The Road That Never Was

In the tranquil landscapes of the Morbi district in Gujarat, nestled amidst the arid plains, lay the village of Vaghasia. Here, life unfolded at its own pace, untouched by the chaos of the outside world. Yet, amidst this tranquil scene, a quintet of spirited souls harbored ambitions as vast as the desert sky. 

The charismatic leader of the group, Jignesh, possessed a keen intellect and a thirst for success that could only

be satisfied by an insatiable hunger for success. By his side stood Preetesh, a man of few words but with a mind sharp enough to slice through the toughest coconut. With them were Mukund, Murali, and Jayesh, each adding their own spice to the curry of life.

They lived in a village along the path of a toll road that was overseen by the National Highways Authority of India (NHAI). For years, the toll plaza had stood like a sentinel, demanding its dues from all who dared to traverse its path. But our merry band saw in this toll road not a barrier, but an opportunity, like finding an unexpected treasure in a pile of cow dung.

One day, during one of their jaunts, they stumbled upon an old factory, its dilapidated walls whispering tales of yore. Jignesh, with a twinkle in his eye, concocted a plan so daring that even the monkeys in the nearby trees paused to take notice—to build a detour road skirting the toll plaza, leading unsuspecting travelers through the decrepit factory.

With meticulous planning and unwavering determination, they set to work, rallying their friends and allies from neighboring villages to aid them in their endeavor. They worked under the cloak of darkness, laying the groundwork for their ingenious scheme, while the rest of the world snored away in blissful ignorance.

But theirs was not a tale of pure greed. No, sir! They understood the delicate balance between ambition and morality, like a tightrope walker balancing on a thin wire. They diverted only a limited number of vehicles through their detour road, ensuring that government buses and vehicles with official number plates were left untouched. The youth manning the toll road before the NHAI toll plaza were well groomed and well spoken, ensuring that no suspicions were aroused among the travelers passing through. Their toll collectors were as polished as a freshly scrubbed brass vessel, leaving travelers none the wiser.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, their scheme flourished, reaping rich rewards with each passing vehicle. The toll tax collected by NHAI paled in comparison to the profits amassed by Jignesh and his band of merry miscreants. In a span of just ten years, they had amassed a staggering sum of close to 75 crores rupees—an illicit fortune born from the sweat and toil of unsuspecting travelers.

But as fate would have it, all good things must come to an end, like a Bollywood movie without a happy ending. The NHAI had calculated its coffers would be overflowing as the district of Morbi slowly became a hub of Ceramic tiles in Gujrat. The NHAI was counting on the increased number of trucks plying on its road because of the booming Ceramic tile business to make an even handsomer profit. But something was amiss as the revenue was not growing exponentially as was expected. It wasn't long before whispers of the clandestine toll operation reached the ears of the authorities like gossip spreading through a village tea stall. The government, incensed by the audacity of the deception, moved swiftly to apprehend those responsible.

Jignesh and Preetesh, the masterminds behind the detour road, found themselves squarely in the crosshairs of the law. Yet, to their surprise, they found unexpected allies in their hour of need. The villagers of Vaghasia, who had long benefited from their clandestine gains, rallied to their defense, refusing to let their heroes fall without a fight.

When the authorities descended upon their village in a bid to make arrests, they
were met with a wall of defiance—a united front forged from years of shared struggle and triumph. Tempers flared, voices rose, and chaos reigned supreme, like a cacophony of monkeys arguing over the juiciest mango. The air crackled with tension as the villagers, armed with nothing but their unwavering resolve, stood shoulder to shoulder in defense of their benefactors as the authorities found themselves outnumbered and outmatched.

In the midst of the pandemonium, Jignesh, Preetesh, and their friends seized the opportunity to slip away into the cover of darkness, vanishing into the labyrinthine alleyways of the village like mice escaping from the claws of a hungry cat. The authorities, frustrated by their inability to apprehend the culprits, were forced to retreat, their tails tucked between their legs.

