Remorse

“……, do swear in the name of God, that I shall bear true faith and allegiance to….” repeated a thinly built man along with the Governor of the Central Provinces. The interim cabinet was being sworn in after Independence had become a reality for the citizens of the Central Provinces.

The small crowd sitting in the lawns of the Governor’s house applauded as the thinly built man completed speaking. Slowly he climbed down the steps from the dais with folded hands towards the audience and took his seat among them.

“It is of great honour that a revolutionary of Madholal’s stature has come into mainstream politics”, commented one of the audience. The other nodded in approval.

******

“The rain-gods do not seem to be kind on us this year”, Madholal muttered to himself as he looked at the sky with hope.

It was devoid of any clouds. The sun was grinning at him with its full intensity making him all the more miserable. The season to sow the seeds was fast approaching and there were no clouds to be seen. Not that seeds were aplenty. His small piece of land was parched and hopes for Madholal were dwindling day by day.

“Any hopes of the rain-gods showering some mercy?” asked Birju as he approached Madholal. Birju owned the lands adjacent to his and was a childhood friend. When Madholal gave out a negative gesture, Birju also could not hide his disappointment.

Famines had struck Haripur. Haripur- the small hamlet inhabited by Madholal, Birju and other families was under severe drought conditions. Actually, the whole of the Central Provinces was affected. British India was under effect of both natural and human uprising. On one hand, nature was unleashing its fury, and on the other hand, Gandhi’s “Quit India” movement was keeping the colonial masters awake. Combined, both of them were giving a tough time to the British administration in India.

The summer was at its prime and with no rains in the past, crops had failed. There was hardly anything to sow, or even to eat.

“Hurry up, you retards, Makhan Singh is dead, “shouted Karamchand to both of them as he ran towards the village. Makhan Singh was the wrestler of the village. The famine had initially sucked out his youth from him, and now it was his life which had taken a flight. Makhan Singh had lost his greatest fight- his life.

“This drought has taken away half the village”, Madholal commented, as they both started walking towards the village. In between they would turn around with the hope that the clouds would be visible to them, but destiny had willed otherwise. Clouds remained a distant possibility. They kept walking, and turning, and walking.

The corpse was resting on the ground covered with a white sheet. A few of the village elders sat around the body with the village priest chanting prayers. Madholal joined the gathering silently.

******

“It did not rain even this year”, Madhoal cribbed to his wife Bhanumati. His voice had an element of despair in it. She silently looked at him not knowing what to do or what to say. "Mother Nature had been so cruel", he thought.

He had waited weeks for the rains to fall on his parched piece of land, but the drops of rain never fell.

There was nothing to eat in the house. Even the children had gone hungry for the last two days. Water was also scarce. The village pond had dried up. She heard her husband muttering something. She made no efforts to hear what he said. Soon she was asleep-her body ached with fatigue and hunger, but she did not have the will to complain. After all she was taught to be tolerant.

“Let us go to the city”. These were the first words that came out of Madholal’s mouth the next day. Bhanumati thought he was under some delirium and decided to ignore him. She has household chores to attend to, most important being fetching water from the small hole in the pond which had dried up. She picked up the earthen pot and with her sleepy daughter in tow, started walking.

“Where are you going?” he asked her.

“To fetch water”, she calmly replied knowing that any other reaction would flare him up. She knew his anger and frustration was rising and thus decided not to confront him in any way. Solitude would calm him down. She quietly left.
When she came back he was still lying on the floor.

“When do you want us to leave? And what are we going to do there? And what about our land?” The volley of questions disturbed the trance that he was in.

He kept on staring at her. He said nothing, but his facial expression gave her the answer. Although she would not agree with him on a normal day, but today was different. Survival was in question. The drought was making it difficult to survive with every passing day. She decided that she would start packing her meagre belongings once she came back from fetching water. Let their life be given a new lease. They deserved it.

******

On a hot summer day, Madholal reached the “Estate”. It was a huge bungalow surrounded by huge walls on all sides. The Servant’s entrance was on the back side of the estate. A narrow kutcha road led to the entrance. The “entrance” was actually a hole in the brick lined wall surrounding the estate.

“Madho”, shouted a man from inside. A sense of relief came up on Madholal’s face as a short stocky man dressed in a loincloth and a vest approached them.

Babulal was his second cousin, who worked as a gardener at the “estate”. After initial pleasantries, Madholal and his family were taken to Babulal’s hutment. Babulal got him employed at “Sahib’s house” as a gardener. He was told to follow one golden rule- his existence should never be known to the “Sahib” in any form. Only his labour in the form of a beautiful kitchen garden should be visible.

“And what if the Sahib comes in front of me?” he asked Babulal, confused how to react in such a situation.

“Pray to almighty that such a day doesn’t come”, Babulal said and continued showing him the kitchen garden. The summers had taken a toll on it and he prayed that the situation improved before Sahib noticed it.

******

Leonard Johnson’s constitution scared Madholal. “Johnson Sahib” was nearly six and a half feet tall, built like the stump of a banyan tree and screamed like a trumpet. Every time his lips moved, an army of orderlies lined up in front of him. In short his overbearing presence kept everybody on their toes all the time.

All Madholal could understand was that “Johnson Sahib” was very important. He travelled in a big car. Men in uniform gave him a crisp salute while others stood in front of him till he gestured them to sit down. Only once had he seen “Sahib” bow in front of another firangi. He later learnt that the man was a “Bada Sahib” who had come from Delhi.

