A short story - based on a news report

Short Story

It was a day like any other. It started off well enough like any other. She'd woken up at the usual time, just around 6. Not that there was any reason to, actually - now that they were just the two of them - she and her husband of these 49 years. 

Her children had long moved out and the small flat no longer was filled with the noise of laughing, crying, playing, fighting, little children. 

Her daughter, Varsha, now lived abroad with her husband and six year old son. They Skyped - once a week, usually on Saturday evening. She could not honestly admit to love for her grandson, Akshay, who she had yet to meet in the flesh. After all, how can we love a Skype image? The boy was pretty, well behaved even, but equally aloof and formal. Perhaps next year, finally, she would get to see him when they came over from New Jersey - though, similar promises had been made, often enough, in the past.

Her son lived closer - in the next street, actually. Rohan was a good boy. Caring. Loving. His wife, too, was as nice a daughter-in-law as one could reasonably expect in today's world. All said and done, she was still a daughter-in-law, not a daughter. Some distance was inevitable, no?

Shaking herself out of these useless straying thoughts she returned to her routines. Filling up fresh drinking water in the clay pots. Watering the tulsi plant in the kitchen window. Cutting up the vegetables to be cooked for lunch. Getting the newspaper for her husband to read. Getting his bath water heated. A hazaar things that seemed to be the sum of her existence. 

As she went about her day Shrikant, her husband, 76 years of age, still erect, brimming with energy, came cheerily in from his morning walk. Filling the small flat with his booming voice, his abundant presence, talking incessantly about this, that and a myriad other things.

There was a time when she loved his cheerful outlook.

Handing him a steaming mug of tea along with his newspaper she gently said, "Go and bathe once you've done with your chai. We have things to do this morning" 

He grinned at her, accepting the chai & paper, saying, "Oh yes, Nalini, I remember. Your visit to the clinic. Don't worry yourself too much. Most of the test results are normal. And that little lump? Forget it, it will be nothing!", he laughed. 

She smiled back but wished, just for one fleeting second, "I wish he could turn down this overbearing cheeriness just a wee bit!" Even as she thought it she felt a twinge of guilt. 
Returning to the kitchen cum puja room, she went about her chores. Breakfast now ready while, at the same time multi tasking to finish reciting her mantras, settling the monthly bill with the doodhwala, keeping the trash bucket outside... where did the morning go? The clock was showing 9:25 without her having been aware of time fleeting. 

But this, too, was a daily norm... busy busy busybusy in the little, little small things that over decades had worn her down. The devil, she'd heard her husband say, lives in the details. What did he know, she thought to herself. Those streaks of grey that first appeared when she was still in her 30s; her spectacles to help her read - she who had always had the sharpest, keenest eyesight among her friends; that slight stoop that seemed to slowly shrink her by the time she was 50.. These daily routines had gradually eroded her without anyone ever noticing. Today, as she stood before her dressing mirror, applying sindoor to her forehead, she found herself thinking of her childhood. Thinking of how her mother used to apply kajal to her eyes, braid her hair… surely, that was a different age, that belonged to a different person. She was not that girl at all, she who was 69 years old today. She had no right to even have those memories, let alone indulge in nostalgia.

From the front room Shrikant’s voice boomed genially, “Are you ready? Time to go. The appointment is at 11 and it’s already 10:00. Bring all the papers, they’re in that file in the cupboard!”

“I’m almost done, just 2 minutes” she said, while locking up the cupboard from where she’d taken her medical file. A quick peep into the kitchen, a silent hurried “Hare Rama, Hare Rama” to her beloved god and they were off.

Her mind was teeming with thoughts… what will the doctor have to say? What will I have to do to adjust/change my lifestyle. Will everything be all right, as Shrikant keeps saying? Absently she climbed into the autorickshaw, and she heard Shrikant tell the driver, “Kandivli station, and make it quick”. She began to think of the long wait at the clinic. There would be at least 40 – 50 patients and she hoped she would not be the last. The stench of the hospital was something she had never got used to. Not even after her own deliveries. Hospitals were places that held unpleasant memories – her father’s long drawn out demise (tuberculosis), her mother’s (she simply stopped living, slowly, dying day by day due to sheer exhaustion), her brother (hit by a truck). There were more but she averted her thoughts.