And so, to this day, the streets of Vaghasia remain eerily silent—a testament to the daring exploits of those who dared to defy the powers that be. Though their actions may have been born from greed and deception, their intentions were noble—to uplift their community and pave the way for a brighter future.

In the wake of their departure, the villagers of Vaghasia found solace in the illicit riches garnered by Jignesh and his comrades. New educational institutions materialized, bringing light where darkness once reigned. Schools emerged, offering children an escape from the shackles of ignorance and destitution. With the foundation laid, colleges soon followed suit, opening doors to advanced learning and intellectual enlightenment. In the wake of their audacious deeds, a transformative wave swept through the village, shaping a future brimming with promise and possibility.

Yet, the most poignant testament to Jignesh and his comrade’s legacy lay in a temple, mosque and Church built by the looted funds —symbols of unwavering faith and solidarity, rising like phoenixes from the ashes of adversity. For Jignesh and his comrades, it was not wealth or power that defined their story, but the indomitable spirit of a community united by a common cause. Though they faded from the forefront of memory, their imprint endured, etched in the hearts and minds of those who dared to envision a brighter future. Their tale served as a beacon of hope, inspiring generations to come with the belief that unity and determination could overcome any obstacle.

Disclaimer: 

This story is a work of fiction created solely from the imagination of the author. While inspired by real events reported in the news, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental. The characters, incidents, and dialogue portrayed in this story are products of the author's imagination and are not intended to represent or depict any specific individuals, organizations, or events accurately. Reader discretion is advised.

Lost Dreams in the Shadows

 In a small, decrepit house on the outskirts of a bustling town, lived an old woman named Sapna. She had spent her entire life in poverty, struggling to make ends meet. Just like her name, she had dreams of a life which forever eluded her.  As a teenager she was married off to a man named Raja. Just like her, the husband too was a Raja in dreams. Her husband, Raja, was a hardworking man, but they were forever trapped in the vicious cycle of poverty. Day in and day out, they scraped by, barely surviving on their meager earnings.

One fateful day, tragedy struck when Raja was involved in a fatal accident while pulling his hand rickshaw. Sapna's world came crashing down around her as she mourned the loss of her beloved husband. The weight of grief hung heavily upon her frail shoulders, but she soldiered on, driven by memories of their enduring love.

In the days following Raja's demise, Sapna was left to pick up the shattered pieces of her life. As the meagre rations in her kitchen dwindled, she was wondering how to eke out a livelihood. Maybe venture out to the streets in search for work as a domestic help or maybe a daily wage laborer. As she was ruminating in these thoughts she was rummaging through their humble belongings, she stumbled upon a small box hidden beneath the side of the bed where her husband used to sleep. With trembling hands, she opened it, and to her disbelief, she discovered a small fortune in cash carefully tucked away by her late husband. The five hundred- and one-thousand-rupee notes were something she had very rarely held in her hands.

A glimmer of hope flickered in Sapna's eyes as she realized that, finally, their years of hardship might have come to an end. The money Raja had saved was intended for their retirement, a future they had long dreamed of but never attained. At least now, Sapna thought, she wouldn't have to beg for food in her old age.

However, fate had a cruel twist in store for Sapna. As she sat in her bed, her ears picked up a snippet of news on the radio crying hoarse from her neighbor’s shanty, the Indian Prime Minister's voice filled the room. He announced the sudden demonetization of 500- and 1000-rupee notes, rendering them worthless pieces of paper. The news left Sapna dumbfounded, her mind struggling to comprehend the gravity of the situation.

The next day, clutching a 500 rupee note, Sapna shuffled into the nearby grocery store to buy some essentials. The kindly old grocer, who had known her for years, noticed her confusion. With empathy in his eyes, he gently explained the implications of demonetization, enlightening her about the urgency to exchange the old currency notes at the bank.

Fear and trepidation gnawed at Sapna's heart as she embarked on a journey she

had never taken before. She made her way to the bank, her weathered face reflecting the weight of a lifetime's worth of hardships. Uneducated and unaccustomed to such formalities, the bustling bank intimidated her.