Madholal took instructions from Peter, the Sahib’s butler. Peter’s lineage was the much discussed topic amongst the servants of the household. Although Peter was nowhere close to being a native with his fair skin, his distance from being a British was equally established as he was born to an Indian mother. This propounded many theories among the servants. The most widely circulated theory was that some firangi had sown his “seeds” into Peter’s mother. Whatever the theory may have been or whatever Peter’s lineage, his importance in the household could not have been undermined by anybody.

Peter was always well dressed in a starched white uniform. When not serving the Sahib or Memsahib he ordered the servants around. He carried a cane which did the talking for him. The servants knew his will by the way the cane was used. It was used to point, and to punish.
******

“Carnage at Central Provinces Residency; Lt. Governor perishes”, read the headlines of the Northern Gazetteer.

The detailed news read that Colonel Leonard Fitzpatrick Johnson, the Lt. Governor of Central Provinces died in a fire that razed his bungalow. Also presumed dead were his wife Rosemary Johnson, and his Butler. The cause of the fire was not yet known. Casualties could have been higher but it was late at night and none of the servants except the butler were present in the house. The fire and the subsequent commotion woke up the servants who tried to douse the fire but the inferno was too large to handle. The choicest willow frames and teak furniture collected by Lady Johnson hastened their departure to their tombs.

The report also said that although there were no suspects, but a few servants had seen an unidentified man leaving the estate.

******

“The British are leaving India. The firangis will no longer rule us”, exclaimed Ram Kumar as he entered the small dimly lit room. Huddled in the small room were about twenty men.

The members of Central Provinces Revolutionary Party were hiding in a barn a midst the sugarcane fields of Haripur. Their heroics had shaken the comfortable existence of British administration in the Central Provinces in the recent past. Their guerilla tactics were giving sleepless nights to the whole law and order machinery. Kaka Khan, their leader had executed a daring raid on the treasury at Gamalpur while Madholal had made them famous by single-handedly assassinating, Lt. Governor Johnson.

Ram Kumar brought out a tattered newspaper. The headlines on thefront page of Northern Gazetteer read, “ British rule in India set to end. London agrees to withdraw”.

A celebration broke out in the room. People hugged and congratulated each other. But there was one man who breathed a sigh of relief. Madholal quietly got up and let himself out of the room. The fresh breeze blew past his face calming down his stressed body. For the others independence meant a free country but for Madholal it meant a free life.

He would get to see his children again. It had been almost 5 years since he had seen them. Destiny has turned him into something that he was not. Nobody except for him knew the truth. The reality was his identity as a farmer who tilled his land and reaped a honest harvest which was a result of his sweat and blood. Today he was a revolutionary. For the people he was a revolutionary- a daredevil who had put his life in peril for the cause of Mother India. For the British, he was no more than a belligerent. He was for them a fugitive who was on the run, an outlaw.

“Are independence and self-rule the real reasons why I am here?” he asked himself. He knew the answer. He could not lie to himself. But all of this would end. He would go back to become Madholal- the farmer. Life would take the normal course, he assured himself.

He turned to go back into the room. As he took the first step, an explosion deafened him. The impact of the explosion threw him on the ground. The explosion was followed by a hail of bullets. A firangi voice ordered the rounds that came in his direction. He crawled into the neighbouring fields. The sugarcane fields gave him the cover as he ran into the opposite direction. He knew they had come for him.

He ran for his life, his survival, his children. He could make no assessment of how much distance he covered. He kept on running till his legs tired out. By then he had entered the jungles of Terai. He climbed up a tree and looked at the sky. He could see no lights anywhere. He was thankful that it was a dark night. He just needed to stay put. His thoughts wandered into various directions as he waited for a new day.

*****

“You bloody thief, how did you have the courage to steal memsahib’s clothes”, Peter shouted at Bhanumati. Only curses in English and vernacular came out of his mouth. Then he stopped abusing and let his hands did the talking. He dragged her into the courtyard in front of the servant’s hutments and took out his cane. Every time the cane spoke, Bhanumati screamed. Madholal jumped to his wife’s rescue only to be caned harder by Peter. Every time the cane fell on their skin, it cut through the skin and drew blood. Peter’s actions personified sadism.

The couple pleaded innocence with folded hands, but to no avail.

“She threw it away”, Bhanumati said. “I picked it up from the garbage”. At this Peter brought down the cane on her with greater intensity. .

At this their child ran towards Peter clutching a piece of her clothing in her hand. Fear was visible on her face. She raised her hand and offered the piece of clothing to Peter. Her hopes were dashed when the piece of clothing was taken but the beating did not stop.

Both of them were on Peter’s feet, but to no avail. Both the cane and the hand got tired after a while. But the anger and hatred did not decrease. The hand rose and made a gesture. The rest of the servants were chased away into their hutments while the couple was dragged into a desolated corner of the estate.

Madholal and Bhanumati kept on wailing but the people did not stop.

Peter’s cane rose again. A burly fellow tied Madholal to a tree. His mouth was gagged with his own loincloth.

Then Peter did something which none of them anticipated. The others turned their faces away while a heinous crime was perpetrated. The gag on Madholal’s face stopped him from screaming while his body furiously tried to free itself from the rope which bound him to the tree. Bhanumati’s screams were loud enough to wake up the whole estate but no one came to save her from this ultimate humiliation. After Peter, the other four thugs subjected her to further humiliation while Peter’s sadistic laughter clearly showed the psychopath in him.

They left them after a while. Madholal saw a motionless Bhanumati sprawled on the ground with almost no clothing on her. The piece of clothing that she apparently stole was lying near her. The calm of the night was broken only by Madholal’s sobs and sounds made by insects.