By now they had reached Kandivli station. It was just past 10 and the station was, as ever, crowded. It was teeming with what seemed like millions of people, to her unaccustomed eyes. She was not used to crowds, not much used to travelling on the Mumbai locals. The few times that she had been, it was always with Shrikant. She would hold on to his hand for dear life, and cling close to him. He would laughingly put his arm around her, protectively, sheltering her from the raging crowds, his twinkling eyes gently making fun of her fears. She would look into his eyes and slowly allow her tensed muscles to relax, and finally smile back at him, chiding herself for her anxiety. How safe she always felt with her husband. She was truly lucky, she knew, a simple village girl married to this gentle city bred giant.

She had never been to a town, prior to her marriage. And here, in Mumbai, at the age of 20, wide eyed and fear filled, she had stepped into her marital home. Her mother-in-law, a strong willed disciplinarian, her absentee father-in-law posted on some remote border working with the army as a sergeant, Shrikant’s two rowdy younger brothers who were ever hungry, ever playful, ever filled with bubbling energy that even their mother could not control. All these 49 years in Mumbai she had been out of the house barely a few times each year – not because she wasn’t allowed to, rather she felt comfortable and safe within the walls of her home, her safe nest.

Standing on the platform while Shrikant went to get the railway coupons punched, she wrapped the pallu of her sari over her head, demurely. The simple, traditional village girl had long vanished – replaced by a typical village grandmother, not for her the confident stride of a city lady. She still found it strange to see girls, women of all ages wearing trousers, those things that they called jeans, tops and stuff. And, most shocking of all, the casual way in which people mixed together, walking with arms around each other, smoking and all these modern fads. She still found these things disturbing and would shake her head in disgust, only to find Shrikant – and, later, even Rohan – laughing at her simple villager views.

Shrikant came striding back to her side through the crowds and she fell in step by his side, her hand instinctively seeking his. Walking up to the platform they waited among the crowds, as he kept on a steady stream of chatter that she silently listened to without paying much attention. When you’ve lived together for so long, there’s actually nothing new that needs to be said, really, no? An occasional nod of the head, a quiet “yes” and that’s more than enough. Not that Shrikant ever needed her to speak anything much. He was naturally talkative and merely needed an audience for his peroration.

The train was pulling in now and she gripped his hand even more tightly. The crowds were milling around, jostling for space, in that animalistic manner that only a Mumbai local crowd knows how. Even as people were pouring out of the compartment, others were jumping up, fighting for a toe-hold. Shrikant pulled her closer, holding her hand gripped tightly in his, and telling her, “Now, come up, fast, climb in NOW”. She moved forward two steps and a young lad, a college student perhaps, rushed in between, a large shoulder bag on his bag, oblivious to her presence, oblivious to her plight, and casually, with the confident arrogance of youth stepped onto the train as it began to move.

She felt Shrikant’s grasp tighten, she tightened her grip back, panic stricken as she noticed him standing inside the train, and then, inexorably, as the train gathered speed, that connection was broken. He was looking at her, for once, worried, alarmed to note that she had not come aboard. He was gesticulating wildly now, eyes wide in anxiety, trying to get out of the compartment, trying to come back to her side but the crowd pressed in with too much force. She saw the look of despair in his eyes as he realized that he would not make it.

The last she saw of him was his efforts to try and gesture to her to stay exactly where she was. He was trying to say something more – perhaps, he was saying that he would get off at the next station and make his way back – but by then he was lost to her sight.

It had all happened so swiftly, within a few seconds really, that she still hadn’t come to terms with it. Standing there, on the briefly empty platform, looking dazed, she did not know what to do. She looked around, saw an empty bench and went and sat on it. Still in shock at her sudden abandonment, she did not even make an effort to THINK. Clutching her file containing her medical papers, she sat there, gazing fixedly at nothing.

How long she sat thus, she did not know. All she knew was she that Shrikant would surely come. He would come and rescue her, take her back into the comfort and safety of his genial smile. She was sure, too, that he would first give vent to his anxiety and fear by shouting at her, till he would cool down. She knew him. She knew that behind the impending burst of volcanic fury a little child was hiding, someone who needed to let off the steam before becoming normal again. She smiled, inwardly, anticipating his lecture.

