And yet again I am onto the ground In sorrow, despair and pain Soiled, beaten and bound And yet again Life oozes out of the veins
Yet Again I foresee my wherewithal Watch my blood drain The sand of the enemy lands Surging to cover my corpse And yet again I lie dying in sheer disdain.
I could never
have imagined life to turn this way, even in the wildest of my dreams. But, it
is not in the nature of life itself to take steadfast courses. I could have
never thought that I would develop such disgust with someone I loved.
It started back
in 2007. I had just passed out of my engineering college. I had started working
with a software company in Noida. And henceforth began the monotonous life of a
software developer. I hailed from Lucknow-the city of Nawabs. Nawabs died and
it was all inhabited by commoners. In fact, even the Nawabs might never have
descended to the common household. Don’t know why still it is called so.
Anyways, I was placed straight from the campus, which not many people are not
fortunate enough to be, and was working. And ironically, it was all mechanical.
Starting up from my flat in Indirapuram at 8, reaching office at quarter to 9,
being confined to my cubical for the next eight hours, with lunch hour and
pee-breaks inclusive; and thus became life or whatever. I never liked this. I
always missed my home back in Lucknow, my mother and home-cooked food.
I was always a
flocking bird. But here; everyone, almost everyone was very much into their own
selves. And it was then that I was realizing the grimness of cut-throat
corporate life. This continued for another six months or so and then on one of
those another pissed morning she entered through the front door. I was standing
there just about to check in. I overheard her asking Shaheen, the snob
receptionist, about the way to the Process Department. I could clearly hear the
loud Shaheen telling her to follow me (Perhaps she had pointed towards me too).
I turned, and yes I was right. She was coming towards me. I saved her from any
awkwardness she might face in talking to a stranger, and said,
‘May I help you?’
‘Yes actually I
was coming to you only. The receptionist had directed me to follow you, Sir.’
'My name is Vishal
Roy. You can call me Roy. And yes I am sure that girl wouldn’t have mentioned
“Sir”.’
A big smile
appeared on her face. It was mystic. There was something about her. I was
enchanted.
‘Hello Roy. I am Renuka. Renuka Bisht. I am
new here, into the Process Department. Are you in the same one? I mean could
you direct me to it, if at all that wouldn’t bother?’
‘Aah, not at all.
Come with me, I am in the same department.’
For the first
time the same gloomy ambience seemed so illuminated. Her smile was divine. I
was captivated by her charm.
I led her to the
department and took her to Mr. Prakash Charturvedi, Manager (Process).
And it wasn’t
late enough that that the brainless huge head began blabbering,
‘Welcome aboard
Miss Bisht. You are a part of the team now. We have the legacy of commitment
and determination. Now it’s your responsibility to blah blah blah blah…’
That was exactly
how I heard it. But she still donned that smile on her face.
‘...Roy, would be
your associate here’, this I clearly heard. I guess my ears were following some
selective algorithm. That was the first time I truly wanted to thank him.
Otherwise, he just wanted us to be thankful for he provided us with the opportunity
to work under his aegis.
‘Roy, get her
acquainted to the place and colleagues.’
‘Yes sir’, I
nodded meekly.
And the crocodile
went back to his hide. I directed Renuka to her cubicle, which was luckily
juxtaposed to mine. I was elated. For the first time in those sullen premises,
I met someone who reflected some good vibes. There was a pleasant aura all
around her.
‘So you are
Bengali?’
Her voice was agryable.
It soothed my ears which had been badly hit by the routine noises of the
premises.
‘No. I mean yes,
I am a Bengali, but we had been living in Lucknow for generations.’
‘Aah. Rossogullas’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
And she turned to her desk.
We developed a
good bond over the time. You generally do when you are working in the same
premises, in fact being at proximity to each other. We used to work together.
Go for lunch together. And most importantly giggled together on silly jokes and
she laughed at my one-liners, which I was always rebuked for, for most people
found them imprudent. But she would laugh with all her heart on the same one. I
believed, perhaps she was the only one who could understand them.
She was friendly and fun to be around with. She
seemed to be my oasis in that desert of humanly
connections. As time passed, I
got to know about her. She was a complete package- caring, affectionate,
authoritative, intelligent.
It had been eight
months of working together. Although I had been doing the same work, life was
not monotonous anymore. It had suddenly become more vivid. She was the reason
for it. I was starting to have feelings for her. It was new for me. I had never
felt this way for someone, ever before. Whenever she took leave from the
office, it would seem as if the colors that she put onto the bleak wall of my
life, had been bleached and those eerie walls have resurfaced, only with even
more ghastly appearances. I had started liking her immensely. And then one day,
I proposed my love to her.