******

Madholal quietly crept into the Bungalow. He had waited for four months before he found the right opportunity.

Bhanumati had died the next day after she was raped by Peter and his cronies. When the servants found them he was unconscious while she was dead. He left the estate with her body and his children. Every individual was just a silent spectator as a sobbing Madholal did not know whom to curse for his misery. But he knew one thing. He wanted to see the same look on somebody else’s face. He would come back.

The house was empty. The master and the mistress slept in the bedroom in the corner while Peter had a small room next to the pantry. He tiptoed towards the Pantry. It was hot summer night. The pankhawallah was asleep too. Before he could react, a piece of iron put him to sleep. Madholal just hoped the sleep was not permanent.

Peter was sleeping on the bed. Madholal’s anger rose. But he did not lose his nerve. He drew a piece of clothing from his waistband and put it on Peter’s face. As Peter looked at his attacker in the dark, a sickle slowly ran across his neck. The pain was unbearable but the attacker had gagged him. He could make no sounds. Madholal could see his eyes going red with pain. He turned him around and bound his hands with a rope.

Dragging him he started walking towards the room where the sahib and the memsahib slept.

Although Leonard Johnson was a strong man, his strength was of no use once Madholal tied his hands. A cloth gagged him and the sickle again ran across another neck slitting the jugular vein. His wife watched in horror as Madholal threw Johnson on the ground with Peter. She was so terrified that she couldn’t even scream.

“Don’t hurt me”, she murmured, but Madholal was an animal now. He hit her with the piece of iron. Before she could scream, he gagged her as well. He looked towards the two men who lay bleeding on the floor. His eyes said something which sent a chill down their spines. He only thought of his dead wife while he did something which for him was unimaginable a few months back. And he made both Johnson and Peter watch as he did it. Deep inside him laughter broke out. Both were going through what he went through.

He carefully set the house on fire, choosing things which were easily inflammable. Then leaving the three people inside, he slipped out into the dark. He thought he had avenged Bhanumati’s death.

******

After India became independent, Madholal became a hero. His name was taken in the same league of revolutionaries as Kaka Khan, Ram Kumar and others. During the general elections, the party declared his candidature from Haripur. He did not know what to say. They took it to be h is acceptance. He won unopposed from Haripur. After all, if he could kill Leonard Fitzpatrick Johnson, his opponents felt, he could slaughter them as well. Maybe not literally, but yes, he could slaughter them.

******

“Sir, a firangi woman has come to meet you”, the orderly whispered into Madholal. He was sitting with inhabitants of a village in his constituency. As he was the irrigation minister of Central Provinces, they had approached him for a canal in their village which would solve the problem of water for their fields.

The orderly was gestured to let the visitor in. A petite lady entered the room with a uniformed British army officer. She introduced herself as Margaret Dexter. The uniformed officer said he was to be addressed as Major Dexter.

“I fail to understand the purpose of your coming down to meet me”, Madholal started the conversation. The guests looked at each other before they looked back at Madholal.

The lady cleared her throat with a glass of water and continued, “Actually, there was something that has been on my mind for the last ten years and I thought you could help me with it”. Madholal gave out a confused expression.

“I am Leonard Fitzpatrick Johnson’s daughter”, she said, her voice breaking as she pronounced each word with a pause. Madholal’s eyes widened as the sentence was completed.

“I would not ask you why you killed my parents, but I will ask you if they suffered before they died”, Margaret asked Madholal. She did not get an answer. She slowly rose from the chair, supported by her husband and walked out of the door.

******
Madholal did not rise from the chair in his office that evening. The Doctor’s report said that he had gone down to a massive Cardiac arrest. His death was mourned far and wide.

At his funeral, Kaka Khan told his son Chamanlal, “Your father was a pious man. We should be happy that he died in peace.” A huge crowd watched as a twenty one gun salute was given to the departed soul.

Madholal probably died with one question in his mind, “Why did he punish two people who were totally oblivious of the crime perpetrated on him and his family?” He did not have an answer to this. All he had in his mind was remorse!


P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.

The Flute Story

The Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra had just finished its performance. The group was performing in Cairo. The performance for the evening had just ended. A euphoric crowd applauded their performance with a standing ovation. Now it was the turn of the press which waited for its moments of glory when they would get a chance to interact with the members of the orchestra.

The moment arrived!

The conference room at “The Pyramid Hilton” was full of curious members of the press, who had come to meet the group. As the members of the group entered the room and posed for a group photograph, the flashlights from cameras lit up the surroundings. Then they started the volley of questions addressed to the conductor as well as the members of the group.

The group, attracted so much attention because it was a complex mix of nationalities-Fyodor Medonsky, the Concertmaster who played the violin came from Moldovia while Saboto Masake, the principal Trombone came from Mali. The latest edition to the group was Arihant Iyer, the flautist from India. Along with Gunther Goldstein, they boosted the artistic eloquence of the woodwinds.

The press conference started.

“Mr. Medonsky, the Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra is performing in Egypt for the first time. How has the experience been?” asked a journalist. As Fyodor Medonsky got up to answer with the help of an interpreter, the whole room broke into a round of applause again.

The next question was addressed to Arihant Iyer, the Indian flautist. “Mr. Iyer, this is your first performance with the orchestra. You have kept a very stoic face unlike a newcomer. How would you describe your emotions?”

The microphone in front of Arihant crackled. He smiled as he spoke, “The first performance is always a mix of anxiety and fear. You are anxious to perform and you fear that the notes do not go wrong. I successfully managed to strike the right balance”.

