What's in a Word?

I've often labelled myself as a "carpenter of words" and have long been fascinated by words themselves. Not only have I fallen in love with a beautiful verse, a well written essay, or a beautifully structured sentence or phrase. Even a single, stand-alone word often holds my thrall. 

I look at a word and wonder -  whence did it come, from which far off land? How did it come to mean what it means? 

For, make no mistake, as languages grow, so too, words. A word that is familiar today may well have meant something else, entirely different in another day/age. 

As I type these random thoughts on my phone, I glance at my battery icon. I have 21% power and will soon need to plug my phone in. For which, everyone reading this would recognize that I must use a charger.... 

But picture yourself as some English resident from the 11th or 12th century, and ask your neighbour or brother, "Have you seen my charger?" He is probably not going to be puzzled. He may well say, "Why, yes certainly. The beast is in the stable, being tended to by our ostler" Puzzled? A charger was a horse back in those troubled and turbulent days, a war horse, or otherwise known as a destrier...

Cut. Not back to our present.  But a time in the 70s. A book. And a movie based on it. Was the rage for well nigh a decade. An autobiography of a French prisoner, Henri Charriere, called Papillon (Butterfly) Made immortal on screen in 70mm, by Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman... And those of you who read the book no doubt know what 'charger' meant. For the uninitiated, my lips shall remain sealed.

Lockdown - Exit Strategy

It has been what? 50 days? or 60 days?

Does it seem like years, to some of you? This strange little thing called "Lockdown" - making a curious history of its own. It sure has beat those lessons that we studied in History, WW I and WW II, those (thankfully) stopped at II. Here, LD 1.0 has, all too quickly, segued into LD 3.0 (coming to an end today) and continuing to LD 4.0 with barely a break in stride....

And so, L & G, we have (mostly) been safe (or "stuck" - depending on a POV) in a place that once used to be called "Home, Sweet Home" since a long time ago. Speaking purely for myself, since LD 1.0 began, I ventured out of my colony all of three times - and, count my blessings, have been in absolute (not relative) comfort all this while. A couple of times each week I venture out of my building, still staying within my compound, going up to the main gate where a vegetable vendor rules his empire of 6 buildings and 440 captive customers.

For the most part, though, I have remained happily in the comfort of my HSH  - attending video meetings (formal shirt, necktie, a suit/blazer et al) on cam, while off cam in "down under" a pair of Bermudas have completed the wardrobe. Boy, there ARE things about the LD that I've grown to love.

Grown, too, during the LD was a thick, bushy, and mostly white beard streaked with bits of grye more than back. This flourished for 45 or more days until even I, myself, couldn't stand it anymore. Off went the beard and I was back to pre-LD days. The beard trimmer is, perhaps, the single most useful invention of mankind (after, of course, beer!)

The other day, I began to itch. And scratch. My head. The hair. Had grown. Too long - by my standards. I hoped LD 3.0 would get over and I would be able to Clap Urbanely - but that was not to be. Urban Company did not rise to my occasion and I was left scratching my head - literally and figuratively. I looked at myself in my mirror. And did NOT like what I saw (never have, even in the best of times). At times like this, seeking the help of the better half can be fraught with peril, and so, in a fit of misplaced confidence, I became like one of those Americans or Australians who are oh-so-capable of DIY miracles.

I looked at that ever so reliable beard trimmer. Phillips. Neat. Compact. Tidy. Easy to use. Also, very helpfully, it even has numbered settings ranging from 1 going up to 8 or something.. Simple, really, to do the job. And so I did.

Plonked at the dressing table, an old newspaper spread to reap my harvest, fan switched off, the air-conditioner ON and the door locked (one did not want "she who must not be named" walking in and giving unnecessary lectures)

Permit me to digress a bit - did any of you watch the Rajiv Bajaj interview? Where he speaks candidly of how government failed to plan. Something along the lines of "How can you begin something without being clear of how you are going to finish?"

Anyway, I began. And I was clear about the finish. I was going to end up with a neat but short cropped top, very closely trimmed sides and matching, very closely trimmed back of the head. It's easy to do. You start at the sides with the blades set at 2, move up to 3 and then finish at 5. Easy peasy.

And so it went. All perfect. To plan. And, periodically, one removes the removable plastic head, cleans it up, collects the lumps of hair, and sets the plastic head back, adjusts the number to 3 or 5 or whatever, and resumes.

I remember reading a blog written by my good friend, Adi Pocha, where he narrated his travails during a similar exercise a few weeks ago. I smiled at the memory, amused at his adventure. If only he had my foresight.... this is sooooo easy, almost child's play.

