Profit & Loss

Winters in America could be extreme. Especially, in the central and the eastern parts of the country where at this time of the year, it would be snowing like anything. Ram Kumar felt lucky that his proximity to the Pacific Ocean saved him from such an extremity. He rubbed his hands together to ward off the chill.

At the age of sixty, he wasn’t getting any younger, and his ability to stand the winters wasn’t getting any better.

“They say it’s the toughest time since the Great Depression, but I say it’s ‘mint time’”- said somebody who called himself an analyst and was blabbering away to glory on the local Radio Station.

“How much can these idiots blabber”, he wondered. Ram Kumar wanted to change the station, but he gave up the idea when it came to his mind that each one was worse than the other.

He didn’t care!

As long as his books balanced at the end of the year, and his venture gave out a profit, what happened in the world was not his business. He liked his life, he loved his family and he was happy.

He got busy lining up some groceries on the shelves as he ward off these thoughts. A black Chevy Suburban arrived and parked in front of the shop. Through the security system installed in the shop, Ram Kumar saw the arrival of two uniformed officers. It wasn’t abnormal for Ram Kumar to see men from the army coming to him. For nearly thirty years, his small shop “Wings of Indus” catered to the soldiers at the nearby army base. The shop was part of the small town called Jerryburg. The shop sold every product that man could call “basic necessity” and also a lot of products which could not be classified as the same. All these years, the shop would open at six in the morning and would be in business till eight in the evening. The same routine was followed since the day Ram Kumar opened shop in the area.

It was different today. He was used to the visits by soldiers to his shop, but there was a difference this time. The officers approaching the door were people he hadn’t seen earlier. This wasn’t the oddity that struck him. What was different in them was the fact that both of them had no expressions on their faces. They looked quite similar in their formal uniforms with peak caps and dark sunglasses.

As they opened the door to the shop, Ram Kumar took his eyes off the camera and faced them with a smile. “Good Morning Gentlemen! Can I help you?”

“We are looking for a Mr. Kumar, K-U-M-A-R”, the younger of them said. He turned his eyes towards the street as he said this. Perhaps he was skeptical of somebody else’s presence as he uttered those words. “I am Kumar”, he said as he adjusted his spectacles to have a clearer look at both the men who knew his name and were looking for him.

Both the officers looked at one another. The silence was killing. It was one of those moments when the silence around you has the ability to stop everything in your mind. Ram Kumar could never anticipate that this was one of those moments. He knew what was coming. He slowly sat down on the chair behind the cash counter.

One of the officers started saying what was required by protocol, “Sir, I am Lieutenant Ian Richter and this is my senior officer Major Peter Arche. We are from the Casualty Notification Service and we wish to inform you of the death of your son, Lieutenant William Kumar. We are deeply sorry for your loss. Please remember that your son died serving the people of the United States of America and keeping up the highest traditions of United States Army”.

The silence that followed was broken only by occasional cars whizzing past on the road in front of the shop. Every part of his body went numb as the news spread into his mind. “Sir, are you all right?” Major Arche asked him. Kumar did not reply. He slowly sat down on the chair behind the counter.

******

Ram Kumar still remembered the day he landed in the United States of America.

He came to this country as an immigrant; and he was proud of this identity of his. Although he accepted everything about the country he came to, he could never forget where he came from. A part of him still belonged to that “part” of the world. He landed up in United States of America by chance. A perpetually drunk diplomat by the name of Colonel Gordon Scott was leaving India at the end of his posting as Defense Attaché at the United States Embassy. Ram Kumar was his butler. Drunk on one and half bottles of Tennessee whisky, Col. Scott asked Ram Kumar if he would come to America with him. The thought of going to “Aameyreeeka” was something no Indian in those days could refuse.

 It was the land of opportunities, a land where everything was in abundance and where everybody was apparently equal. Ram Kumar flew into United States of America. Colonel Scott came from a family of Soldiers in a small town called Jerryburg. They owned enough land to cultivate oranges, almonds and strawberries, rear cattle and live in affluence. Till the day Colonel Scott died, Ram Kumar was his man Friday. They became more of friends as Colonel Scott aged and drank more and more of Tennessee Whisky. He taught him how to read and write English and to count and calculate. He even gave Ram Kumar a small piece of land to build a house and open a small shop in Jerryburg. At the end of the first year, his revenues were more than his expenses. When the difference showed a plus sign, Ram Kumar was ecstatic.

******

William Kumar was born after Ram Kumar and Helen were married for six years. Helen was an immigrant from India too. She was born as Heer, but her father changed her name to Helen in order to save her from the confusion of having a name which nobody in the neighborhood had or had heard. This was something Ram Kumar agreed to. He knew that if he wished to be accepted, he would have to make efforts to assimilate into the society. The name was the foremost.

They had given up hopes for a child when one day Helen gave her husband the good news that she had conceived. They decided to call him William. William was followed by Joanne and Gerard in a span of four years, before Ram Kumar decided to go to a surgeon and medically curtail his ability to contribute to childbearing. He knew that his duty as a father required him to give a good quality of life to all his children- something which he was alien to till he came under the tutelage of Col. Scott.