For the next half an hour, journalists took turns to ask the various members questions about themselves, their experience with the orchestra and its coming performances. There were moments of subtle humour when the ruggedly handsome Guiseppe Caprigani dismissed being in a relationship with Hollywood actress Simone Potter by saying, “The closest I have been with Ms. Potter is when I stood under a poster of her latest blockbuster at Piccadilly Circus”. There were also tense moments when Saboto Masake left the conference after the press asked him if racism prevailed in the orchestra.

The last question was again addressed to Arihant. “Mr. Iyer, We saw you talking about anxiety and fear. What is the greatest fear in your life?”

Arihant’s face suddenly changed colour. The youngster’s calm and composed face suddenly looked drained. But after a glass of water, he regained his composure.

Clearing his throat he answered, “Not being able to play the flute, reading an e-mail which has been in my mailbox for the past 8 years and being alone in the dark”. He then got up from his seat to leave the room. The rest of the band followed.

The press conference ended. It was time for the artists to rest. Next day, they were leaving for Casablanca.

******

“Roll number 180, Arihant Iyer…” the Professor cried out at top of his voice. As he peered through his glasses into the crowd, a hand went up. The boy got up and gave out a bored expression as he said, “Yes Sir”. The crowd which was technically known as “B. Com first-year” at National College seemed to be a difficult group to assess. Some listened to the lecturer with rapt attention as he screamed names and roll numbers after one another. Some were busy chatting with peers while some looked around here and there with boredom on their faces. Arihant Iyer was one of them. He seemed lost. He could hardly wonder why he was here.

******

“Appa, I am not interested in studying Commerce. I want to become a flautist”, Arihant declared to his father on the breakfast table.

“What? A Flautist? Arihant, I am seriously asking you to consider a profession, not about pursuing a hobby” Vinayak Iyer voiced his opinion clearly to his son who had just passed his Higher Secondary exams. He somehow managed to hide his anger when his son gave thumbs down to a settled career and planned to become a musician.

The environment at home had been tense since the last few days. When Arihant talked of looking for a career in music, hell broke loose. Vinayak was utterly disappointed with such a choice. The friction between father and son could be sensed in the “silence” between them. The sense arose from the fact that both of them were very vocal of their love for each other. The cracks in their affectionate relationship due to the friction were clearly visible.

Finally, he dropped the “bomb”. “Appa, I have been accepted at the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory with a scholarship. It is a one-year full time programme”, he quietly said.

Vinayak Iyer blew his top off. Unable to control his anger he screamed, “Who the hell allowed you to apply? I don’t want to see my only son to waste his life blowing a trumpet. Do I have to die with my law firm going to one of the whiz kids in the office rather than my son?”

Akshara Deshmukh was a mute spectator to this cold war between her husband and her son. She knew that both of them were correct in their own. Vinayak as a father had every right to be protective about his son’s career. Every father who dotes on his son would obviously try to guide his son towards a stable, secure and successful career option. He was only trying to help but his love towards his son was bordering on what today’s generation called, “interference”.

Arihant on the other hand was not wrong too. He was free to pursue a career as per his own volition. He was a good flautist. Although he was a bright student but his genuine interest lay in playing the flute. When he started playing the flute as a child, they encouraged him by sending him to a small music school. Soon the teacher found that he had nothing to teach him. Arihant played by himself, listened to masters on tapes and copied their notes. She has no idea that he had sent his tapes to the selection committee of Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory. She was also unaware that Carlo Manzini, one of the instructors at the conservatory had come to India to interview her son for a scholarship.

In any case, she was in no mood of either playing the mediator here or the judge. She suffered silently as time played its role to bring them to a consensus. Carlo Manzini arrived into the picture and offered a deal which neither the father nor the son could refuse.

Finally, Arihant and Vinayak signed the deal. For a degree in Commerce, Arihant would be allowed to go in the summers to the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory. Peace was back into the Iyer Household.

******

Arihant stood on the balcony of his room at “The Pyramid Hilton”. He stared into the moonlit sky and thought of the question he had answered in the evening. His greatest fears were still inside him. Wherever they inhabited inside him, they disturbed him to the hilt. They would come out like demons and dislodge his composure and then go away, haunting him with their disappearance. It had been many years since he had been dealing with those fears. It was getting difficult day by day to deal with them.

“Do I have an option”, he asked himself?

He got inside the room and switched on the television. Using the remote control, he switched channels before he zeroed in on a channel. Concentration would refuse to be a part of him now. He flipped channels on the television, tried to sleep, rolled around on the bed, paced up and down the room- nothing helped. At last, he brought out his flute and started playing it. Music was the only way, the only thing which could pacify him, comfort him. After he had played a few notes, he decided to go down to the coffee shop.

“Sphinx”-read the signboard on the right side of the door leading to the 24-hour coffee shop. The letters were carved on a piece of stone and next to it stood a miniature brass replica of the sphinx.

Arihant walked into it and ordered a cup of coffee.

Only three tables were occupied. On one sat a group of men dressed in formal black suits and white shirts. They looked like a group of Oriental business executives- most probably Korean as the morning newspapers spoke of a power plant near Cairo being set up with Korean collaboration - who were catching up on a late dinner after the end of a hectic day. The other two tables were occupied by young couples.