As Sapna approached the bank teller's counter, she handed over her treasured rupee notes with hope and desperation etched in her eyes. But instead of compassion, she faced accusations. The skeptical teller, eyeing her worn-out clothes and frail appearance, accused her of theft, refusing to believe that the money was the hard-earned savings of her deceased husband.

Undeterred by the bank teller's accusations, Sapna returned day after day, standing under the scorching sun in front of the bank, clutching the worthless notes. Little by little she turned weak with exhaustion while the passing away of Raja was gnawing an ever-increasing hole in her heart. She pleaded with the bank officials to recognize her dire situation, to understand that the money was her only hope for a dignified life in her old age.

As days turned into weeks, Sapna's health deteriorated, her body frail and weak from relentless exposure to the elements. But her determination never wavered. She refused to give up, for she had nothing else to lose. The world around her moved on, unaffected by her suffering, as people rushed past her without a second glance.

One scorching afternoon, Sapna's body could no longer bear the burden of her struggle. She collapsed to the ground, her breaths shallow and labored. Her fist, still clenching the worthless currency, opened as she drew her last breath. The few thousand rupees fluttered through the air, a pitiful testament to a shattered dream.

As Sapna's life ebbed away, a horde of desperate onlookers descended upon her fallen body. They jostled and fought to snatch the fluttering bills from the air, their greed overpowering any semblance of humanity. The money that was meant to secure Sapna's future slipped through her fingers, only to be torn apart by the hands of strangers.

Six Years in Chennai

Six years!! Six fricking years!! Yep its been that long since I moved into Chennai in Tamil Nadu. It wasn't an easy decision to move here at all. I still remember my friends at Birlasoft in NOIDA trying hard to dissuade me from moving to Chennai. But there was friendship on one hand and a newly solemnized marriage with Vidisha on the other hand. A love marriage to boot for on top of it. There is a saying I read somewhere, "Love conquers all things except poverty and toothache". In short our love marriage meant we had near empty pockets by the 20th of every month. Something had to be done to change our lives and that something came in the form of a job offer from Cognizant Technology Solutions in Chennai. So I accepted the job offer.

Chennai is not all embracing to someone who doesn't speak the Tamil language and has no money in the pocket too. I remember walking 5 KMs to office on many days just because I did not have enough money after the first month I moved in and I did not know the language enough to ask for lifts from colleagues. The reason being I had to pay 12 months rent in advance in order to get a house. It was tough to adjust but adjust I did or should I say walk I did as after all "Paapi Pet ka Sawal tha"...lolz. 

Chennai takes its language with gravitas. I still remember informal office meetings sometimes getting conducted in chaste Tamil sidelining me completely. I used to feel bad about this initially and it really hurt. 

Chennai has the most genuine people around. Those same team members who had earlier conducted the meeting in Tamil would summarize everything in English at the end so that I did not miss out on anything.

Chennai taught me to surmount the language barrier by simply being polite to everyone. So my introduction to the two life saving words, Anna and Akka. Just dole out an Akka or Anna while addressing people and they would definitely try to help you out.

Chennai is a city that slowly grows on to you and grow it did. The old world and the new world live in perfect harmony in this city. One still sees people cycling on the roads while the Jaguars and the Mercs glide past them. 

Chennai has been a gastronomically delightful place and I have eaten some of the best North Indian food over here. If Delhi had its Chandni Chowk, Madras (Oops! Chennai) had its Mylapore.

Chennai doesn't differentiate the 365 days of the year into seasons, One gets to see different degrees of heat here with all of them being above 36.5 degree Celsius. Phew!!

Chennai has probably the strictest police force around. I really am not joking here. I had tried bribing a cop once and had to pay a 'chalan' double the initial amount. Salute to them. It indeed is one of the safest cities I have ever lived in.

Chennai takes to Brandy like Punjab takes to whisky. Seriously I have never seen so many brands of brandy in a liquor shop as I see in Chennai. 

Chennai loves its gold. Six years and I am still awestruck seeing the kind of gold people wear over here.