‘What?! Roy I have a boyfriend. I am in
live-in relation with him.’
‘But, you never mentioned of him ever.’
‘Because, I never wanted to… Look Vishal, I
respect your feelings and you had always been a great support. But, I… I just
cannot.’
Saying these
words she turned back to her desk. I was not in senses. Perhaps, felt missachtet
and betrayed. Whom could I blame? Actually there was no one to. How could she
ever not tell this to me? I thought we were friends. But then I got reminded of
what a friend said to me once,
“One can only try to, but never become a
woman’s friend. No one can understand a woman. A woman is a book of mysteries.”
The following
week we had least of conversation. And then I realized that it was better with
her. What if I couldn’t get her love, we could still continue to be friends.
And hence I approached her.
‘Renu, look I am sorry. I had actually started
enjoying your company, and didn’t realize when this thing rose in me. I am
sorry. Being in the same room as you were in, and still not talking to you is what
pains me more. I understand that we cannot be together. But at least we could
continue to be friends. Things might not remain the same as before, but give me
a try. I shall put in efforts to not hurt you ever again.’
‘I respect you Roy. You had been a gem of a
friend to me. Neither do I want to lose such a good friend,’ and she smiled.
That smile was
what had put me into that situation. I loved her smile. My heart was galloping,
and it was audible. I had, as if, won a battle and my asinine heart was
rejoicing and dancing.
Things had
started getting back to normal, and I too worked to not let my feelings to
resurface. Then one day I saw her bent over her desk and in a very haphazardly
manner searching for something. I went to her and said, ‘Hello!’
She replied with
a docile ‘Hi!’ without making much effort and still bent over her desk.
Something was wrong. This mechanical ‘Hi’ was devoid of her genial smile. And
this wasn’t something like her, the one that I had known over the past thirteen
months. She still was pretty much engrossed in herself as if unaware of my
presence- existence rather.
‘What’s wrong Renu?’
‘Chetan is not well. Listen, I need to go.
It’s urgent.’
‘Okay. But…’
Before I could
say a word of concern, she was away. I couldn’t even say a “Bye” to her. I
cared the least about her boyfriend. All I cared about was her. I didn’t give
her a call, thinking it wouldn’t be wise enough. She didn’t come the following
day. And I waited still. The next day I gave her a ring. She picked the phone.
And before I could even complete my “Hello”, she started yelling at me-
‘(Do) you think you can come between me and
Chetan? Don’t disturb by calling again. Chetan is sleeping.”
And she hung up
the phone. This was strange. This wasn’t her. Something was wrong. It wasn’t
her disposition to yell at people. I waited for another week. This had started
to take a toll on me, because deep inside I knew I still loved her. I didn’t
know who this Chetan guy was; and how things were between them. He might be
unwell but I had no trust on him. I hadn’t ever met him personally. Renuka had actually
only once shown a picture of his, but she never brought him down to meet. And
if ever I asked where she lived, she would always evade or say that Chetan
wouldn’t like it. I used to get pissed even the more. What a snob. What kind of
a boyfriend was he? Was he a boyfriend or dictator? But then I always said,
“Okay”.
“Me Lord! Looking at the innocent features of this man in the witness box, who could ever say that he is a cold-blooded murderer, Me Lord, who on the dark night of 19th March killed my client’s husband, Your Honor! ”
“No Sir! This is not true. I didn’t kill anyone, Huzoor. Apne chhote chhote bachchon ki kasam maii-baap.”
That is how we know of the Indian law courts. Thanks to the Indian cinema which has always made our belief even stronger.
Who did not ever get captivated by the pride and majesty of the court? That elevated bench of the judge, emblem behind, those santris in the traditional outfit, the decorum, those so immaculate lawyers, and the witness box; and the judge banging his mallet and saying “ Order! Order! ”
Supreme Court of India
As a child I always used to feel proud about the courts as they were depicted in the movies. For they were the only source of knowledge to my peanut-sized brain then (though the brain could be still peanut sized; I never checked so you never know). For the courts were never depicted in the 9’o clock news. All they would ever show would be the domes of Supreme Court and High Court, that too from a distance. And newspapers, I restricted myself to the comic strip always (by the way I still do). So, don’t know of that source either, whether they ever had some picture of the inside or not. And yes at that time there existed only two courts in the country – the Supreme Court and the High Court. The session courts and other lower ones down the cascade didn’t come into the picture, till I had to go through the class seventh civics textbook (obviously, didn’t go through that on my own; was rather forced to). Whatever!!