The cup of coffee arrived. A steward in a crisp uniform poured it into a cup and said, “Freshly ground coffee from Ethiopia, Sir”. Arihant nodded. At Arihant’s instructions, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup. The aroma of the strong brew entered his nostrils as he carefully took a sip. His face gave out an expression of satisfaction. His eyes caught the steward looking at him and he raised the cup towards him and nodded in approval. The man smiled back.

******

“The concept of diminishing marginal utility can be ……”, the lecturer spoke while his hands fiddled with the blackboard using a piece of chalk. He drew a few graphs on it to explain the concept to the class.

Except for the first-benchers, nobody was in a mood to listen. The guy sitting next to him murmured to him, “If I die today, my post-mortem would put boredom as my cause of death”. The teachers had made it clear the first day itself that attendance would be an issue and hence, one should be careful from the first day. Without the threat, the attendance could compete with the turnout of senior citizens at a hard rock concert.

Arihant rolled a pencil in his hand and stared in every direction except the lecturer’s. In between he looked at his watch which said that the class should be over in fifteen minutes. Boredom was setting in. He stared at the ceiling and then his classmates. There were blank looks everywhere. He smiled to himself. There were others misfits too.

One such misfit was this girl sitting in the row ahead of him. She was dressed in a track-suit which made him assume that she belonged to the “Sports quota”. She impatiently kept on moving her feet against the bench which sometimes struck the wood and made an irritating sound. The “thump” made people away from her wonder who were doing it. She too joined the crowd at looking for the “culprit” creating further confusion. What an outrageous behavior thought Arihant, as he stared at her.

“I caught you staring at me, in the class. Do I look like an alien”, she asked Arihant after the class.

“With this track suit and your pest like act, you surely were”, he replied.

“So, what am I expected to do. Dress up as if I am attending a wedding and behave like a Baroness”, she retorted back. Arihant caught the sarcasm in it. He decided to remain quiet. She caught his discomfort and said, “never mind, I am Radhika Nair. And you?”

“Arihant Iyer”.

They walked together towards the next class making small talk. Both of them did not envisage the fact that their lives were about to change. There are certain moments in everybody’s life which just change the course one had charted out. This was one of those moments.

******

He walked to his room after his cup of coffee. Although it was half past two in the morning, sleep still evaded him. He decided to take the stairs to his room on the seventh floor. A little bit of exercise could get him some sleep. Optimism! A slow run up the stairs followed.

A raven-haired girl was sitting on the corridor in front of his room. She looked very tired which was evident from her posture. She got up and hugged Arihant as he stood in front of her. He did not respond back, which surprisingly did not surprise her.

“What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you. Could not think of being without you”, came her reply. Arihant did not react. He inserted the card into the slot which opened the door and they went in.

They sat on the bed where none of them spoke to each other. She put her head on his shoulder while his arm wrapped her in an embrace which gave out a confusing expression between “you are safe with me” and “what can I do now that you are here”. His fingers played with her hair while her nostrils slowly took in the fragrance of his after shave. Neither of them still spoke.

After a point of time, she broke away from the embrace. He walked up to the wall opposite him and switched off the lights. The moonlit sky gave them the necessary light as they took each other in their arms. Sounds followed which disturbed the Spanish couple in the next room.

After a shower, they got into the bed. She held him close and slept while he stared into the darkness.

At five in the morning he left the room. The reception was instructed not to disturb or charge anything to the lady. Charges, if any, were to be billed personally to Arihant Iyer. The clerk smiled. Arihant gave out no reactions as he boarded the bus taking them to the airport.

******

The Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory was located in the scenic European town of Tuborgen on the German-Austrian border. Distorted history speaks of its artistic eloquence in capital letters. It is said that when Friedrich Fimmler, the cruel head of German intelligence ordered the demolition of this institution, the orders were always failed to be carried out. Music mesmerized the officers who came to demolish it. At the end, Fimmler left the musicians in peace. The institution was constructed as a monastery for the monks during the renaissance. In later times, the inhabitants went on to become woodwinds. Today, the conservatory is a school for woodwinds - flutes, piccolos, oboes, English horns, clarinets, bass clarinets, bassoons, contrabassoons, bagpipes etc.

When Arihant arrived at the gates of the age-old conservatory, he was greeted by Carlo Manzini, his instructor. “Welcome to Tuborgen”, Carlo Said. An excited Arihant just kept smiling as he shook hands with the man who was to train him.

Carlo was an Italian by birth but became a German citizen after five decades of residence in Tuborgen, a German wife of Polish descent and a lifelong association with the conservatory. He played the Clarinet well, and although he was not the best exponent, his stature as a teacher was tall enough to be respected by the artist community. Teaching was his profession, his hobby, his favorite pastime, his religion- in short, it was his life.

Students stayed in dormitories. Bed number Sixteen, Hall Seven became his abode for the next ninety days. The day started early with a bell that could be equated to an alarm. The students then gathered for a mile long run followed by light exercises. Physical fitness was very important and the conservatory made no compromises on that. It was followed by breakfast and then the lessons started. Except for breaks for food, students played till late evening with their instructors. Weekends were off but time was to be spent with their instructors learning European history and culture.

Arihant worked hard like anything. His flute meant his world to him. Actually, it was one-third of his world. Another one-third lay in a framed photograph of a couple on his bed side table. The last one-third got an e-mail every day. Apart from this, all his time was spent learning and interacting with Carlo and playing the flute. His dedication and perseverance impressed the bearded instructor who silently prayed that maybe Arihant was the one which the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory was looking for.

After ninety days, it was time to go back and resume studies. With promises to practice hard and see each other soon, Arihant left.