Chennai takes its politicians seriously and their movie-stars even more seriously. Be it a political rally or the release of the latest Tamil block buster movie, posters appear magically overnight and disappear too after some days only to be replaced by the poster of someone else.

Chennai loves its beaches. Any public holiday or any regular Sunday one finds the beaches chockablock even with the sun beating down on your head.

Chennai loved its whistle podu team aka Chennai Super Kings. Alas, CSK got banned now. I still remember people having murder in their eyes for me when I used to cheer Mumbai Indians during the annual jamboree called IPL.

Chennai has taught my nearly 2 year old daughter more Tamil than she has picked up Odiya, Hindi, Sindhi or English. She still addresses me sometimes as "Appa" instead of "Papa"

Chennai you have taken 6 years of my life but you have given me back equally. The same chap who once used to walk to office, could earn enough to buy his first car here. Now we are all set to take possession of our first house too when I return back to India. A house that the once young star crossed yet empty pocketed couple would like to turn into a Home Sweet Home in a city they call their hometown now. Chennai you are mine now. 

Namma Chennai - Chance ey illa!!

Summer Vacations

Bapa n Maa have arrived today in Chennai. Well that's Bapa n Maa for Lil' Sam, Nana and Bou for me. In other words my parents have traveled all the way from Odisha to Chennai for the summer vacations.

Here I am 14000 KMs away all alone. Miss being there in Chennai now. Good days have come to roost in Chennai. My niece will be travelling from Ahmedabad to Chennai for her school vacations. The house will be filled with cheers and shouts of joy when two grand daughters get reunited with with their grand parents. Cartoons 24 hours of the day. Ice Creams, cold drinks and of course chips flowing. Story telling sessions during the evenings. Running around the house. Swings in the park nearby. Perhaps a visit or two to the beach.

Time sure flies by. It still feels like yesterday, when all of us cousins used to get together for summer

vacations with our grandparents. We used to be a motley bunch of kids numbering sometimes up to 15 cousins. Ohh!! The fun..The games....The fights....Moments which will remain etched forever in all our hearts.
My grandparents used to live in a village named "Nalihana" which was about 30 KMs from Puri. They owned a farmhouse which was spread across 35 acres. Warm sunny weather with the cool sea breeze flowing in the evening. Trees to climb all around the place. Mangoes to be plucked straight from the 100 odd mango trees and eaten without being washed. "Hoo-doo-doo ing" the bullocks which to the uninitiated was the war cry to make the bullocks go faster as they pulled the bullock cart. Fishing in one of the several ponds. Long lazy baths in one of the ponds owned by our
grandparents. If I remember correctly there used to be seven ponds but the best was the "Bada Pokhari". Nature at its best. Fresh coconut water from one of the coconut trees. Fresh honey from the apiary. Cricket matches and the occasional kabadi matches with the village children. 


My grandfather owned a Luna.Moped. That Luna was probably the first bike all we cousins ever rode. The thrill of zooming down the broken village roads at 25 KM per Hour......Wooohooo!!! I tell you we were speed demons...lolz. Evenings brought with them the
cry of the cicadas. The sea breeze made the evenings much cooler, not that we cousins minded the heat of the day. Night came early as most of the times there was no electricity in the village. The night brought with it, "Chuda Ghasha". That heavenly concoction of flattened rice mixed with generous amounts of pure ghee and lots and lots of coconut and jaggery. Yummy!!! I am salivating just thinking about it. 

Personally for me the best part of all those summer vacations spent with my grandparents were the story telling sessions. Both my grandfather and my grandmother were voracious readers who could read Odiya, Bengali, Hindi and English. The stories they would recite to us while all of us cousins sat with them during the evenings under a star lit sky still ring true in my ears. My favorites were the Jim Corbett stories. My love for story telling and story writing probably comes from those stints with my grandparents. 

Time sure flies by. That small lad from Nalihana today is in the USA and has his own daughter of nearly two now pestering her grandparents for a story this summer vacation of 2016.

Why Am I An Animal?