Lady Justice
Somehow, I always restored my very staunch faith in the Indian Judiciary System. Until I myself didn’t have to go through the same procedure (that surely doesn’t mean that I showed some soul the gates to heaven/hell). For me the courts had always been (I thought of them being) the holy shrines of justice. Where the blindfolded lady of justice or law or whatever, would always take the right decision – punish the guilty and acquit the innocent. But then guilty too, get exonerated and innocent get punished.
“So what? Cannot that lady go wrong anywhere? After all she’s not God. She’s just an embodiment. And over that too she is blind-folded. Poor she. That’s sheer brutality to blame her. I am sure she might have been misled. Oh God! Why did you do such an injustice to her? Why did you take away her eyes? If she ever would have had her eyes, she wouldn’t ever be bamboozled.”
Coming back to the epicenter of the story (which of yet is not disclosed) – my case. Well seemingly simple, “I was hit by a bus, friends rescued me, admitted me to a hospital, an F.I.R. was lodged, I was diagnosed with Diffuse Axonal Injury at the hospital (I was so dead, man!!) Not bringing that into the picture and moving ahead directly to the court.
Uttar Pradesh
The scheduled date for the case hearing was approaching. The owner of the bus (who turns out to be a big fish in the swarm, having a fleet of scores of buses) tries it all – bribes the case in-charge, threatened witnesses and of course the applicant – my dad, a sweet man but a determined father. He too, brings in political support (who, otherwise has got nothing to do with politics and politicians though) from the government of the state wherein the incident took place, UP (or better as Uttar Pradesh as many know it as , but I have known it as ‘Ulta’ Pradesh – harboring all sorts of “Ulta” activities in its very household).
Just one phone call at the police station did it all. And the in-charge comes running to my father, “Sharma Ji, I have arrested the driver, and taken the bus too, in custody. I never knew Mantri Mahodaya aapke saale sahib hain”. (As if my father should have pasted that on his head). Whatever!!
The case went to the court.
And henceforth started the whole lot of eye opening, glass shattering miseries. I was out of the whole scene as yet, although the whole hullaballoo was about me. I didn’t come into the picture till the previous one.
For the first couple of hearings, only my father and ‘our lawyer’ used to go to the court. Our lawyer – I was so anxious to meet him, to see him and get swayed by his persona. Our ‘Sunny Deol’. I always “used to” categorize lawyers distinctly into two classes –
Class One: good ones, “Sunny Deols”
Class Two: bad ones, “Amrish Puris”
And no mediocre class ever existed. But then I always used to wonder that why do then cases remain pending in the courts when there could be lawyers like the one SunnyDeol depicted in Damini. Then I used to make myself understand that there might be more number of Amrish Puris than there would be Sunny Deols. Whatever!!
I was sort of desperate to meet him. And finally, I was told that the judge wants to see the victim (Me! Me! Me!).
Yayy! I am going to the real court. WooHoo!
I perhaps didn’t go sleep the night when I got this news from my obvious source – my father. I kept counting days.
One more gone. 47 days to go now.
I kind of committed to prepare myself on how I am going to react to the various statements and how I am going to reply to various questions asked and counter the allegations of the opposition. Yes. I, in fact, started preparing a short speech too, that I would be going to deliver before the court.
Heartbreak I
‘How are we going to reach the court?’, I asked my father.
‘We’ll take metro. That’ll be the most convenient.’
Today I am going to make my mark in the history of the Indian Legislature. People will remember me in the times to come.
We reached ‘Tis Hazari Court’. Thirty thousand Sikhs led by Guru Gobind Singh Ji sacrificed their lives here. It was for some “Guru Gobind Singh vs. State (Aurangzeb)” case.
So was that case also heard here? Don’t know. But Guru Gobind Singh was surely the right one there. But at that time, I guess, the lady justice never happened to be in the court for Aurangzeb was not a bit liberal about letting women be at public places.
Tis Hazari Court
As I moved out of the station and towards the court, I sensed something was weird about it.
“Holy Cow! Where’s the dome?”
I asked my father what happened with the dome of the court. And to my utmost horrors he replied that it never had.
“This is no real court. A court has to have that dome. The in-charge has made a big fool of us by not taking the case to the real one.”
(As if a stone, a big one just hit the glass walls of my heart)
Heartbreak II
Anyhow. No one cared to give any justifications which obviously they wouldn’t be having because even they must be knowing that it wasn’t some real time court. But why everyone was so quiet? I somehow made myself understand,
“This is a strange world run by foolish people.”