******

Indravadan Ghaatmal International Airport was busier than expected when Arihant landed in India. He walked past customs through the “Green Channel” – after all what else did he have to hide other than excitement and came out of the airport. His eyes darted across scores of people waiting outside. As a burly man in a taxi driver’s uniform tried to grab his luggage, somebody pushed the fellow. A girl- a girl it was- ran into his arms. Arihant grinned as Radhika hugged him tight in her arms.

Their love had blossomed in a very interesting way. They just kept meeting each other and making small talk. None of them ever spoke anything which distantly bordered on anything romantic. This actually perplexed them-none of them wanted to take the initiative, but waited for the other to say a thing. Phew!! It was not happening.

It happened one day. They had plans to watch a blockbuster in the evening. She saw him walking towards him and waved at him. He went up to her and said, “I am in love with you”. She casually looked at him, put her arms around him and kissed him. He had his answer. They watched the film with a group of curious onlookers who whispered words like “shameless and desperate” to each other.

******

When the Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra landed in Morocco, they got a welcome they never expected. Again, the ruggedly handsome Guiseppe Caprigani was the talk of the town. As he waved to the crowd outside the airport, women in the crowd broke the security cordon and ran towards him. The shy Italian ran into the bus to save himself from the crowd.

The group was performing in Casablanca in fusion with a Moroccan Chaabi band (Popular music band) known as “Magrib’s Martyrs”. The concert was the first of its sort for the orchestra. It was a part of its humanitarian effort of raising money for charities. Africa had experienced a series of famines and money was being raised by international organizations to contribute to the solution.

The concert was an astounding success. Nobody expected that such a fusion could work. On one hand were the nomadic Chaabis who enthralled the crowds with their rich ethnic flavor while on the other hand the orchestra used its sophistication and eloquence to win the hearts all over again.

“We did well”, Mendonsky commented. Smiles of relief followed.

In the evening, the King of Morocco hosted a dinner for the artists. The King was a noble man. He ruled the land as a benevolent ruler who used his demi-godly status coupled with his western Education and took the country on the road to development.

One by one the artists were introduced to the King. When he met Saboto Masake, the principal Trombone who came from Mali, the Monarch could not hide his excitement and hugged him. Masake kept smiling as the shutterbugs around him captured the moment again and again.

******

Arihant and Radhika had broken up. It wasn’t sudden. Like the slow pace at which their romance blossomed, the crash was also slow- and painful too. It started with an argument one day.

“You have never been serious about anything. All you can think of is your flute and that god forsaken Carlo”, Radhika shouted at him. Radhika was focused as far as her career was concerned. She knew that her aim was to be at the best management institute of the country. She wanted Arihant to take up a vocation which the society considered a career, but the flautist dreamt otherwise.

“Don’t talk about things which are alien to your understanding”. Arihant snapped back. “Being a flautist might not earn me a fortune, but it will give me the basic necessities”.

“Who wants basic necessities, I aspire for more. Can’t a girl dream of a good life with the man she loves. Is she under an obligation to be under an insecurity with respect to his finances and career”, She had tears in her eyes.

Arihant held her. The argument hadn’t reached a conclusion. They had just swept it under the carpet. It was a disaster which neither of them realized. Small arguments crept in from time to time. They too were comfortably swept under.

Distance took the biggest toll. The second time Arihant went to Tuborgen, he returned after five months. When he landed Radhika was not there to receive him. When he met her later, she was all quiet.

“What happened”?

“Nothing”, she replied. Now, when a girl says, “nothing”, one should know that there’s something and it is time for trouble.

“Who is Ingrid?” Radhika started.

“Nobody, just a friend”, he replied. Ingrid Klocheberg was a student of Psychiatry at University of Cologne who was at the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory for a short period to research on therapeutic qualities of music. Arihant had interacted with her and they had become friends.

“I just saw the scraps on your Orkut account. Very flirtatious ones, I should rather say loaded scraps from Ingrid. That was not surprising. Surprising were your replies. They were equally loaded”, Radhika charged him.

“I did not write any such thing”, he said remembering no such thing.

“What? Arihant, you are lying on my face. I saw them with my own eyes”. Arihant had no replies to that. She was right. He had replied to Ingrid’s scraps. Without realizing what she wrote, he replied in the same genre. A blunder, not realizing what Radhika would think when she saw them.

“Arihant Iyer, you are nothing but a gasbag. You are the most horrible looking fellow I have ever known. You have nothing in you except the ability to play the flute which will yield nothing for you. I put my life at stake for you, but you never mend your ways. You claim to be in love with me, but you never assured me of a secure future. You are the most selfish, self-centred son of a ***** I have ever come across. On top of that you flirt with women behind my back. I am done with you and your lies”. She walked off. He tried to stop her but she jerked off his arm and went away. He stood on the street where a hundred eyes looked at him with curiosity.

The “mirror” had cracked.

He tried calling her up. Initially, she wouldn’t pick up the phone but when she did, all she did was scream at him. He tried to explain that he had nothing to do with Ingrid and it was she who he was in love with. But she would not listen. When he said that he had only flirted with her without anything in mind, she sharply rapped back, “flirting is cheating”. Then she hung up. Arihant’s world came crashing down.

He screamed and wailed, but the damage had already been done. Realizing that it was the question of his life, he called again.

This time she was more curt, “Arihant Iyer, there’s no point calling me to make amends. You did what you have to do. Now, it is my turn. I am not putting my life under any kind of insecurity. Just drill it into your head that every relationship has an expiry date, and WE have expired”. She banged the phone on him.

