crashing on my cold chest. I'll be tempted to run my finger on her cheek. She'll tighten her embrace and doused flames will rekindle.

I snap out. I feel impulsive, brimmed with urgency. I need to get home.  I can see Suresh, my chauffeur. He's waving at me. The sincere fellow is right on time. I hop into the vehicle. It roars to life and we move in the direction of my home.

I ask Suresh 'Is Madam home ?'

No Sir.

He adds, 'She's gone to her father's. You'd forgotten your cellphone at home.You should call her.'

'Must be some silly family congregation', I think to myself

The sound of the grunting decade old car engine hurtfully fills my ears as I watch in the rear view glass, the faint rim of the sinking sun making its way into the water.



                                                                                        *********








**   'A Walk On The Shore' is a work of fiction.

Teaching

"He abused his teacher with vengeance. There were friends who kept instigating him and he rolled on. His method to get back at their 'Sir' was by calling him names, slandering about his private life and yelling a open challenge to thrash him if he ever dared to reprimand him again in his class. After a few shots of liquor, his audacity knew no bounds. It had transgressed all morality and decency that underlines the demeanour of a student. He appeared confident in his belief that a teacher had no business in reprimanding his student for being inattentive in class. So as a fitting reciprocation he said that he must do what he must do. His impertinent speech earned the adulation of sycophants and they kept asking for encore after encore. He kept feeding them to the point when the whole ambience seethed with an insolent and vile butchering of the timeless sanctity characteristic to the connect between teachers and their scholars. The free winds of the campus effortlessly carried the impertinent words across it's hallowed walls, making them scream and plead with him to stop. Word reached of his unprecedented rudeness to the ears that never deserved to hear it. Nobody could prevent it from falling on the men who ran the institution. A proceeding was initiated seeking to make an example out of him to cause shudder in prospective teacher bashers. The board of trustees eager to strip him of his studenthood assumed their dignified places in the row of chairs. The villain was summoned. Oh, he had become one the moment he swore against a man who had been nothing less than a messiah for hundreds who followed his teachings and yet hundreds others who had earned enviable repute in the community of men under the aegis of that saint. They all smelled the villain's blood; relentless in their demand to have him ousted, his career damned, his future plunged beyond reprieve and the stand of their 'Guru' vindicated.

He walked into the hall through scorn and contempt of his peers, many among them being those who had adored his feats of the bygone night. He had realized his blunder the moment he had his mother look at him hopelessly with an unmistakable concern for her son's dying tomorrow. So he prayed, for his mother's sake, that whatever might be the climax, his dear beloved mother be spared of its torment. Considering the wish of the board that sought to punish him, the chances of that prayer being answered, seemed bleak. Then came his 'pals', one by one, none looking him in the eye. Heads hung, probably out of a vicarious guilt of having been the audience to his unabashed show of irreverence. Each of them spoke word by word, vividly reiterating his contemptuous utterings. No measure was spared by the board to inject into their testimony a feel of distaste and vendetta. He mustered his courage to look into the gallery where his friends sneered and snarled. The case stood closed. His guilt sealed for eternity. A tiny mortal, despised by time, left to be judged by history. 

It was then that the Chairman asked the man, the saint, the teacher, whose authority everyone was so eager to safeguard and vindicate ' Anything you wish to impress upon, Sir ?' The man stood up. Looked straight into the Chairman's eyes and announced ' I may be pardoned by the esteemed board for what I've decided. But I humbly seek your kind trust in my decision.' And then he said what left the arena stunned beyond comprehension. 'I will resign from my job and retire from the profession of teaching, if this boy is not forgiven and he's not accorded a chance to redeem himself". In the eternal speechlessness of the many decorated men and women, a wail shot out from the depths of the villain's soul as he kneeled down in regret. His teacher, without wasting a moment, rushed to his aid and embraced him whispering into his burning ears 'I understand son, I understand'. He doesn't remember anything thereafter except the salvaging embrace of his teacher in defiling whom he had spared no word."

In a couple of years the boy passed out of the institution with a record of achievement no less than that of the best of his peers. And on 'Teacher's Day' that ongoing year, he narrated in detail about his guilt, the mercy and his redemption to all those who had attended the ceremony and ended his speech by saying "Thank You Sir for being the teacher that you are.". In a serene repetition of his act from that legendary meeting, his teacher again walked upto him and took him in his arms, this time receiving a warm reciprocation, and murmured "Thank You for keeping my faith" . He then took the microphone and said 

"My Dear Fellow Teachers, wherever you are and whoever you teach, never ever stop believing in your student, for the moment you do, you end the greatness of being a teacher."