Almost. There's one small detail that I suddenly skipped. The sides were now perfect, the back was, too. Exactly the way I wanted. I was now proud of my skills and was contemplating a change of profession. And now, to the top. Having cleaned the trimmer, collected those lumps of hair, etc, I now turned to the top of my head, the crowning glory. And, as I confidently ran the trimmer (setting at 7, please double check!) I suddenly see - horror of horros - a clean, completely bald patch in the exact middle of my crown. Ooooops. I had removed the plastic head from my trimmer, cleaned it up, kept it aside and FORGOT to put it back on.

Now, it doesn't matter. I know exactly what Rajiv Bajaj was talking about. I also know something that he doesn't. So what if things go awry? Make a clean sweep.

And, on that note, I shall stop boring you. My exit strategy.....

     

A Requiem For A Girl Gone

She bubbled, enthusiasm unbound,
Jumping with joy, from one foot to the other,
She was going home, after many months,
She was going to see her mother.

All of twelve, she was full of life,
Excited, happy, a huge smile there
On her bright face, shining eyes,
Her dress neat, well oiled hair.

Home was a distance away, another state,
And she was one, in a group of more than ten,
And they set out, on the road,
Some women, some children, some men.

On their heads, and in their arms
They carried whatever they could
And they walked, and they walked
And they laughed, they felt good.

The road was long, and hot, dusty too
The sun overhead burnt hard and bright
And they walked, and they walked
And she walked too, until night.

Stopping now, stopping then,
Their feet, ceaselessly, moving all the time,
They ate up the miles of dusty road
The men, women, all in their prime.

Landless labourers, in search of a job
They were all healthy in a way
For who would employ them otherwise
But now, with no work, no pay
They were going back, back home
Until this thing that people spoke of
Would blow over, this virus
That ate you up with just a cough...

They walked, she walked, day after day
Enthusiasm still high, laughter ready
And she played and sang songs
And hopped and skipped, still steady

And still days passed, five, then a week
And they ate up the road, ate up those miles
A little slower now, as they ate up their food
Sleeping at night in those narrow defiles..

How long can enthusiasm continue to live
While hunger eats you up from your inside
You and I may perhaps never know
But she, mere twelve, faltered in her stride

As they crossed that border from state
To native state, home now a day's walk away
She fell, and rose, and fell again
Stumbling now, swooning from hunger
And thirst and sheer numbing pain.

The others with her, her village folk
Tried what little they could but without hope
A woman, her mother's friend they say
Took her tired head on her slope
Of a lap, made her rest a while
And pressed her tired, tiny feet
Little able to prevent this angelic child
From leaving us all, her God to meet.

The Ëthics"of Borrowing

Don't be misled by the title. This ain't nothing about loan waivers and/or write offs. This ain't no political - or economic - rant. I'm not qualified to think about such heavy subjects, leave alone write.

I am, after all, merely an idle man, with an idler mind, sitting in a corner observing life around me.

So...

As tales go, "Once upon a time...."

Once upon a time, before "all this", among other things there used to be bars and restaurants where people used to go. Either in groups among friends, or, even alone.

Once, one of of those days, I was sitting alone in a "family bar & restaurant" in my neighbourhood. A place within walking distance from home, a place that was familiar to me and as important, a joint where I was a familiar face to the owner and the waiters.

The place had/has(?) a unique charm, rare in Mumbai - an open to the sky frontage. With a scattering of tables, a small teeny-weeny handkerchief sized fish pond, and a cigarette shop adjacent. Almost always full, almost always noisy with friendly banter.

There I was, one evening, alone. At my "usual table", being attended by my "usual waiter" (all of whom are always called - by me - as Vijay) By now 'Vijay' does not need to ask me what I need. The whiskey, the soda, bottled water, ice, a cigarette packet with 3 cigarettes inside, all appear without any exchange of words. Eyes speak, say Thank you, and ask a silent question. The menu is shown, I point a finger, he nods, and he's off. Silence between us, comfortably efficient. This is GOOD. I light up the first of my three cigarettes, inhale deeply, look up to the stars and idly watch the smoke escape in a twin jet from my nostrils. The whiskey-soda-water tastes just right. Life, in balance, is just lovely.

The restaurant is filling up. It is almost 9:30 now. My table, meant for 4, has only me and three vacant chairs.

A man now stands, a bit diffident, at my table and gestures silently, seeking permission to sit across from me. I nod casually and he occupies the seat diagonally across. A sheepish smile that says "Thank you" and that's it. He looks around and beckons 'Vijay' who is busy at another table. A couple of minutes later, Vijay is here, taking orders from my co-customer. Strong beer, some snacks and he is ready.

For conversation.