His tears had no effect on anybody. All he could do was curse-one and all. But that changed nothing. Only he was hurt, and only he bled.

******

The group was out touring the city of Casablanca. Arihant and Saboto Masake did not join in. Masake left for Mopti, a city in Mali where he hailed from while Arihant wanted to rest. He virtually slept the whole day.

******

Insomnia can be a very painful disorder. You go nights after nights without sleep. It ruins your health, disturbs your mind and totally eats up your happiness. Arihant was going crazy. The word peace had just disappeared from his life. He stared out of the window in his room. Except for the occasional cars which passed on the road, the night had pulled a veil of silence over the rest of the world.

“Did I deserve this”, he wondered. Maybe he did.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The image was of a broken man. He clenched his fists and started screaming. The screams receded into moans which reflected pain- more emotional than physical. He sat down on his bed and reached out for the small cupboard next to it. When his hand came out of it, a bottle of Vodka came out along with it. He brought it close to his lips and took a swig. It was actually a gulp. Gulps followed. After a while he passed out. The bottle fell on the carpeted floor spilling the few milliliters left inside the bottle. What a waste!

Drinking did not come suddenly to him. He initially drank socially. It was always a controlled quota which was never violated. But all a broken man looks for support. A fall, however small is inevitable before a rise. And there is nothing which eases your bleeding than alcohol. It makes you numb to everything-pain to be precise. Pegs became sips and then nips, pints and quarts. Arihant’s soul was in control of spirits.

Vinayak and Akshara became really worried after it became a daily routine. He would wander around the whole day and come back late into the evening. He would scream and shout inside the confines of his room and then wail and weep. When his body could no more take the intake of alcohol, he would pass out. They both could understand what their child was going through.

When they tried talking to him, all he said was, “Appa, Aai, you guys can’t understand what I am going through”. But, you can’t see your child’s life going down the drain.

They thought things would improve with time. They could not have been more wrong. When they found that Arihant was not writing his final year exams and that he was not going to Tuborgen for the third summer, they understood the gravity of the situation. They decided that since the situation was sensitive and that rebukes and arguments were not the solution- Arihant needed counseling.

“You are not going to Tuborgen?” Akshara asked him on the breakfast table. He did not respond. His eyes were red and swollen. He looked like Tom Hanks from “Cast Away” sans the malnourished constitution.

Similar instances followed. Both of them constantly tried to talk to him. But he somehow did not feel that they were his biggest benefactors. The word “counseling” made him behaves like a lunatic. Once, when the discussion went a bit overboard, Vinayak lost his cool and slapped him.

Arihant walked out.

******

“Is that Mr. Iyer”, the voice said on the telephone. On receipt of an approval it went further, “This is Sub-Inspector Rathi from the Police Station. A drunken youth was arrested last night. His driving licence says that he is your son”.

Vinayak secured his son’s release using his contacts. Sub-Inspector Rathi was more than cordial after his superior called him up and asked him to co-operate. Papers which proved that Arihant had broken some rule were destroyed.

A free Arihant returned home. The surprising thing was he showed no remorse.

Finding no other solution, Akshara dialed an overseas phone number.

******

A furious Carlo Manzini entered Arihant’s room. It was more of a garbage heap than anything. He did not say anything as he bolted the door. He turned and looked at Arihant with eyes that clearly displayed anger and despise.

“Carlo…”Arihant started, but before he could finish, Carlo slapped him hard across his face. He then opened the door and left the house.

Arihant fell down on the floor again.

It was dark when he woke up. Her jumped up and switched on the lights. Darkness always unsettled him.

He looked at himself in the mirror. The image was of a broken man. But there was a difference. This man had enough of breaking. He wiped his face and came out into the living room. It was past midnight. He softly knocked on the door of his parents’ bedroom. Finding no reactions, he entered the room. He flicked on the lights. Akshara and Vinayak woke up startled.

“Appa, Aai, I wanted to say sorry”, Arihant started, “I know I haven’t been the best child around. I have been stubborn, unreasonable and ungrateful. All my problems were self-created and when they went beyond control, I through my actions tried to put the blame on you. It was not correct on my part. I was about to become a deviant, but you saved me from that social stigma. You accepted me with all my faults”.

There were tears in Akshara’s eyes when her son spoke like this.

Arihant continued, “I failed to prioritize people. I hurt people who cared for me. I am sorry for hurting you guys. I love you”. He hugged his parents as mixed emotions of smiles and tears came alive in the room.

As the happy reunion ended, Arihant walked towards the door. Suddenly he turned and said with a chuckle, “Don’t you guys make out? Don’t tell me your life’s that boring”. He smiled and closed the door.

Arihant was a changed man the next morning. When Akshara went to him with a cup of coffee, his room was tidy as before. It was a different issue that the clutter would require a truck for disposal and the laundry would take days to be cleaned. But her happiness made her forget that. When they saw him at the breakfast table, his hair was neatly cut and combed. The beard was gone. The Iyer household had a happy breakfast after a long time.

“Aai, I am taking your car. I need it for a while”, he said as he rushed out of the house. The drive wasn’t long but it was full of fear and anxiety. He parked it in front of the building and went in. He knocked on the door. When the door was answered, Arihant spoke nothing.

Carlo Manzini did not waste time in hugging his favorite student. After a short talk and a few laughs, Arihant left.

Life probably was back on track again. Probably!

******

The next seven years were spent at the Saxe-Tuborg Woodwind Conservatory. Arihant lived his life like a monk.