                                                                                        **********

("Teaching" is a work of fiction and any resemblance in it, to any person, incident or place is purely co - incidental)

Homecoming

Work required Kabir to travel to the city of his birth where he had lived for twenty five years of his life. He was piqued over the strange lack of proclivity in him, for revisiting the city where he was born and raised. He found it annoyingly odd to not sense the quintessential joy, normally felt at the first sight of such opportunity.  So when Jayanth, his office mate, exclaimed that Kabir was a lucky man who is getting a chance to revisit a cherished place that too at the expense of the office, and remarked that it is natural to be very excited about it, Kabir was cautious to not spill his disturbing lack of zeal regarding this whole affair. He concealed that oddity and thought better than sharing it with anyone. Instead he pretentiously shot back at Jayanth "Excited ? Are you kidding me ? I'm dying for tomorrow to come. Ahh. It's been so long." The whole night Kabir kept loathing himself for his insensitivity. Or may be, he thought to himself,  a part of him had not forgotten what he had suffered at that place.

When Kabir and his family had left the city almost five years ago, it was sort of an escape from a land where they had endured perpetual humiliation and dejection. His father's enterprise after enterprise, each falling flat, for distinct reasons. His insurmountable debt and his unrelenting creditors, their intimidating visits to their house and all the threats and abuses that followed made the memory of his home not one to be cherised. He remembered the inescapable embarrassment of having to walk out of his house into the insensate stares of his neighbours who would've zealously witnessed tumultuous drama which unfolded at his doors almost every day. He could almost feel the suffocation and the  frustration which he had experienced then upon overhearing shameless gossip about his abject distress. He reminisced vividly, how his home would slip into chaos when time came to fulfill basic financial obligations like his tuition fees or rent. He recalled those repetitively hopeless mornings and evenings wherein he saw his whole family reduced to a gloomy bunch of faces. Wherever he went he was either received with pity or with slanderous remarks. It had to be the only plausible explanation for such a startling erosion of his affection for his birthplace. An ominous sensation, a looming fear that came intertwined with its biggest symbol. To such depths had the pain of his sordid past penetrated, that a characteristic anxiety and dry mouthedness came to torment him at the mere mention of his hometown's name.  Even sad was the fact that before the miseries had begun to unfold in those days of Kabir's life and also for quite a substantial duration thereafter, while multiple distresses were being perpetrated by the powers that be, he had lived the most memorable moments of his life there. It occurred to him then that his consistent focus on his shadow had kept him bereft of relishing the sunshine As he was on the verge of slipping into the tranquil embrace of sleep, he shuddered thinking about the coming day and of possible encounters with faces he deeply despised. 

Kabir was lost in the loop of indiscriminate contemplation inside the office vehicle en route to his home town, when a series of five speed breaking road humps jolted him out of his trance and he noticed that he was on the last bridge before the southern perimeter of the city. He rolled down the window panes despite past experience of headache and sinus attacks. The gusts of wind born of the river flanking the city, unmistakably persuaded him to reminisce the good old days of his life. He effortlessly forgot all the darkness which he feared would surround him under broad daylight. As the vehicle entered the city, it's velocity was forced to drastic reduction by the debilitating traffic, and there he found his first cheerful memory. He recalled how his father used to presage that he would never truly learn driving as long as he didn't face the infamous thick traffic of the city during the peak hour of the day. What Kabir felt thereafter opened a window to a long shut space within him. He guided the chauffeur with directions to the location of his school. He got down the vehicle and stood right before the forty year old facade, instantly recalling the twelve years of his life there. The playground area brought back memories of the countless prayers he had offered there in chorus and those zillion sermons he had heard, delivered by his persistent teachers. He didn't fail to notice the nearby medical college, whose best memories remained etched in the form of heart numbing glimpses of truly 'beautiful' doctors. During the age of raging hormones his school could be a very difficult place to spend nearly eight hours everyday, he thought to himself. Since every other lady he saw coming out of the adjacent medical college, took his breathe away. But the tragedy was that most of those majestic and mesmerizing women had already made their choices in the matter and for the rest he could simply never summon his teen courage to tell any of them how sick he had become in their love. These musings left Kabir embarrassed and shy as he giggled to himself over his foolish childhood cravings.