I could hear a growl. Sigh!! Hunger was playing games with me. It was my six day old empty stomach which was the reason behind the commotion disturbing the peace and quiet of the early night. I rubbed my belly and wondered aloud

that I will have to satiate my stomach sometime soon. Darn, I should have whispered to my stomach, because just then one of my six day old twins opened her little beautiful eyes. How beautiful they looked sleeping peacefully? But no time to admire the sleeping beauties as my maternal instincts kicked in and I knew the routine had to be followed again.

I moved closer towards the awake baby and nursed her. But to my surprise and horror, my baby started bawling even while I tried to nurse her. "Shhh!! Young lady, otherwise your twin brother will wake up too". Oh! No, too late, her sibling had started stirring now.

These were the times, when I literally wanted to shout out, O' God, why did you give me twins? Raising two children was proving more than a handful to me, what with my philandering husband having conveniently run away after impregnating me. I tell you, all males are like that. Damn you, my husband!

Controlling my emotional outburst, I snuggled closer to both my babies in order to nurse them again. But the bawling did not stop. I tried changing my position, lifting my babies but nothing helped. Then I realized, the milk had stopped flowing and this was the reason the hunger of my babies was not getting satiated. With every passing moment, the cries of the babies was getting louder and shriller. O' God, what should I do now was the thought that pulsed through my panicked mind. Taking a deep breath I tried to calm my mind and realized, that ever since the delivery of my twins I had not had anything sumptuous or healthy to eat. My milk had been flowing until now but the earlier stomach growl had been a sign that I needed to replenish my body with some food immediately.

Both of my babies had stopped crying and were looking at me imploringly for milk. I cooed to them, "Soon my children, I will feed you both soon, but before that Ma needs to eat a little something". I decided to sing them a lullaby so that sleep would embrace them from the grasps of hunger. I was rusty with my singing, but nevertheless I improvised on the lyrics and soon the eyes of both my twins became droopy and within a span of half an hour, both of them fell asleep again.

I got up and stretched the aching muscles of my body. I looked around the house and all I saw was emptiness. I had binged on all my food stocks and now there was nothing in the house to munch on. Looking out of the window, I realized it was fast approaching the witching hour and I could venture out of the house soon to grab a quick bite.  I snatched a quick look at my sleeping babies and yes, they were fast asleep, probably dreaming about drinking milk. My cutie pies, what should I name them. Hmm! May be after I have eaten and fed my babies, I will ponder over this all important question of naming my children. After all, a nicer sounding name is half the battle won. Pity those parents who do not put a thought towards naming their children. I winced as I remembered my younger sister who had been named 'Munia'. What with the people of the village nearby having a song blaring out of their radios,'Muni badnam hui, darling tere liye'. Poor Munia had been the butt of all jokes throughout her live. Nah! I will be careful and give my twins fashionably modern names.

I ventured out of the house as quietly as possible as I did not want to disturb the hunger and lullaby induced sleep of my twins. Alternating between speed walking and jogging I reached the end of the forest and the beginning of the village in good time. There was a time when I used to live in the land where the village has now proclaimed itself, but alas I had been forced out of my own land like an outcast. Now as a result of this, I lived deep within the forests.

Keeping to the shadows and tip toeing as silently as possible I entered the dirt tracks that separated the houses within the village. I had my mind on the goat house of the village headman. I wanted to raid the goat house as quietly and quickly as possible. Grab a goat and run home to savor it at my own leisurely pace. After all a postpartum mother needs some high grade protein in order to heal from the stress of baby-birth.

Something was amiss that alerted my sixth sense and I crouched down behind a wall. Careful not to make any sounds, I strained hard to listen to any on toward noises. I was not able to point the reason for the growing unease affecting me. Nevertheless I decided to wait a couple of minutes before I resumed my raid. The uneasiness never left me. This feeling was something new for me. I had always been a brave heart and never been afraid of the villagers. Then why was I feeling uneasy tonight.

The age old battle of the heart versus the mind took over me immediately. My heart responded to the uneasy feeling by wishing me to return home as soon as possible, for maybe my babies had woken up and finding me absent were crying

themselves hoarse. The mind never to be outdone, responded by telling me that no food for me meant no milk for the babies. I knew the babies could not tolerate hunger and which mother would ever want to keep her babies hungry. End result, mind won and I decided to raid the goat house as quickly as possible and return back to my babies.