Arihant had made three resolutions before he left India- one, he would sacrifice everything to become a flautist of repute in future; two, he would never hurt the people who cared for him; and three, he would never be emotional in life again. What happened between him and Radhika was painful, but passing on that pain to his dear ones was not correct. He knew he would never come out of that pain but keeping these three resolutions would give him a pain-killer. He planned to keep these resolutions whatever may come.

Carlo was a tough taskmaster. But he equally loved Arihant. They worked tirelessly together till one day when the offer came for which both were waiting for. Gunther Von Broffenberg, the scout for the Bremen Chamber Orchestra offered a place to Arihant. But before he could join, The Saxe-Tuborg Chamber Orchestra offered him a trial. Arihant chose the latter.

His trial performance with the orchestra was in the French Town of Lyons. In attendance were the three most important people in his life- Vinayak Iyer, Akshara Deshmukh and Carlo Manzini. As he finished his performance, they beamed with pride and had tears in their eyes. At the end of the performance Arihant was told what he wanted to hear- his first performance with the group would be in a week at Cairo.

“I should never had stopped you from becoming a flautist”, Vinayak later said.

“Yes, after all I never finished my bachelor’s degree”.

Akshara and Vinayak left for a tour of Europe the next day. The holiday was a gift from their only child. As they got into the car, Arihant whispered into his mother’s ear, “Aai, I love you”. He waved as they drove into the mist.

With two resolutions kept, it was time to keep the third. He would keep it too.

******

It was seven in the evening when he woke up. It was good that he had slept this long. Insomnia can be a very painful disorder. You go nights after nights without sleep. So, it was good if one could take care of this need of the body during the day. As he shaved and showered, the sun went down. From the window of his room he could see the moon was full and lit the sky in a colour which could make poets write stanzas on it. He dressed and went out.

The lounge was called “Rick’s”. Arihant smiled. Rick Blaine (Character played by Humphrey Bogart in the epic “Casblanca”) had still not left the soil of Casablanca. He walked into it. It was not very crowded. A jazz artist was performing who barely managed to grab anybody’s attention.

“A Cup of Coffee and some cream crackers please”, Arihant ordered.

The cup of coffee arrived. A steward in a crisp uniform poured it into a cup and said, “Freshly ground coffee from Ethiopia, Sir”. Arihant nodded. At Arihant’s instructions, he emptied two sachets of sugar into the cup. The aroma of the strong brew entered his nostrils as he carefully took a sip. His face gave out an expression of satisfaction. His eyes caught the steward looking at him and he raised the cup towards him and nodded in approval. The man smiled back.

“May I join you”, a voice said. Arihant looked up. Standing in front of him was a girl in her late twenties. Her accent was British but she looked more North African. Latifa came from Algeria but had spent most of her life in London.

“I know you”, she said, “I have seen you performing. It is just that the genre of music I follow is different”. Arihant smiled. They continued talking. Coffee was replaced with a bottle of wine (She did not drink anything else, and Arihant had given up drinking everything else!) and time flew. Guiseppe who entered the place with a familiar face winked at Arihant who winked back. Guiseppe was doing more than standing under the poster of Simone Potter at Piccadilly Circus in London.

Dinner was Couscous, Moroccan lamb with prunes and apricots and Green Tea with mint.
After dinner, she rose to leave. Arihant walked her to the door. Although he felt disappointed, but he hid it well with his smile. But she was smarter. “We Algerians are a bit slow”, she quipped. “Understandable”, Arihant replied.

He walked to his room. Although it was half past midnight, sleep still evaded him. He decided to take the stairs to his room on the seventh floor. A little bit of exercise could get him some sleep. Optimism! A slow run up the stairs followed.

Arihant stood on the balcony of his room at “The Casablanca Hilton”. He stared into the moonlit sky. His greatest fears were still inside him. Wherever they inhabited inside him, they disturbed him to the hilt. They would come out like demons and dislodge his composure and then go away, haunting him with their disappearance. It had been many years since he had been dealing with those fears. It was getting difficult day by day to deal with them.

He took off his shirt and hung it inside the wardrobe. The air outside was warm but the air-conditioner managed to cut the heat. Suddenly there was a knock on the door. He walked up to it lazily and turned the knob. What he saw outside was a pleasant surprise.

“It probably escaped your attention that my upbringing was British. Imperialists you see”, Latifa Said.

Arihant took her in his arms and whispered, “I am an Indian. Did you know that British ruled India?” His grip on her body tightened.

After a point of time, she broke away from the embrace. He walked up to the wall opposite him and switched off the lights. The moonlit sky gave them the necessary light as they took each other in their arms. They were wild. It was tiring for every part of both the bodies. It seemed the pleasure would go on till eternity. They reached a height where they cried out together in ecstasy. Tired and exhausted, they lay down on the bed next to each other. Everything in this world had to come to an end.

After a shower, they got into the bed. She held him close and slept while he stared into the darkness.

At four in the morning he left the room. The reception was instructed not to disturb or charge anything to the lady. Charges, if any, were to be billed personally to Arihant Iyer. The clerk smiled and asked, “What would be the tentative check out date?”

Arihant looked at his watch and replied, “19th April 2007”. This was followed by a smile.

Guiseppe found him smiling and asked in his thickly accented Italian, “Why are you laughing”?

Arihant gave out no reactions as he boarded the bus. When they were settled into the seat, he turned to Guiseppe and said, “I suddenly remembered that India became independent from British rule in 1947.” The poor Italian could make no sense.

P.S. The plot and the characters are figments of my imagination. Any resemblance to any person dead or alive is purely coincidental.