Nods at me, in a friendly manner. I nod back, not as friendly, not actively seeking a chat with a stranger. But he's made of sterner stuff and plunges in. A few seconds are all, I now know his name, where he lives, where he works. A brief lull. Stretching slightly longer. He is looking at me. Expectantly.

I get it, after a while. I am expected to respond. I do. One word. My name. He is thirsty for more.

Where do I live, he wants - no, needs - to know. I am evasive. Nearby, I say. Clearly, not enough. I let it slide. Take a sip of my whiskey. He's curious about that too. "Whiskey?" he asks. I nod. "Which brand?" I tell him. He nods, soberly. "Mehenga hoga" he observes. I can neither confirm nor deny. He offers advice. Not that I was askIng, but still.. he suggests the name of another restaurant up the road. This brand that I'm drinking is, probably, a bit cheaper there. I am amused but wear a serious look as I nod. "Next time" I say.

Meanwhile, Vijay comes around again. I'm ok, need nothing more. The other guy fishes around his pockets, comes up with some cash and asks V to get some cigarettes. Vijay is back in less than a minute with bad news. The cigarette shop is shuts by now. The man looks disappointed. Meanwhile I've just lit up my second smoke.

He looks at me, furtively at first. I can actually see the words forming in his head, I can sense the momentum building up in his mind. Eyes meet. A half question, unformed, a half smile beginning, he points to my cigarette pack and asks, "May I?" in Marathi. I nudge the pack across, matching his half smile with mine. He smiles now, beaming wide, ear to ear, lights up and leans forward to promise, "I'm just borrowing this for today. Will return. By the way, what brand is this?" I tell him not to worry. He studies the stick and asks hesitantly, "Classic hai?" I nod, finish my glass, call for my bill, settle (a decent tip to my "Vijay") and leave. A friendly nod to my cigarette borrower. A goodnight nod. And I go home...

Once upon a time, we used to visit bars and restaurants... And I did, too. Several times after that incident. My usual place, my usual Vijay, my usual drink and snacks. The usual evenings, usual usuals...

Until one day. THAT man, from THAT evening. Once more, standing across "my table". I did not recognize him. He sat down. Smiled - confidently. Nodded at me - confidently.
Reached into his pocket. Leant across. Placed ONE Wills Classic before me. "Yehi hai naa? Aap ka brand? Sorry, bahut din ke baad aap ko dekha" 

Returned with Thanks. Returned with confidence. Honour, intact.

A Conspiracy of Silence

My cell phone(s) (that's right, I own 2 of them) I suspect have taken to playing games with me. It is, I am sure, a conspiracy. A downright dastardly one at that.

They are, I'm sure, giggling between themselves even right now, even as I am sharing these thoughts with you through THEM

They are naughty. Pranksters out to deprive me of my peace, trying to drive me out of my mind.
They listen in, quietly, silently spying on my conversations with the people around me - and they remain silent, mute for entire long stretches of time, nary a cheep out of them.

So, there I would be, working away on my laptop, and there they would be, right by my side, holding their breath in pin drop silence. After a while, in these days of W-ingFH, in the kitchen washing the vessels, and there are are, watching me gleefully as plates and pans slip out of my soapy hands and clatter around - from the other room, the (by now bitter) half has plenty of paragraphs to say while both these Korean brothers remain silent in their mirth. Their maun vrat remains unshakable as I read a novel, as I nurse my evening Scotch... They are imperturbable almost all through a working day.

A little further away, their fellow Korean cousin who does duty for the wife is one hell of an excitable, garrulous chappie. Every few minutes he bursts into chatter, bleating out AND vibrating too, as he urgently summons "Madam" - meanwhile, my two guys remain stubborn, silent, almost showing a Zen calm..

I am not unhappy. I have no complaints. Silence, after all, is.golden...

And I decide, keeping this book that I'm reading, or setting my laptop aside, or keeping those just now washed/dried vessels neatly away... I decide it's time to bathe, or to use the washroom, and I've just entered the bathroom, and I'm standing under the shower, shampoo in my hair/eyes.

And that is EXACTLY when they call out to me.

One goes off at a shrill RRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG RRRRRRIIINNNGGGGG and half a beat later his brother blares out a manic melody.

Again, and again, and insistently again as if the Heavens have decided to fall on my head.
Bleddddy bas#@*ds, I curse viciously, grab a towel, step hastily out, almost slip and fall, and grab for the first fellow while the second still screams.
As I flip open the cover, he clams up, silent as the Sphinx. Muttering to myself, I now grab his brother and keep it to my ear and say, "Allo, Allo" - I'm speaking into air, to an empty nothingness...




I now glare at first the one, then the other, to no avail. Even Bharat Bhushan had greater expressions on his face.

When MAN is caged....