She glanced around. Kandivli station was once again teeming with hordes of commuters hurrying along, busily marching to wherever their destinies took them. She looked at her wrist watch and found, with a start, that it had been almost 20 minutes since she was left alone. Surely, Shrikant ought to have been back by now? Meanwhile, all around her, people kept walking purposefully, marching to their destinies.

She stopped for a moment, contemplating that word – Destiny. She was never one to think “serious” stuff, before. Yet here she was, suddenly thinking of this word. It seemed mysterious, alluring. She contemplated the word more carefully, silently mouthing it to herself before saying it out aloud. “Kismet”, she said. “Naseeb, taqdeer, bhaagya” Different words, all of them sounding strange, unfamiliar to her for she had always gone passively with the flow.

She looked once again at the purposeful hordes around her. Men, women, even the young teens seemed to walk with long, hurried strides, going God knows where. She glanced at her wristwatch again. 25 minutes had elapsed. She suddenly was seized of the thought that she, too, must hurry before it was too late. She knew that time was now running out, that this moment that was made available to her was an opportunity. She ought to seize it.

She, who had all her life allowed things to happen, was now in a unique position. She could – no, she should! – seize this opportunity and make something of it. Briefly she considered… she could take a rickshaw and go home, or go to her daughter-in-law’s house. She could even, perhaps, go to the clinic (after all, the file was still with her)

Or… or… the thoughts were still unformed, inchoate. Yet she knew, she could not afford to wait any longer. He would be here any moment and then she would no longer be able to DO anything of her own will.

Suddenly she came to a decision. She got up and began to walk, towards the exit gate.

Epilogue: An hour later, Shrikant and Rohan were in the Kandivli station CCTV control room, reviewing the footage. They saw Nalini clearly from one camera. The footage ran for about 26 minutes. She was just sitting, quietly, on the bench for a long time, silently as though waiting for someone. And then she got up, took a few hesitant steps, towards the exit gate. Slowly, they could see, she stood a little bit more erect, her shoulders seemed to square, her head lifted up with a strange confidence that they found unfamiliar. She walked briskly up to, and out of the camera frame.

That was then. More than 22 days ago. The only news after that last frame was the discovery of a plastic cover containing her medical reports. Nothing else. 

Mythology & Current Affairs

A dear friend gifted me an RK Narayan book, an omnibus collection. This was a few weeks, perhaps a couple of months ago. At any point in time I usually have a few unread books, and so, it was only around a week ago that I got around to commencing reading "The Indian Epics Retold" comprising of "The Ramayana", "The Mahabharata", and "Gods, Demons, and Others". 

Narayan's prose is simple, free flowing, easy on the mind and, thus, beautiful. I've enjoyed reading his other, more original works - Swami & Friends, Malgudi Days, The Guide, The Painter of Signs, etc. So, taking up the Ramayana was a pleasure. Narayan, in the foreword, states that he has been inspired by the version of the epic written/composed by the 12th century (A.D) Tamil poet Kamban. A brief memory, from my Class X days, when Tamil was my second language, and memorising swathes of verses in (what, then, was) incomprehensible Tamil.... I remember, vividly, the description of the river crossing when Ram, Sita and Lakshman are being ferried by Guha. Among the lines, this stays in memory, when Ram tells Guha that "This lady of the beautiful forehead is as your sister". For the first time, growing up at an age where James Hadley Chase's ladies had long legs, and Perry Mason's Della Street had a curvaceous figure, it seemed unique to focus on a forehead!

Narayan's retelling of Kamba Ramayana has quite a lot more seductive imagery, which I'm not sure would have passed a censor's eye in today's tolerant India. Describing the first moment of their seeing each other, Narayan writes: He stood arrested by her beauty, and she noticed him at the same time. Their eyes met." And, a few moments later, "She lay tossing in her bed complaining, 'You girls have forgotten how to make a soft bed'... They (her maids) found her prattling, 'Shouders of emerald, eyes like lotus petals, who is he? He invaded my heart and has deprived me of all shame! A robber who could ensnare my heart and snatch away my peace of mind!'