 Kabir's engineering college wasn't far away. He  finished his engineering studies in a college which stood just near the abode of his high school sweetheart. Though by then they had broken up and she had discovered truer love elsewhere. Kabir  saw her house. He'd seen it so many times, under the scorching sun and blinding rain just to catch a glimpse of her vague moving silhouette beyond the curtains of her room. It had taken him a few painful glimpses of her and another man in various intimate indulgences to finally move over his feelings which he once nurtured for her. Unlike his school, this one neither brought smile nor sorrow. Nothing stirred inside Kabir when he moved his focus to her house and the same fluttering window curtain. Such void only reassured him that he has indeed moved on. He saw the roads, the traffic islands, the hang out joints, the cinema halls where he recalled  falling in love, again and again. Not only with some unforgettable people but with places, moments & indulgences to the point of addiction. There was this place where he and his friends hung out. He reminisced braving gales and torrents and chilly winters to make it there in time. Kabir had made some wonderful friends here. Friends who would go far away later in life leaving deep etched memories in his solitary guardianship . It was the place where he learnt to ride his grandfather's bicycle and his father's scooter. When he fell, people who he never knew came to pick him up and gave him smart tips to drive better. The best part was that the next time when they ran into each other, both would pause momentarily, thinking whether the other remembers the last meeting, before finally smiling away. The fast food joint, at Kabir's college gate, presented before him the revered image of it's humble owner who never thought twice before letting him and his friends feast away on credit. They were showered with his elderly affection in shape of liberty to pay as and when they liked. He remembered  how, when one of his friends made it big in college placement, he did not forget to touch the man's feet who too reciprocated with his sincere blessings. 

It was the place where Kabir had been showered with unconditional love and deep hatred alike. He'd been adored and whistled at by pals all along the street from his home to his college in consistent display of camaraderie. It is also the place where he had been in stupid, regretful fist fights and had been hounded by armed hooligans. He'd earned here, the fortunate company of friends who did not budge anywhere without him and others who got up and walked away at the very mention of his name. The city had given him souls by whom he had been been adored & respected, looked down upon, betrayed and back stabbed in the days he spent here. Kabir had bagged his maiden professional engagement and earned his first salary here. Here, he'd been called 'worthless' by his teachers and had been graced with  an "EXCELLENT - AA" remark by his the then boss for his splendid contribution in a construction project. In this city Kabir wrote his first love letter, his first prize winning essay and his worst answer papers ever. In one of its oldest galleries he fought his fear of public speaking and indulged in his first ever overt oratory. He learnt to smoke and gulped his first mug of beer here. He ran every year to the river barrage near his  house to see it's brim and the crowd swelling together. He experienced his maiden kiss and the agonizing sweet numbness of first love in its serene winter.

When Kabir finally drifted to his forlorn old house, he was saddened to see that it had lost much of its familiar identity. But the moment he peeped into the backyard and saw the old trees and the overgrown grass surrounding them, a rainbow of memories filled him with glorious images of his life's long departed days. He felt melancholy slowly creeping into his heart . Something snapped inside him, but he held himself together. He didn't want to embarrass himself by being moist eyed and all, before strangers. Though he doubted that they missed his urge. So many afternoons of his childhood, he'd spent under the shade of those twin trees. They weren't just trees anymore. They  had blended into human form looking at him through tears, fraught with age. As if poignantly conveying to Kabir how he had betrayed them by abandoning them in their last days. All Kabir could do was gently move his hands over their weary trunks to reassure them how he yearned, to relinquish all his ties and obligations and return to an unfinished game of hide and seek under their shades. The saplings that a young Kabir's father had made him plant then, now stared at him as handsome young trunks decorated with formidable branches and enviable lush leaves. He felt a parent like contentment upon what he witnessed of the trees in whose dedicated care he'd entrusted his days a decade back.. Finally as tired birds returned to their abodes nested in the bosom of his towering friends, he felt glad that his trees are not lonely after all. When it was time to go, he encountered a terrible reluctance to turn his steps away from the place, to come where he'd dreaded a few hours ago. He had to go. While leaving he could not help encountering a dampening realization, that he was enslaved to his urges, his obligations and his promises made to important people in his world, which prevented him from following his heart and staying back till it was content with experiences of ageless love.

On his way back through the clustered lanes of his old whereabouts Kabir saw the temple, from where penetrating conch shell reverberations used to wake him up early every morning, its purity demystifying the anxieties of the by gone night and where God's deity alone knew his deepest yearnings all through out his adolescence. Kabir returned with the tide of dusk brimming with a palpable disillusionment that he hasn't got over and probably never will get over his love for his hometown. It's where he was born and became the man that he is today.

                                                                                                                  **********

("Homecoming" is a work of fiction and any resemblance in it, to any person, incident or place is purely co - incidental)