With Man in retreat
Cowering behind walls
And hiding behind masks
The streets have been reclaimed
By others, perhaps more deserving
Of this earth than Man.
From here, from there
Friends and acquaintances
Have been sharing videos
And I have been absorbing data
And observing perspectives
On life in a lockdown.

From the streets of Ahemdabad
On an early morning, a flock
Of Rosy Starling on wing
(A murmuration is the term)
Wheel around the empty streets
In numbers larger than before...

Elsewhere from an unknown land
Through the dark night a herd of deer
Walk bravely now where once they timidly trod
Now without any fear..

And finally, the best of all,
A little clip, a little deer
Gambolling in delight beside a
Rolling sea on an empty beach
A sight that makes me wistfully hope
For this season to last and stretch
Into the distant forever...

Today is Akshaya Tritiya - and, due to this lockdown, instead of being inundated with full page advertisements, I look a bit more closely at this festival and the significance of this day...

This is a day of "endless/boundless wealth/prosperity", actually the THIRD day of endless endless prosperity..

Akshayya, meaning eternal, never ending, etc is a word many of us familiar with the story of the akshaya patra from the Mahabharat would know.

It is believed Lord Krishna gave this vessel to Draupadi on this day. Or, was it given to Yudhishtra by Lord Surya, my memory is a bit off..

Today is also the day when the (Hindu) world's first "stenographer" began to take down the dictation, from Ved Vyasa, as the latter started narrating the Mahabharat.

So, why and how does this festival get so closely linked to GOLD? It is on this day that a certain gentleman, whose name is Kubera, was appointed as the Lord of Wealth. Richer than anybody else in all the three worlds, Kubera is still collecting interest on a loan he gave to the presiding diety of Tirumala in Tirupati, Lord Balaji - and that, mind you, was a marriage loan. Speak of a big, fat, Indian wedding 😃

And oh, by the way, Kubera had a brother - shall I say more notorious? A Shiva bhakt second to none, master of arts, receiver of many boons..  and better known to our world as Ravana

Happy Akshaya Tritiya to all of you. May you have never ending joy, success and just enough wealth always.

Planet 2.0 - Will this happen?

When all this is, hopefully, over and behind us I wonder what new world will we step into.

I'm actually growing used to the idea of lockdown, it seems a good intervention - as a society, we seem to have adapted well.

Consumption is now minimal and need based.

Stress inducing commuting is history.
Instead of a "work - life balance" I think many of us have discovered life is bigger than work.

We stand in queues, without jostling.

Men have learnt to shoulder at least some responsibility of work AT home...

I did see a news report (hopefully fact, not fake) that even said that seismologists are saying the earth's mantle is quieter than a month ago... Because of the slowdown/lockdown across much of the world. Reminds me of TS Eliot's poem's (The Waste Land) ending, Shantih Shantih Shanti

All in all, this is good. I hope we remember the lessons were learning now.

Meanwhile, the lady of the house has acquired sufficient skills to find her way through my (MY? Hers, now) smart TV. We are now sitting, engrossed, watching that delightful comedy series from the 90s... Yeh Joh Hai Zindagi  Life, was it simpler then? Or is that merely the camera tricks of nostalgia?

The Religion of a Virus

Religion is business, BIG business. And this is a truly secular statement of a fact. Whether one is a Hindu, a Muslim, a Christian or anything at all, there's tonnes of money to be made... No?
So, to reiterate, entirely unnecessarily, merely for effect - religion is BIG business.
Perhaps - in fact, almost certainly - religion, in pure "turnover" terms must be much, much bigger than my sector, which is insurance.
And so, having set that "background", let me look at a mirror to my own actions...

There I was, earlier last month, in the first week of March, flying out to Delhi on an overnight trip. Business beckoned, I chose to travel. (Also, spent a fantastic evening with a very dear friend, catching up on old times)

A week later, again a business trip, this time down to Chennai, and once again, did not miss the opportunity to meet a couple of very dear friends...
All this while Corona was in the air... I flew, I met clients, I met friends, stayed with relatives, etc.
On return, both times, it was life as usual AND business as usual...

I am (as of now) not a Covid "case" (and, hopefully, won't be) and hopefully I haven't passed on the virus to anyone else...

Now, compare this with the "irresponsible idiots" who went to Nizamuddin Markaz... They, too, went for "work", no?

Or, compare us with the (allegedly) "massive" rally that the BJP took out in Gwalior to welcome a certain Mr Scindia into the fold...

I cannot resist quoting one of the most spectacularly famous "men of god", a certain Jesus of Nazareth

Two Books - a review, of sorts

Two books.
A Man Called Ove, and A Gentleman In Moscow.