We moved inside. Went up a floor. I asked my father,
‘Where’s the court room?’
‘What are these rooms for? These are all court rooms’, he said.
This I rather gulped. Fine. Perhaps that’s why judges come, and go after the hearing. The judge must have to go other rooms too to head the proceedings. Hardworking poor guy.
‘These all courtrooms have their own judges. Many a cases go on simultaneously.’
This was a major blow to my belief. A massive one.
“I came here thinking it to be one judge, but here it is a whole Greek clan.”
Heartbreak III
We came outside the room where ‘my case’ was to be heard. I couldn’t peep inside. The view through the door was blocked by the clerks (perhaps) and the ‘too plump for their shirts’ policemen standing at the door. I seated myself on one of the many benches lined up against the grey wall outside the court room which perhaps was supposed to be white but it didn’t seem like. My father bent over to check something over the lifeless wall behind me. I curiously turned around and inquisitively (which is innate to me) asked,
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s the list of cases to be heard today in this court. I too, now bent over it, checking.
‘Heck no! 24 cases in one court; and when is our turn? It’s the last one.’
(All my dreams collapsed with a lout ‘thud’)
HeartbreakIV
‘The lawyer might be inside. You wait here. Let me give him a ring over his phone’, my father said as he moved away from where I was, taking his cellular phone out of his pocket and adjusting his eye glasses. And in no time ‘the slaughterer of my expectations’ appeared.
Shree Ram Lagoo
This man? He is the lawyer? He nowhere seems to be like ‘Sunny Deol’. Rather looks like ‘Shree Ram Lagoo’.
And look at the irony his name was ‘Advocate Ram Kumar, M. A. LL. B.’
What happened to ‘dhai kilo ka haath’? He cannot be the one.
My expectations of the lawyer died and were cremated thereof with not even the delay of a blink. I could hear the bells of the church or temple or whatever; I was not in a state to decipher.
‘Wo zalim mere dil ko chhalni kr ke aisa muskuraya
Jaise lakadbagghe ke muhn me gosht ka niwala aa gya ho’
Heartbreak V
Mr. Ram Kumar (I just don’t stand calling him advocate Ram Kumar) told my father that our turn would come by 2:30 pm., till then my father could take me to the canteen and get me to eat something. But I said I was fine. I obviously was not. I felt as if I had been robbed. This petite man has looted me, of my emotions, my expectations. I wanted to see no further. This had already been the most disappointing day of my life so far. The only hope, if at all, remaining was in the court room. I refrained myself (well, obviously I tried to) from the events that had occurred in the day so far. I deliberately kept myself engaged in clicking the photographs of the people in the waiting room, and the policemen.
Just then a short, lean clerk (perhaps he was the clerk) called out
“Anil Sharma vs. Aslam Khan”
Mr. Anil Sharma, my father, who had almost fallen asleep sitting on the bench was alarmed at the call and said,
‘Let’s move in.’
I myself was quite boosted up the very moment. My morale instantly blew to the top. A serum of confidence as if injected into my veins. I was brimming with joy and excitement. And all of a sudden all those smart lines I had prepared, started moving in my mind as if being cued. I leapt and galloped to enter the court room.
Just as I crossed the doorway to enter the mystical room, the “Sheesh Mahal” of my dreams collapsed as if blown up with dynamite. It went smashed down into pieces in front of my eyes. Some pieces of the broken glass flung straight into my heart. But no one cared to see, not even my father whose directions moved me further through. There was no emblem, no Santri, no stenographer to note the proceedings (there were two clerks with the computer though, but I hadn’t expected this). Though the judge was seated on a raised bench, which was nowhere as I presumed it to be. The judge himself was not past his late forties, perhaps. Then there was a whole array of (perhaps second-hand) cupboards lined up against the wall by the “alley”. No civilians, no journalists, only crows. Crows, crows perched all around. Behind them a few clerks, me and my father.
Many a SalmaAghas rose from the clerks blaring their cacophonies. The very next moment rose many a betrayed by husband, GeetaDutts to cry their heart out from the crows. They were actually a flinty figment of my disappointment rising to mock at me. I felt deceited and all ravished. There was a complete wash out.
Who am I?
Where am I?