Perhaps it was my unfed stomach or the thought of my unfed babies, which led me to throw caution to the winds and rush towards the goat house. Just as I turned the corner of the last house and the goat house loomed ahead, I heard a twig break faintly. Before I could realize what happened a net fell on me ensnaring me within it. I was trapped.

The doors of the houses opened and the villagers started coming out of their houses led by their dogs who started barking at me. I tried with all my might to escape from the all-encompassing net but I couldn't. The villagers maintained a respectable and fearful distance but their respect and fear soon gave way to collective disrespect and fearlessness. A stone was thrown from one among the crowd and hit me on my back. “Cowards”, I roared in pain.  Soon the incoming missiles started raining on me from all sides as the crowd encircled me. A voice from within the crowd shouted at me, “This is the thief trying to steal our goats, let’s punish him.” This insult was too much for me and I roared back at them in anger, “this used to be my home on which you villagers have forcefully encroached upon and now you dare to call me a thief”.

My roar silenced the villagers for a moment, but the attack on me soon resumed even more vigorously. The more I tried to escape from the net that had trapped me, the more I got hopelessly tangled. This emboldened the villagers and the human circle around me became tighter as the villagers now came closer.

Wooden ‘lathis’ materialized out of nowhere and the attack on me continued. In between all these physical blows on my body, the occasional cowardly village dog tried to take a chunk out of me.  The pain and the humiliation of being attacked by puny dogs was too much for me, when I heard someone from within the crowd throw another insult at me, “let us punish this filthy animal by cutting its hands and feet, that ought to be a fitting punishment for a thief trying to steal away our livestock’s”. I was crying out in pain, asking for mercy from all the lacerations on my body. "Oh! Villagers, you are calling me an animal. Why am I an animal? Have I forcefully taken over your land? Have I ever brutally attacked any of you ever? Have I ever talked of chopping your hands and feet even though you have stolen my land, my river and my trees from me.Then why am I an animal." My cries of anguish were falling on deaf years as the pain became unbearable when the villagers finally managed to chop off my hands and feet.

I do not know for how long I had been unconscious, but daylight was creeping in. I was exhausted from blood loss but I was still alive. The net had been removed from on top of me as I lay there bleeding. I was too weak to protest when soon the younger among the villagers slowly crept towards me with small rectangular bricks in their hands. Maybe this was yet another instrument of pain which the villagers would use on me. But no, there were no new blows to me, instead I could see the villagers stood in front of me with  one hand raised holding that rectangular brick which seemed to emit bright flashes like miniature lightening’s.  I heard one of the young villagers speaking, “This ‘selfie’ picture is going to make me a hero in front of my children’s eye when I tell them, it was me who had punished this thief.” Summoning all my last reserves of energy I begged them to allow me to leave as my poor babies were hungry.

My babies must be waking up now from their hunger and lullaby induced sleep. Mummy is coming soon, don't cry my babies. Oh!! What shall I name my twins, who are just six days old? The pain. The darkness. The end.

Authors Note:
I was inspired to write this story after I saw this image on the internet of a Leopard that had been lynched by a mob in a village of Maharastra. I personally believe the price we are going to pay in this battle of supremacy over the riches of Mother Earth will return back to haunt us. Man versus Animal conflict is a reality which we cannot escape from. Hope better judgement prevails in the future and we give back what we have forcibly taken away from other animals.

Happy Birthday Gal

364 days have passed since I came visiting Ma and Pa. I hear that the earth revolves around the sun once every 365 days. That means tomorrow the earth will be at the exact same position relative to the sun as it was when I came visiting before returning back.