Both hugely readable, yet so vastly different.
Both made me smile. Both made me pause every now and then, to let the words soak into my heart. Both certainly NOT "unputdownable", for both demand time to relish, to contemplate..
But where Ove drew you to get involved in his story, completely, to be a part of his life's daily routine... Without once making one feel one was a spectator...
Moscow makes one watch not merely the characters, as if one a stage, it makes one aware that one is, perhaps, witnessing a master puppeteer at work. The characters, the story, everything is spellbinding. But, more than all, what captivates is the beauty of the language. The AUTHOR is the hero, here, firmly capturing ones attention with every turn of a well built phrase, on almost every page.
Rarely has a book shone purely for the felicity of language, as this.
I resist, meanwhile, the urge to discover more about Amor Towles. Where Frederik Backman gave us Ove selflessly, Towles makes sure he's done us a favour, and what's more, makes sure that we know it.
A master at work

Lockdown

Stepped out of my complex today, for the first time in 8 days - it felt strange. Almost empty roads (although, even in this post apocalyptic world I did see one two wheeler driving in the wrong direction - mera Bharat mahan)

At 10:45, not too many shops were open. Just one small bakery. Picked up a few essentials from the masked man behind the counter. He didn't have much, in any case.

I ventured further, ahead to the D'Mart store. Even before I reached, I saw a long serpentine queue stretched even longer by the conscious distance between one patient shopper and the next. Discreetly retreated. Nothing too urgent to warrant standing an hour at the minimum.

Returning back to my complex I notice security is less than half strength at the main gate. I am stopped, tentatively, by a stranger, a new guard, to whom I too am a stranger. My beard and generally unkempt look perhaps made me look undesirable, unworthy of being a resident here.

I walk past him breezily, with insouciance - he quietly slinks back. So much for protection...

Back at my building, a hand sanitizer is the only guard I see. No other human in sight.

Leaves fallen from trees gather in the gentle breeze, assembling together for a seminar of the dead. They rustle, they murmur among themselves, and do a sudden quick dance in a mild strengthening breeze.

My lift arrives, doors swish open. The floor looks unnaturally dirty, splashes of water and shoe marks on the tile. Floor 2, should I press the button? A sudden nervousness grips me.
I pause. Consider. The risk of infection weighs a moment on my mind.
"Ah, hell!"
I press. Go up.
Home.
One week down....

How many more?

The Hare That Slipped Out Of The Race

The lights, inside, are dim and subdued. Unlike the searing heat and brightness of the Indian summer outside in sultry, hot, humid Dadar. 

Pritam da Dhaba. 

The very name conjures the magic of an older, slower, more gentle culture. 

The air-conditioning is just perfect. The waiters, though young, seem to belong to another time. And the beer - and the kebabs - reminiscent of the 80s, when I was younger, more filled with dreams in my eyes and a burning fire in my belly.

That was then. 

Today, smack in the middle of my 50s, the world may be an uglier place, more brash, more crowded with people who have more drive than I. 

But, hey! I'm cool with that. I now know. 

I know I have more time than all of them. 

I'm not in a rush. I'm not in a race. I'm not the tortoise on steroids trying to outrun that hare. 

I am the hare that took the time out, to sleep. 

I'm the guy who, on a Friday AFTERNOON, chose to slow down the mad rush, to break open a cold beer. 

Because. 

Because I choose. 

In a few minutes, this beer will be over. Then lunch. Which, too, in a few more minutes, will get over. 

Time, flies.

Memories, they will remain. Fresh as the first feel of an ice cold beer swishing down a parched throat....

Through My Windshield - I

It is 7:42 on a dark evening/night. On the National Highway coming from Nasik back to Mumbai. I've just crossed Kasara.
The road is reasonably crowded, the usual mix of cars speeding past trundling trucks and crawling containers.
On the side of the road, on a scooter, a young girl/lady, riding alone, merrily.
I do a double take - a girl, alone, on a highway, on a scooter.
Maharashtra! 👍
And then I scold myself silently. The very fact that I noticed it, thought it unusual enough to be worthy of comment... Even in Maharashtra, there is still a whole lot more to be done before a sight such as this becomes "normal"
But I guess Maharashtra will show me this can/will happen.

The Eye of the Needle

 Back in the 1980s I was a young(er) man. And a more voracious reader than I now am. And, back then, my reading was almost entirely fiction - over time, the market share of fiction has come down to around 50% which is still not bad 😁

Anyway.. back in the 80s there was this book, by Ken Follet, titled "Eye of the Needle" (they also made a movie, starring Donal Sutherland and Kate Nelligan, if I'm not mistaken, a damn good flick too, ALMOST as good as the book)

        

Back in the 80s,too, I used to go past the mosque at Thousand Lights, in Madras, on my way to school - and, on the outside walls they had painted several verses from the Quran of which one, particularly, stuck i mind (for the imagery, I guess). It said, "Verily, verily, I say unto thee, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter Heaven"

Back in the 80s (and even in the 90s) I was a young(er) man. And the eye of the needle was something that I was familiar with. Buttons would come off my shirts, hooks off trousers, and the like. And a needle and thread used to be a handy thing in my travel kit. And threading a needle was child's play. Back then....