There were only crows, not even a single AmrishPuri even. And that crow on the top was making more noise than any of those seated below. And where was his mallet? Why was he not repeating those sonorous words of “Order! Order”
MPs approaching Speaker's Chair
In fact where was the order? It was like I just entered a vegetable market. The vendors with the white gamchha round their neck as if calling out,
“10 ka 3 kilo aaloo, 10 ka 3 kilo”
And the women bargaining at their best,
“bhaiya thoda dhaniya mirchi bhi daal dena”
Where in the name of God, was the much coveted decorum? And what to talk of witness box. It was as if hit by tsunami that came in Japan previous month. On one side it was attached with the bench of the judge and that’s it. It was just a one two side’s witness box (one of which was the bench though). Actually two of them (the witness bars, bars would be a better word). But then no one was standing there. All just as before the bench as the opposition comes near to the speaker’s seat during walk out in Lok Sabha.
Many of my expectations became widowed the very moment. I could hear them out crying and smashing their bangles against the walls of that very court room.
I too wanted to live no more. My conscious, sub-conscious, super-conscious, meta-conscious and all others went unconscious that very moment. It took me days to recollect myself. What happened to me in all this mean time, I have no account of. What happened next in the court is all heard story. The pages as if again went blank from my life.
But, I cannot withstand anymore emotionless deaths of my emotions. The case is still under process of hearing. But, I have vowed not to go to the court ever again. If the judge wants to meet me, no issue. We can meet at some restaurant or some eatery, but no more of court.
It was new year’s eve. Sulking in the dark corners of her cell, she saw the sparkling lights and glittering fireworks, through the window on the opposite wall. Indeed her one room flat in the poor lanes in the outskirts of the town was no better than a cell. The poorly, yet neatly furnished room had damp walls that had been hit by the rains last night. The plaster had also come out of the wall at several places. The floor had many a cracks and it sounded as if the ground had been hollowed by the rats. The fan hanging by the ceiling made more of sound than it cooled. She just had enough of everything just for her own self. An old kerosene burner of the 18th century, perhaps; a few jars. That was all. But she had a whole line of rich and fancy outwear in her wardrobe which she didn’t wear though but only at night when she would be at streetwalking.
Whether it be Christmas or new year-nothing held any importance for the poor ever. They were just the festivities of the rich. Santa never came, jingling to them. The new year brought no hopes. They counted days as cold when the weather was chilling or cold when they were ill-treated, beaten up or thrashed. The life of the poor was devoid of any warmth.
For the hookers it was even harder, for they were not accepted in the colony of the poor either. Yet each night the market at the outskirts would be at the boom. The ‘queans’ would become the ‘queens’ of night. The men who would despise even the sight of them during the day, would be caressing them like princesses during the night; would be bringing them flowers and sweets. All in for the session they want to have. Each woman would have a price. The young and pretty one would go for hefty prices. The older ones would be like ‘take away left away for less.’ Since she was getting old herself, she was nearing the same creed too.
Kids were left home all by themselves or by the elder kids when their mothers went on ‘work’ at night. The ill-stared kids would belong to the same mother but they could never know who their fathers could be. The mothers would tell them that their father was in some other country or died in war or something of the like. The kids though were too young to understand all this.
‘Sophia, is that you? Sorry girl I am not coming this night.’
She didn’t invite her in. for if she would have invited her, she might have to share her food and she didn’t want to. It was ‘all hers’.
‘No ma’m I am Roger. Roger Cliff. You might not be knowing me, but I recognize you.’
‘Is he some maggot? Looking for flesh? No, he can’t be. He’s so humble and his voice seems like of an adolescent yet. He couldn’t have come here to ‘hook up.’ she ruffled up her old tattered apron and moved to the door.
She saw a boy of seventeen-eighteen at the door. Simple in texture. He was perhaps from the colony of the commoners from the town, but what was he doing there if he wasn’t up there for game?
‘Yes, boy. What brings you here? Who are you?’
‘Ma’m, I am Roger. I live in the town and work in the clock shop, down the street to the monastery, as a helper boy. Last night I just noticed from the shop onto the street that while you got into the cab, this scarf( producing a white scarf with violet polka dots before her) fell off your shoulder and perhaps you didn’t notice that but I did. I ran after the cab for a while but you were gone. I enquired much about you and then I could get your address from the women there.’
‘Ma’m wouldn’t you let me in? I am thirsty. Can I have a little water? I came running all the way to return this to you. This looked costly. Thought you must be worried about it.’
She was puzzled. No one had ever come to her earlier and talked in such a benevolent tone.
‘Look boy, don’t know who you are but you belong to perhaps a respectable society. Don’t come inside And rather don’t stand at my door either. You go the way you came. Your parents wouldn’t like that you came here, if they got to know. You know who I am?’
‘Yeah, you are a hooker as they say. But I don’t understand this. For me, you are just another woman. Perhaps of the age of an elder sister.’