My first memory is of Ma looking at me teary eyed while I looked back at her teary eyed myself. Ma was exhausted and crying with the pain of labor while I found the first moments outside of my cozy room for the last 9 months a little bit unnerving. The harsh lights and the loud noise of voices in that sterile smelling room were all overwhelming to me. Ma's cooing voice made me stop crying because I remember hearing her soothing voice every day. After settling in her arms I tried to single out the other voice I had heard for the past 9 months. But that voice was not audible to me. Later I found out that Pa had never been there when I came out. That self-obsessed snob was still  in office in faraway Chennai.

Pa came calling the next day. A full 20 hours after I had come out. Can you imagine? They say, 'first impression is the last impression'. No doubt, Pa didn't leave a good impression on me. I would have been the bigger person and forgiven Pa. However the first thing which he did on seeing me was kiss Ma in the cheeks. Gross!!! Hello!! I am the newcomer here, not Ma. Look at me when you are in the room with me. Nah!! After a full 5 minutes of hugging Ma, did Pa finally turn his attention to me. The nerve of that guy named Pa, the first thing he did was flick out his mobile and click a smiling selfie along with me. Self-obsessed snob I decided is the correct name for Pa. I didn't like Pa’s ham-handed behavior  at all and burst into tears as soon as Pa lifted me in his arms. I didn't understand though, Pa had tears in his eyes too when he hug me the first time.

Although Pa got off on the wrong foot with me, he was not too bad a person. I could hear him cooing to Ma, "How beautiful our little bundle of joy is?" Pa seemed to be always there looking at me whenever I opened my eyes. Ma used to scold Pa to keep my voice down and stop clicking selfies with me always there in the frame lest I get disturbed.

Pa says he likes history a lot. However Ma say's "Who in the correct frame of mind likes history?" You see I like Ma. After all I spent 9 months as a tenant inside her. So I tend to see eye to eye with Ma more than Pa and therefore I have decided I too don't like history. I have already dwelled on the past a lot, and the past my friend is called history. So let’s cut to present day again.

Tomorrow will be an anniversary. An anniversary of my first full year here. I expect nothing less than being treated like a Princess from heaven. A new beautiful fairy dress with the works including a tiara and a magic wand. A big party. A colorful cake. A magician doing magic tricks especially pulling the rabbit out of the hat. No clowns though, cause clowns with their big red colored lips scare me. Lots of other kids. Foot tapping music so that some of the other kids can shake a leg and entertain me and if I am in the mood who knows I might join them and shake a leg too. Food should be yummilicious although I am not sure how yummilicious tastes because I haven't had the chance to taste anything other than milk. But who cares, I like the word " yummilicious " so the food in the party should be "yummilicious" and nothing less than that. I almost forgot this last one. I want that big...bigger....biggest brown Teddy from Hamleys as a gift from Pa.

I have been rambling along for too long now. I guess I got that gene from Pa. Pa and Ma must be busy getting things in order for my big day tomorrow. But what is it I see. Pa and Ma have been sitting quietly on the sofa without even talking to each other let alone planning my birthday. Ma turns to Pa and tells, "I miss her. She would have turned one tomorrow, if she would have been alive." Pa keeps quiet while a tear burns its way down his cheek.

I tell you, crybabies, both of them. So what if I had to leave the both of them and return back to God after spending just 6 days with them that doesn’t mean they will continue to pine for me even today. I mean, come on guys, it’s been a year now. Ma and Pa, you should have been planning a big party for me. Anyways I will be the bigger person here and forgive both of you. It’s pretty late now and the grand plans for my first birthday party cannot materialize in such a short deadline. At the very least get a pastry and cut it on my behalf and mind it the pastry has to be of the “yummilicious” flavor.

 

The Ragpicker

A long day in office normally leaves me cranky and short fused. I decided to have a fag nevertheless on my way home, even though it was pretty close to 9:00 PM in the night. As I lit up the fag and enjoyed a drag, I noticed a shabbily dressed old man standing near the shop counter. The man was fidgety and had the looks of poverty having made a permanent hovel over his destiny. The shirt he was wearing was definitely a hand me down, which had seen a lot of hands in its life time. The lungi he was wearing was tattered and probably had not been washed for a long time for fear of it turning into tatters.