When was the last time YOU did that? Threading a needle? The process has not changed in perhaps 2000 years. 

Apparatus required: One Needle, one roll of thread.   

Procedure: Wet the tip of the thread to make the end stand straight. Pass it through the eye. Simple. Or, to be a Hercule Poirot, "Voila!"

As I said, the process has not changed.

So, there I was, yesterday, doing just that. One needle - check! A roll of thread (white colour) - Check. Wet the tip of the thread - check! And... "Voila"? Well, not exactly.

In fact not at all. Instead of a simple "Voila", I found myself smiling at my ineptitude - at first. I tried again. And smile some more. And tried again. A tiny frown, now, because I needed to con-cen-trate. And tried again. That frown? It grew into a grimace. A small muttered oath escaped my lips. And I tried again. A bigger, more pungent oath this time. And again, the oath now in Hindi (stronger, Indian masala) 

And thus it went. On & on.

What was that lesson about Robert Bruce and the spider? If at first you don't succeed, try, try and try again... 8 times that spider climbed and climbed to only fall? And succeeded on the 8th attempt? Or 9th? Whatever crap.... I did a spider, I did a Bruce and then, after perhaps 10 attempts, I gave it all up, threw the effing needle and thread away, threw my bleddy spectacles away too, threw my crappy hands up in the air and did what any sensible idiot/fool would have done at the very beginning...

Learn from the Yankees, I say.

I outsourced the bleddy job. One needle, one roll of thread, one maidservant who was in earshot. Job done!

And oh, one thing. Before I forget. Slight change in specs.

Apparatus required: One Needle. One Roll of Thread. One Pair of Good Eyes. There! Now you know. 

She - II (A short narrative)

She sat in a corner, numb. Eyes staring into nothingness. Too empty to feel even grief. There was nothing left inside her, nothing. Not even an ache where her heart was. Eyes dry, bereft of tears, bereft even of expression.

 

There may have been, perhaps, regret - if her mind was capable of thought. An onlooker would not have noticed it, though, she seemed lost, far away.

From where I stood, she looked frail, short and disheveled. No, more than disheveled she looked dispirited. I gestured to the uniformed lady, eyebrows raised. The name tag on her sari read Sujata Dumbhare. Sujata called out in a not unkind voice, 'Vaishali Pradhan, Vaishali Pradhan! Come here!"

A silence fell on the room. The low murmured chit chat from the rest of the inmates died away. All eyes turned to the corner, an expectant hush in the air. 

She stayed there, unresponsive. No change of expression in her eyes, on her face. She was not there. With a sigh of annoyance but tempered by an unaccustomed kindness the warden unlocked the door to the cell, giving a stern warning to the others to stay where they were. As she reached Vaishali's corner I noticed how gently she reached down to tap her shoulder. 

A blank look as she turned her gaze, looking up at the warden. A brief exchange of whispered instructions. And, dully, without any resistance Vaishali allowed herself to be coaxed into getting up. 

She half stumbled her way across the cell, to the door and past it until she stood in front of me. She looked at me without really seeing, waiting for something or nothing. She simply stood there, uncaring, unseeing, simply because she had been brought there, to this spot. I looked at her. She was not pretty, not good looking - just your average, normal, lower class maid servant type woman. A simple cotton saree, a loose blouse that was clearly a hand me down from somewhere, a bindi - vermilion on her forehead. A face that seemed older, much older than the 24 years that I knew she was. I gestured to her to follow Sujata and me to the interview room, a semi private section down the corridor where we could speak without the raucous din of the general cell.

Sujata led the way, Vaishali in the middle while I followed close behind. Reaching the room, Sujata left us with a simple "Call me if you need anything" and we sat down, facing each other across a small table. 

Silence hung heavy while I looked at her face, while she looked at nothing. A few seconds passed as I gathered my thoughts and then gently broke the silence. In a few quick sentences I told her who I was, and how the District Legal Aid system had assigned me, Radhika, to be her lawyer. I introduced my rather short career (just 2 years out of law college, struggling, burning with idealism seeking to do the right thing) and ended with the hope that we could work together and see how best I could help her.

It was like talking to a wall. Or a table. I wasn't sure that she heard one word. In a tone sharper than I should have used, I asked her, "Did you hear what I said just now?" 