She couldn’t find an argument to it. Rather she hadn’t heard any one talk this way before ever. She was feeling good about it. She was not used to such a feeling. She could not let this little conjurer just let go without he being quenched. She let him in. And brought him water to drink in a brass tumbler, only two of which she had in total. Making himself well seated on the only small stool and bringing forward the beautiful scarf, he said- ‘Here ma’m. Here is your scarf.’
‘I didn’t even remember I had this scarf with me last night. Thank you kid. But I can’t believe that you took so much of pains to return a mere scarf to a slut and are sitting in her home and having water too from her. Most men wouldn’t like to have anything from the hands of a whore.’
‘Yet they would come to you for game, won’t they? So what? They take you as a promiscuous one, but I see you as a lady elder to me and hence respectable’, argued the boy.
‘Who are you? No one would have ever thought this of me. Are you some saint? But then why would they come to any of us here?’, asked the woman.
‘Who are you?, I ask, for no woman would take up this profession of their own free will.’
‘Why you want to know? Are you some creepy journalist or playwright, who just keep fagging in search of realistic lines to sell?’
‘I am none. I am just an ordinary helper boy at a store at the street. With no family of my own, I live just for myself. Yeah, I do like to talk to everyone. Perhaps that’s where I think I justify your queries.’, the boy said.
‘But then why should I be telling you all this?’, the woman argued.
To this the boy took her hand and said, ‘Trust me.’
The mere touch of the boy had taken her under some spell. She hadn’t had such a tranquility in years. Men had been all over her every night usually for the past seventeen years. She never felt this good ever. Rather alcoholed mouths had always been such a nuisance and that was what she always had. But today this touch was all together different. Today it was serene rather. She couldn’t resist but ask, ‘No one ever asked me this. They just asked for my price. And today, don’t know why, I feel like telling this to a boy who is half my age young to me. Tell me are you some magician?’
‘No ma’m I told you who I am’, the boy said.
And hence she began.
‘I was fifteen when my father died. And my aunt and her three little kids were who ever I had. My aunt was a nice lady. She loved me even more than her own kids. Since the only earning hand was gone, it was too hard for us to make a living. Aunt started working as a domestic help. But still she couldn’t meet the requirements of food even. The following winters, she had been taken ill. And we didn’t had money to pay to the doctors even. Whatever scanty my father had left us, had been used till yet. I could still survive, but the kids were still young to withstand hunger for days together. The youngest one starved to death. Aunt died the following night too. We didn’t had to grieve their deaths either. It seemed like death was knocking us all down: three gone, three left.’
‘I couldn’t have let my brothers to starve. I took up a job as a domestic help. The lady used to beat me up. But still the children could make a living of it. She was an ‘angel’ in disguise. But as if the trials with destiny were not over yet. That one day we heard that the war had broke out. The Germans had captured the eastern frontier and may break into the city as well, very soon. The life of the poor was going unaffected. But one day eventually, the Germans broke in. there was curfew everywhere. Streets blocked, shops shut. Everything came to a standstill. People didn’t even dare to open their windows even. I too couldn’t move out of the home even. We were starving again. I couldn’t resist seeing the two boys starve to death. So one day, stepped out in search of work. I went door to door, but none opened. Work I didn’t find but an army van stopped in my way. Taking me for a whore, the soldiers tore off my clothes and undraped me on the war hit naked streets. They were fifteen or twenty rather. I kept screaming for help, but no door opened. I kept pleading that I am not a slut but they weren’t interested. More they were interested were a poor lamb to feed upon. They ravished me, and left me unconscious lying naked on the street.’
There was silence in the room. The woman was sniffing, in tears perhaps. No one had ever seen the scars on her soul. Never had she let the pain come out. The boy was silent. Silent as sea dead.
‘The next morning, when I regained senses, I was shivering, my legs lying lifeless, blooded. I gathered the tatters which just the previous night were my clothes. I was hating myself. But I couldn’t have died even for I still had two kids to live for. I went to home, falling each time I would stand up. Somehow I made it to the flat. I couldn’t relate myself to the world anymore. I was feeble. I was bleeding. I was shivering. I was numb. I entered home only to find the younger one dead. Again had nothing for funeral. Neither me, nor my brother had the strength to take the corpse to the graveyard. I couldn’t have grieved for my own, for I still had the other one to support. Now he had none of his family except me. I had to pull up my nerves.
‘Cut the corpse into pieces, we’ll bury him in the forest ourselves.’, I said to my brother.