The shop is run by a middle aged woman, who has a permanent constipated smirk on her face. She is rude to a fault and never smiles. But hers is the only shop on the road and therefore there is always a constant flow of customers to her small shop. I have been going to her shop every day for the past 2 years, and she never shows any signs of recognizing me. Though it does not bother me that she does not remember me, but it sure feels irritating when she asks me "Which brand of cigarette, saaar?" I mean, I go to the shop every evening after office to smoke a fag and yet she does not remember the brand I smoke.

Now coming back to the present, the old man kept standing near the store front while the store lady ignored him and I took a drag from my cigarette. The old man was looking intently at the various tall glass jars which held different candy and sweet meats. Finally after contemplating a little, the old man pointed a bonny finger to a rectangular plastic container. The container had several chocolate bars belonging to the Nestle brand. The shop lady had an incredulous look on her face as if to suggest, "Are you mad old man, pointing fingers at the most expensive chocolates in my shop." The shop lady ignored the old man for a couple of minutes.

But the old man stood there patiently pointing at the rectangular plastic container. Finally the shop lady stood up and shouted in coarse Tamil at the old man. Now I have been living in Chennai for nearly 4 years now, so I can understand a smattering of Tamil. The shop lady was shouting at the old man, that he would not be able to afford the Nestle chocolates even if he sold his skin. Many more such colorful profanities spilled out from her mouth. The old

man stood unflinching there. This seemed to cause the shop lady to lose her temper further. She raised her voice to a decibel ten notches higher and shouted, "Get out of my shop beggar."

The last insult shook the old man out of his reverie. The weather-beaten man unclenched his fist and there lay several coins in his palm. The shop lady immediately cut short the ranting and ravings she had been subjecting the old man till now and stood quietly. The old man showed one finger and asked in a weak voice, "Yevelo" which in Tamil means, "How much"? The shop ladies voice carried a hint of sarcasm as she said the cost of one chocolate was Rupees Thirty.

The shop lady expected the old man to shudder at the mention of price and hence the sarcasm in her tone when she spat out the price. I would be lying if I say I too was not expecting the old man to quietly go away with downcast eyes of a defeated man after hearing the price. However the old man did not betray any emotion and stood his ground. The cataract in his old eyes made it difficult for the old man to differentiate the one rupee from the two rupee coins. Nevertheless after much fumbling and bringing each coin near his eyes more than once, the old man successfully counted out thirty bucks and kept them on top of the rectangular container which held the treasured Nestle chocolates.

The shop lady was taken aback on seeing the small pile of coins and even though she had perfectly good eyes, she took longer to count the coins than had the old man. Perhaps, she was making sure each of the coins had the Sarnath Lions engraved on them properly. After making sure she had her money, she opened the container took out a single thin slab of Nestle Cadbury chocolate.

The old man accepted the precious cargo from the shop lady and ran his fingers over the shiny plastic covering of the chocolate. As I stood there, I could see the old man finally betraying his emotions as a thin smile broke upon his old tired face revealing several missing teeth. The smile lines around the corners of the mouth less prominent than the many wrinkles which crisscrossed the weather-beaten leathery face. The old man saw me looking at him blankly. There was a slight nod of his head towards me as he shuffled across the store front out of the shop.

Just as the old man walked out of the shop dragging his tired feet along, the rain God decided to provide some background effect to this setting by opening the heavenly flood gates. As often happens in India, the electricity gets cut off as soon as it starts raining, plunging the road and the shop into darkness. The road was deserted and the old man could have easily walked back into the shop if he wanted. But the man picked up his rag pickers torn and mended jute gunny sack and slowly walked across the street melting into the darkness.

I was waiting for the unseasonal rain to stop so that I could get along on my way to my home. Just then an Audi car swerved into the street screeching aloud from its tires and lighting up the now darkened street with white light from its incredibly beautiful LED lights. As the car whizzed past, I saw the old rag picker man for the last time. There he was sitting huddled under a tree along with an equally old woman. The thin chocolate slab was broken into two and each of them had a piece in their hands as they laughed without care like two young children.