That seemed to get through, just a little. Desultory, but finally some response. She nodded. A half nod, actually. Encouraged, but still a bit riled (who wants to waste time talking to a wall?) I said quickly, slightly loudly, "Tell me what happened?"

Vaishali's story:

There was no food in the house. The children were hungry. Somehow, yesterday, I managed to bring home a little food. The lady at whose house I worked, she had some leftover food. Just a little, but I could give it to the 2 kids. Jyoti, my elder daughter (poor thing, she's only 8 years) had to go to Madam's house to collect it. I was unable to go, no? Because of my condition. And HE, that useless, good for nothing fellow? He was not to be seen only. Anyway, so Jyoti went and got the food, in that plastic dabba. She and Arjun ate it all. They're good children, both of them. Despite everything. Poor, good souls. What will happen to them? (She broke down, sobbing, burying her face in her hands)

(After a little pause, she resumed)

I didn't have anything. I wasn't hungry, much. So I drank water. And slept. Or tried to. Jyoti was at home, little girl trying to do all the work. Arjun had gone to play. And this little one,the baby, she was crying. Crying. Crying all the time. She was tiny, feeble, even her voice was weak. What else could she do but cry, cry, and cry? Or sleep, sleep and sleep? I knew she was not keeping well. I knew she was having a fever. When I took her frail, five day old body in my hands to try and feed her, I could feel her little body as if it was on fire.. and what am I saying, "feed her"? What could I feed her? (Suddenly she drops her pallu, her blouse seems empty, two tiny breasts barely making a dent underneath the cloth) Look at these! See? Like little dried onions?!! What will I feed her??

(She looks at me with bitter anger, hopeless defiance, challenging me to make and hold eye contact. I try. And fail. Looking away, I whisper, "Go on". Anger giving way to despair, she resumes)

Anyway, that was before.. before THAT day... a bitter laugh, she looks down, eyes resting on her hands resting on her lap. (My eyes follow hers, I look at those hands, those slender, long fingers, her nails painted a cheap bright red - like blood? I shuddered, looked away.)

That day, (Vaishali resumed) he left early even before any of us woke up. I was tired, didn't even have the energy to get up from the bed. Jyoti woke up first and I saw her, poor thing, sweep the house.  A glass of water was all she had before she went out. I tried calling out, to ask her where she was going. She said something, about milk or perhaps tea, or something and she was gone. Arjun was still sleeping, it was around 7, maybe more. I finally got up and went, washed myself, and came back. The little one was sleeping, thank God for THAT I thought to myself. I dreaded what would happen if she woke up. The poor thing, I thought to myself. I looked at that tiny face. 

Thoughts came, unbidden, to my mind. Bad thoughts, I know, but they still came... What to do? It is not as if I wanted to (her voice trailed off. A couple of moments of awkward silence, before she resumed)

I am tired, didi (she said). Look at me! How old do you think I am? Do I look like I am 24? Anyone would think I am a grandmother, that's how I look! And that useless drunkard, all he does is loaf around all day, get drunk, come home and fight. He beats the children, he beats me and then he falls asleep. At least if he sleeps, that is bearable but NO! He will wake up all horny as hell, with that rod between his legs taking a life of its own!

That time too, he pushed me down, climbed on top of me and did what he wanted to. I tried fighting. I begged, I cried, I told him to at least wear a condom. Will he listen, that bastard?! It is of no use he simply turns deaf and does what he wants to and then rolls off.That night I did something I'd never done before. I was desperate so I went to the toilet and washed myself down there, cleaned out whatever I could, even took a bit of cloth and inserted it as deep as I could, hoping that I could remove his filthy seed. For ten minutes, maybe more, I tried everything to clean myself up before I came back to sleep.

(With a forlorn shake of her head, she resumed) Anyway, in a month or so, I knew I was in trouble. No periods, there I was, despite all the washing and cleaning and praying, pregnant once again. I hoped, waited for a few days, praying that the bleeding would start. Nothing. I was desperate. There was no way that I could afford to be pregnant once again. Not with that bastard husband behaving the way he is. 

Went to my mother's house for advice and help. Advice I got, in plenty, all of it useless. As always, she told me to "adjust" but that is not surprising at all. She has been doing exactly that all her life with a husband who is even more useless than mine! (Bitter laugh) Anyway, that was all she could offer so I came away, still wondering where to go, what to do. I think it was the next day, or a little while later, I was talking to "Madam" (the lady of the house where I worked). Madam is a moody lady, she listens sometimes, sometimes she can be quite abrupt and rude. One has to be careful and gauge her mood before speaking. 