A few chapters later, Soorpanaka having described Sita to Ravana, he is already smitten by the imagery that Soorpanaka has wrought. Even before seeing Sita, Ravana has suffered the pangs of Manmata's love arrows. "Every syllable that Soorpanaka uttered gave him both pleasure and pain.... Ravana felt uneasy. he rose abruptly and left the hall, unwilling to let the assembly notice his state of mind.They rained flowers on him and uttered blessings and recited his glory as usual when he strode down the passage.... He ignored his wives, who were awaiting his favours, and passed on to his own private chamber, where he shut the door and flung himself on his luxurious bed. He lay there tossing, unable to rid his mind of the figure conjured up by Soorpanaka's words. It was a total obsession"

And so on, vivid imagery bordering quite on the mushy, romantic and at times mildly erotic. Till the final set of chapters that deal with the actual battle between Rama and Ravana. Ravana using all his might and the special weapons that he possesses, gifts and boons bestowed upon him by the gods themselves... weapons with evocative names such as 'Danda', 'Maya', 'Thama' etc. And, to each of Ravana's special weapons, Rama has an equal, if not superior counter weapon... 

It was at this point, suddenly, that I realised I was no longer reading a story, this is not mythology I realised. This is current affairs, history as it is evolving today, in the here and NOW. 

Substitute the word "gods" with "USA, Russia, France etc" and in place of Ravana and Rama think of the many warring factions of peoples from Palestine, Lebanon, Syria, Afghanistan, Pakistan, etc - the Mujaheddin, the Taliban, Al Qaeda, Boko Haram, LTTE and what have you. Rakshasas and Asuras who, after bitter penance and strenuous prayers found their gods showering them with favours and who, then, went on a rampage as the gods looked on helplessly while mayhem reigned.... 

Not for nothing, not without justification is this the age of Kali.... 

The "Usual" and the "Unusual"

It's around 2:00 p.m as I walk in to my "usual" restaurant, in Chembur, for lunch. One of those "Udipi" type, pure veg restaurants that serve good food at affordable prices and fast. Today the place is overflowing, customers standing in a queue, hoping to get a vacant table. Now THIS is unusual, not that the place does not do good business, but just that usually, while most tables are occupied, one can always hope to find at least one vacant table. Not today.

There seems to be a crowd of wedding goers - or, more accurately, wedding returnees. Unusual. One would have thought that guests who attended a wedding would have had lunch at the wedding hall itself, no? Even more unusual, I even see the bride and the groom having lunch here. She, sitting demurely, draped in a rather stiff green silk saree. He, clearly hot and sweating, looking not very gruntled. Both of them, sitting side by side, not talking to each other but volubly talking all the same, to surrounding friends, well wishers, family. The groom's friends seem to be the quieter lot, the bride's group seem to be having all the fun, cracking jokes and laughing loudly, mouths covered behind folded fists and handkerchiefs.

A table gets partly vacant - which suits me just fine. An elderly gentleman, rather unkempt, unshaved and scruffy looking is the lone occupant. I ask him whether I can sit at the table. He is busy having his lunch, does not even bother to look up, let alone reply. So I sit down, anyway, and wait for the waiter. Meanwhile, the e.g across the table is tucking away into his meal, idli-vada-sambhar, eating rather sloppily. I can't bear to see this, so look around. The bride & groom are still not (yet) talking to each other, each busily ignoring the other while speaking to their respective groups. The "party" is almost over, several tables all getting cleared at once. 

At another table is a sight, unusual. A young mother, perhaps 26, with a baby girl, perhaps just over 1 year. No one else. Now, that's unusual. Where's the dad, I wonder? Perhaps he's gone to wash his hands? But no, I see no sign of the man. The baby is sitting atop the table, the mother looks lost in some private thoughts as she ignores the playing child. A waiter, standing behind the mother is making funny faces at the baby who is happily gurgling away at him. Amid the hustle-bustle of the mad rush hour, a moment of joy, an island of innocence. I smile, inwardly, feeling that wee bit happier than before.

My waiter has arrived and I am about to order, when the gent at my table jumps in with his order - "Ek plate gajar halwa" he says, brusquely, spittle spraying through his dentures. I order mine. The waiter goes. I look around again.

Another table, a fairly common sight - usual - in Mumbai. A young couple, looking like college going kids, sitting side by side, sharing an ice cream, two spoons. He is feeding her, she is (also) feeding herself. Lost in whispered conversations. She looks pre-occupied, he is giggling, nervously. Love, Mumbai style, I guess - or, perhaps, I should rephrase that, "Love, Harbour line style"? (C'mon, Western liners, go swagger!)