‘Jesus! How could we? He is our brother’, the only surviving brother of mine said.
‘Brother is gone. This mere a corpse and neither of us has the strength nor the money to take it to the graveyard and get it funerated.’
‘But sister cutting the corpse into pieces is a sin.’
‘We don’t have any other alternative, do we? And what is sin to the poor when there is no good.’
The body was cut into pieces and was taken to the woods in shifts and was buried there under an oak. My further searches for job all went in vain. I was rebuked everywhere. They called me whore, promiscuous, bitch.
All my grievances went vain.
My soul was crippled. I was reduced to just a living corpse. I couldn’t have let the only surviving son of my aunt to die starving too. I had to market this corpse. I used to die many a deaths each night.
Brother went into army. The purpose of my life was perhaps over. But I couldn’t let myself just pass away still. I lived. I lived by the hope that someday perhaps I will die in honor. That I will die under the silver lining someday.’
The boy took her hand into his and said
‘amen’
‘You will attain the highest order of calm and joy. The kingdom of heaven will take you with their open arms..’
As if a spell was cast by the these words. The woman felt the calm of the spring and the joy of the river. The joy was such that she didn’t even ponder what the boy said and where he left. She just kept sitting in the same position motionlessly. A smile had come to her face. She hadn’t smiled ever since her father died. She felt the elixir of life trickle down her throat tranquilizing her guts. Her stomach was fed and the soul quenched.
She had the best sleep of her life that night to which she never woke up. That was her last sleep: an end to all her miseries. She had risen to a new dawn; a new horizon. Her corpse was buried by the women of the neighborhood but her soul had risen to the heaven. Her soul was now pure at last. As pure as the water from the first rain.
Its New Year time. Celebrations all around. I love celebrations. Only if I could be a part of them most of the time. But then perhaps, parties are not meant for me. I have lots of other stuff to do in life. I might be having. God has something for everyone. This might not be the right time, that’s it.
But then its new year and the spirit of new year tells you to keep moving, the celebrations won’t be far behind . It might just be that you are not taking the right step forward or may be you are not well directed.
New Year is to rejoice-whatever you are, who ever you are, wherever you are. Rejoice. For life comes only once and you cannot afford to let it all just get wasted in frowning or whining.
New Year comes for everyone- rich, poor; old, young; men, women and everyone. It never discriminates. So shouldn’t we. We must have compassion for every living soul, God had said and we must abide by it. New Year brings in new hope. And vows. A student hopes that he’ll excel in the year or that he might not fail again and will strive hard. A workman hopers that perhaps his pay will be hiked in the new year. Whatever and for who ever it be, new year comes with hope for everyone. Hope is life. So hope this new year be yours.
Last Sunday, I was out with my friends from school - Aditya, Astha, Jayanti and Udit; hanging out in Dwarka. Meeting school friends had always been quite a ritual, for we all used to come together whenever Aditya would be in the city. Though rest all of us reside not that far apart, but we hardly used to meet. Count that on the busy schedules and life otherwise we all had been leading. But whenever Aditya would come back from his university in Chennai, it used to be grandeur for we all could be together then. Aditya was to give treat this time for his birthday previous month. So, we all met at Dwarka sector-10 metro station. This was instantly followed by a ceremonial, warm hugging welcome, by each one to each one. Led by the ever puzzled but pretending not to be, friend of ours, Aditya, we traipsed on the eerie roads of Dwarka.
The series of events that followed I prefer not to talk of ‘cause they are not the cause behind my writing. So, I would resume it from here. After offering a sumptuous Italian lunch, Aditya was leading us to some ice-cream parlor. On the way we came across beggars; not two, not three but several. As if lined up in an array.
Well, these beggars, I can’t miss describing. All of them were kids. Girls but one. Mostly in their pre or early adolescence. Don’t know whether they do this on purpose or genuine lack of amenities; they all gave a look of not having bathed since last spring. Their parched skin and the hard sheet of blackening dust defied. Dressed in the shabbiest of the clothes, soiled n tattered. The girls having a rag on their heads. There was a whole flock of these kids, as if were waiting for us only to pass by. But then they catch every passerby. Perhaps only, someone could ever pass without being noticed and approached. They work on a network basis. The leader of the flock would station all to different cites and mentions their place of work where they have to be active enough to let any one just pass by without being caught. These are the road-hit managers, having their own organization to run. If one notice closely, he could judge there could be an in charge of HR, for administration, finance, R&D, so on and so forth, in the whole network. Well, I guess someday IIM’s would be conducting seminars where in these managers of the road would be rendering lectures.