That day she seemed in a good mood. We were alone so it must have been a weekday. Cautiously I opened the topic. Slowly, little by little, I told her my fears and, quite surprisingly, she was in a helpful mood. She told me about her own unwanted pregnancy, and how her husband and she went to the clinic for an abortion. She told me too about other things, how to prevent pregnancy permanently etc. She even spoke to her doctor and all. I asked her how much it would cost. She told me not to worry, and gave me some money for the operation - like a fool, I took the money. I should have told her to keep it herself!! (Her voice rose in anger, she was shouting at herself apparently. I asked her, "Why, what happened?")

I had not hidden the money, it was in the small cupboard. When he came home and changed his clothes, his eyes fell on the small bundle. It was 5,000 rupees. It stayed home for barely 3 hours, before he stole it from me - I begged, I pleaded, fell at his feet, tried to take it back from him. He kicked me in the stomach, called me all sorts of abusive filthy names and he was gone. My money too. He was not to be seen for 4 while days, god knows how much money went to drink and how much to those randis that he visits... I had to narrate the whole sorry story to madam. She wanted me to go to the police. Easy to say, no, go to the police?! Tell me, can people like us ever go there and get justice? What they will do? Pull him in and beat him in front of me and the children! How will that help? Will I get the money back? Where will the police be when he comes home again seeking revenge? Will they be there to ensure that he doesn't drink again? Bah!!

Madam refused to help, after that. She thinks I am a fool. She must be right. She's so different, no? Educated, independent and all. Not like us. Tell me, madam, does your husband beat you? (She looks at me. I don't reply, just show her by a shake of the head, "No" while remembering that one time when Girish held my neck in rage)

Anyway, why should I bore you. As you know, the baby was born last week. Jyoti was all excited, poor little thing. She as there at the government hospital all the time, she and my mother. It was a pre-mature baby, she was born one month before time. Poor thing was under weight too. Born hungry, destined to remain hungry, but with a voice! What a voice!! At the time of her birth her voice was loud, like a loud speaker. Even the nurses used to laugh and crack jokes, telling me she will be a political leader! (She smiles, wanly, at the week old memory) In two days I was back at home. And in all that time he didn't come to visit, not once! When we reached home he was there, lolling on the bed, watching some stupid show on TV.

All that he said was "One  more girl like you? Useless!" My heart sank. Is that all he has to say, I thought to myself. I showed him the baby, tried to get him to hold her for a minute. He simply got up, used an abusive word, and left home. 

That's how it has been. Not just now. That's how it has been for a long time. I am trying to remember, has he ever spoken tenderly, gently with me? Perhaps in the beginning, maybe a few times. But from the time Jyoti was born? He's been like this ever since. Not even when Arjun was born did he change... in fact, he's often... (her voice trails away here, drooping in defeat) 

So, THAT day, (incidentally, that's yesterday) Jyoti came back with a small plastic bag of tea and Parle biscuits. She had gone to the corner shop and swept the floor and washed some vessels to earn this. We had that, the three of us, Arjun, Jyoti and I. The little one was stirring awake. Her voice, which was so loud last week, had trailed off and was barely audible now. Weak from hunger, weak from fever, the poor thing suffered. I looked at her and my spirits sank. What am I going to do, I wondered? How do I feed her when I have nothing to give? Jyoti tried lifting her up but I told her to get ready for school and to take Arjun along She's a good girl, my Jyoti, always obedient and responsible. 

In a while the house was empty. The child was now in my lap. I was feeding her. An empty house, an empty pair of breasts. Nothing there, just the little thing sucking on a nipple, hungry for milk, hungry for life with no hope of anything... Alone, all alone, I looked down at her, at her face. Her eyes were closed, her mouth and lips moving, sucking at nothing, and nothing that I could do to change her fate.

In a flash I saw visions of her future. Darkness was all that I could see. A life of desperation, of suffering, of hunger, and sickness and beatings and worse. My heart swelled to bursting point. The little child, now realising that she was sucking on an empty bag began to cry. A small, weak voice but insistent, grating, getting on my nerves. I tried telling her "Keep quiet, keep quiet" over and over, but would she listen? No! She kept crying, squirming, twisting on my lap, in my arms... I can see her face now, I can see my hands now (she lifted her hands and looked at them, I looked too) and I can see my fingers, as I placed them around her neck and pressed and pressed and pressed, these nails puncturing that tiny neck until her face turned blue and she cried no more.

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She was discovered by a neighbour who, ironically, came into the hut wanting to borrow milk. Vaishali sat there, like a statue, with the dead child on her lap. Her hands still firmly around that yet to be named daughter's neck. 

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"Why did you do it?" I asked in a horrified whisper.

"Because I loved her" the mother replied. 

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