My waiter is back, with my order and the gajar halwa - I take my time, while the g.h is swallowed in three quick gulps. The old man reaches into his pocket and pulls out a wad of notes (no wallet) and pays the waiter. By some odd coincidence, his bill worked out to an exact Rs.100/- I see, so a hundred he pays. The waiter collects the cash and goes off. The old man, who, I expected would have got up and gone, keeps the wad of notes back in his trouser pocket, reaches into the other trouser pocket, takes out a rather gaudy coloured kerchief, loudly honks into it clearing his nose unabashedly and places the dirty rag back into the pocket. I'm quite "Yuck"ed by all this and am waiting to see the last of him.

His hand now comes out, minus that offensive kerchief, but holding another wad of notes, small denominations - he painstakingly sorts them out, unfolding them one by one, searches for and finds a fiver, places that on the small platter of saunf, reaches again into his shirt pocket, takes out some coins, and places a Rs.2 coin, collects his tattered brief case, and has - finally - gone. Leaving behind a tip of seven rupees. I am actually surprised - but, a few seconds later, when the waiter came, I could see that he was even more surprised than I. The look on his face gave him away, seeing a tip where he apparently expected none. 

Mumbai still does that, even to the most jaded of cynics. Hits you, right between the eyes, with little stories of optimism. Islands of dreams inside a sea of bleakness.  

Main SAMAYY Hoon

So, Planet Earth has gone around the Sun one more time. It's been doing that even before hominids even thought to look up at the sky. It will continue doing so long after the next Ice Age or whatever other cataclysm lies in store, somewhere (hopefully) in a too distant future.... meanwhile, at some point of time, "modern" man invented a whole lot of stuff, from aeroplanes to atom bombs to ziggurats and zithers. Somewhere, along the way, we also invented "time", "discovered" how to measure it, split it up into years, months, days, hours, minutes, seconds, nano seconds and God (another of our "inventions") knows what else.... 

When I think of "time" it seems to me that it is like a marker on a vast, unmapped land. Helping us to put a reference to events, memories. Remember THAT day? When you were married? When she was born? When your best friend died? Goddamn, remember that day when you stupid bloody insurance policy is due to expire?!! So, yes, time (specifically, the way we measure it) is quite a neat trick, a sleight of mind, quite useful.

And, as with most of our inventions, not content to merely creating the utility, we've also built elaborate rituals around Time - so, we celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, observe fasts and sacraments on specified dates.... and thus, in one such "time honoured tradition", New Year's Eve rolled around once again yesterday. As good a time as any to look back and wonder/ponder....

The excitement of childhood, when my school's academic year used to be the calendar year. A New Year meant a new class, the smell of new books & brown paper covers, the excitement of walking in to a new class, the eagerness to find out which of our classmates came through, the disappointment of discovering friends who'd stayed behind having failed, the unspeakable fear of meeting new classmates who - being a year older but having failed - waited to welcome you with their bullying stares.... 

That innocence, inevitably, giving way to adolescent rowdy eagerness in later teen years as the New Year's Eve meant "party time", gathering of friends, cheap booze, smokes, revelry... a long period of adolescence growing well into the mid 20s and even early 30s.... when "fun" meant being out, "enjoying" loud music, frenzied roaming the streets, drunkenly cheering strangers with wild cries of "Happy New Year", "Happy 1990" or whatever number it happened to be....

Until 31st December 2002 when, on arrival in Mumbai - the city that used to say "Raat ko baara baje din nikalta hai" - venturing out for the first New Year Eve party in Mumbai I realised that I was getting nowhere, stuck in an interminable traffic jam! 3 hours in my car, alone, stuck, motionless, while the RJs on the FM stations pretended that life was gonna be fun!

And so, winding down to yesterday. A quiet evening. At home. With a dear, dear friend, Arun Jaiswar. Pleasant, rambling conversations, about this, that, and nothing. Even quieter silences, in the comfort that exists among the best of friends. A little bit of music. And, as always, booze. A good bottle of Chivas. We did justice to the "tradition".

Truly, time rolled by. We've aged, grown older, perhaps (and this is quite doubtful) even wiser. But, hey, this is TIME we're talking about. Constant. Ever changing. Never changing. So, grey hair not withstanding, we boozed till well past 1... because, the more things change, the more they remain the same. Main SAMAYY Hoon.....

Sats