With a much practiced fake, or perhaps, anticipation they would approach you and with their much learnt, and mastered rather, baritone and dialogues, they would ask you for alms and would bless you in the magnitude of pounds. They would follow you to quite a distance. At times even touching your feet. Many a people just to evade such embarrassing moments would give a coin or two to them. At times, when you don’t respond and move on, these kids would curse with something even they would be not knowing the meaning of, but were taught so, or even hit you. Whatever.
That day too, we were, as if stalked by the whole battalion of little beggars. Don’t know why but I have this benevolence for these kids. And this only ends me up having chat with them, every time. I never let a penny out though. This is specifically about the two of them:
First one; a girl having the same above described attire and perhaps of twelve approaches us:
With all her routine dialogues she began to ask for alms.
‘I don’t have money’, I said which I obviously was lying.
But she continued wooing the lambs.
‘Do you go to school?’, I enquired knowing that obviously she wouldn’t be. But this always works for me. Ask about school and they are vanished. I had assumed that she too would just vanish or give a regular ‘NO’ in reply. She indeed said no but what she said along with took me aback or rather I was mesmerized by the innocence with which she replied.
‘Nahi, hum nahi jate par hamare bhaiya jate hain’
Next was the girl in the video below. And just as any other kid of her age would recite a rhyme, she started pleading for alms.
‘Ae de de bhaiya, tumahri jodi achchi rahegi’
Once. Twice. Thrice. And again. And over again. She had taken Jayanti for my partner.
‘She is my sister kid’
But as if she had no attention to what we were saying. She was just repeating her lines. The subtle cuteness of the kid, made me take my phone out and capture her; but just as I started the camera of my phone, I guess she noticed what I was up to and got conscious. May be to the camera. Whatever.
I fear in getting some conclusion out of this. For I don’t know what would it be- mercy, shame, surprise, confusion, anger. Don’t know. I just know this is there.
Ekadashi (eleventh date) of the Hindi month of Kartik(this month starts from the first full moon after Deepawali and most often falls in October-November). This has always brought celebrations around for on this day it is considered that all the Hindu Gods and Goddesses wake up. And this thus marks the advent of the marriage season in Indian Culture.
Marriage!!
Marriage??
Marriage.
(Here this full stop has more meaning and worth than the word itself)
By simple permutations there arise four cases:
Boy is Angel (perhaps just saying ‘not bad’ would do the justice) and the is Girl is Witch(and that means a wicked witch) : kind of equivalent to that the boy is hanged by the noose, eventually for the whole life which perhaps would mean ‘till death’ only.
Boy is Devil (or even gross) and the Girl is an Angel : in this is the case I truly feel pity for the girl. May no girl ever has to be in this case.
Boy is Devil and the Girl is Witch : Oh gosh! Full on entertainment perhaps for the neighbors. But then I feel sorry for the kids.
Aww…this is the sweetest one. Both the Girl and the Boy are Angels : Perhaps this is the rarest case. One in a million.
Now let us come back to the point. Will it be anything, marriages mean celebrations, showing off, lots of work(for the families engaged) and lots of nuisance( be it ‘cause of dowry or boozed up attendees or anything).
In fact once I remember a fight broke out just ‘cause two men of the families couldn’t have a common agreement over whether the rasgulla were black or brown? And this led to the most memorable of the events, which we call the ‘rasgulla fight’ ‘cause that argument over the colour of rasgulla had led to both of them throwing rasgullas at each other. And this is a true story and I myself had attended that wedding.
With marriage also comes music associated. Earlier it was only restricted to ‘Mahila Sangeet’ and Shehnai. But as time passed ‘Dhol’ and band came into the scene. The latest in thing is the DJ’s. Perhaps for most of the people it though means dance floor with the music played loud over the sophisticated music systems devoid of any mixing and grooves, etc. I recently happened to attend a wedding this season. The dance floor there was full or in fact crowded and people were perhaps jumping to the beats of ‘Munni Badnam’. Once, twice, thrice, again. I then noticed a few drunk men who were standing by the man who was playing the music. (I wouldn’t perhaps disgrace the profession by calling him a DJ) And rest perhaps could be well guessed.
On our way back, we passed by a two or three weddings and everywhere the same song was being played. My brother who was alongwith me, said-"Brother , look this song is being played everywhere on a repetition basis. Doesn’t Munni herself get tired?" I calmly smiled to my brother and said-"Bhai, Munni ke anek roop hain. Munni sarvatra hai." :D
P.S. : In fact I was born on this Ekadashi of Kartik month too. :p