He was lucky that all his children turned out bright and obedient. They respected their parents, never answered back and took education seriously. Ram Kumar was very happy when William got a scholarship to study History at the University of Great Lakes. Though it was far away from home, Ram Kumar and Helen happily sent him away to face the world on his own.

******
When the telephone rang, Helen was in the Kitchen. She hurriedly wiped her hands on the hand towel and stretched her hand to pick up the instrument. “Hello”, she said with a smile on her face. She knew who it was!

“Hey Mom, how are you doing”, the voice on the other side said. It was William from his base in Afghanistan. “Maa, I am coming back at the end of next month”, he said. Helen knew her son was smiling. She smiled too. She could hear sounds in the background which she tried to ignore. She just wanted to forget that her eldest born was in war-torn Afghanistan fighting a war for reasons known only a few people in power and to some religious fanatics who were hell-bent on antagonizing the world.

He called her up, every day, religiously at the same time. Every day she would listen to his voice-full of optimism and composure. The voices in the background were also always the same- explosions and chaos. She wished he came back home at the earliest.

She still couldn’t understand why William, with a Master’s Degree in History, decided to join the US Army. Perhaps, her husband knew the answer to this.

******

William broke the news to his parents after he came back home from University. Ram Kumar was speechless when his son told him that he had been selected to join the “Officer Candidate School”.

“I am not going back to start work on my Ph. D. I am joining the US Army”, he announced.

  Like a close-knit family they were eating their dinner together. Gerard and Joanne who were also on vacation from their colleges were present. “But Why?” is all he could say to his son. Deep inside he had many questions. He knew that he could never put them in front of his young son.

******

“Omega Company under heavy fire…Enemy still holding ground with heavy machine gun and mortar firing”, the wireless transmitter echoed. “Requesting for support from Artillery Gunships”.

Inside a tent, which served as the Forward Base Communications Outpost, a Corporal wrote these words on a slip and sent it to his superior officer.

When he got the answers, he softly said into the radio, “Wolf’s Lair to Omega, Gunship support negative”

******

“William, we are immigrants”, Ram Kumar was trying to reason with his son. “We live in this society, we give what we have to offer, and we take back something in return. We don’t meddle into their affairs.”

Back of his mind, Ram Kumar thought of all these years in Jerryburg. So many soldiers, whom he had met, were never to be seen again. They talked of some place called Vietnam when he had arrived in America. The war had taken the life of a lot of Americans.

There was a lull for some time before they went to war again in a place ruled by some despotic Dictator. War did not scare him. The thought of his son going to war scared him.

William was quietly listening to his father. He somehow was not in agreement with his “old man”. He was born in this country. Ram Kumar might have been an immigrant, but he –William Kumar was not. He was an American. He was born an American, he grew up an American. He had never even been to the piece of earth his parents had at one point of time called “home”. He decided to keep quiet and just listen to his father. Arguments, in an emotional state like this, he knew never worked with one’s parents. It makes the whole scene ugly, but doesn’t yield any results. He decided to wait till his father came back to his normal state.

He walked out of the shop. He needed some fresh air. Ram Kumar went back to balancing his books. He hoped that the boy would come back to his senses and not join the Army. As he balanced his books, saw that the revenues were more than the expenses. There was a profit. He smiled to himself. The momentary euphoria of having made the profit, made him forget that a few moments ago he was apprehensive of his son joining the army.

******

Bullets were flying everywhere. The enemy was at a far superior position as they had the advantage of elevation. William was trying to shield the volley using a huge rock as cover. The occasional mortar exploded in the vicinity making a deafening sound and sending everybody into cover.

“Hit the left flank”, he shouted at his machine gunner. “We need to break the flank, and get the time to strike them”. The gunner tried, but his rounds weren’t finding the target. The news of not being supported by artillery Gunships was already a problem.

Suddenly, an idea struck him. “Nunez, pass me the Bazooka”, he asked his Corporal. He whispered something into the ears of the Corporal and aimed the rocket in the direction of enemy.

******

The day before William was to leave for the “Officer Candidate School”, Ram Kumar tried to talk to his son again. But destiny had something else in store for them.

“Why are you trying to stop me from going?” William asked his father. “Give me one logical reason not to go, and I will go back for my Ph. D.”

When Ram Kumar spoke, both he and William knew that he spoke nonsense. William sensed the apprehension in his father’s mind. He put his arms around the old man’s shoulder and tried to comfort him. As a father, Ram Kumar had every right in this world to be concerned about his offspring, even if the concern bordered on being selfish.

When William spoke, he was straight and to the point, “Dad, your anxiety springs up from the fact that I as a soldier will go to war one day. It has nothing to do with whom I am fighting for or whom I am fighting against.”

When Ram Kumar tried to interrupt, his son raised his hand and continued. He talked of someone called Simon Bolivar and some things about him which Ram Kumar did not understand. After all, he had never read a book in his life and it made no difference to him that someone named Simon Bolivar was responsible for liberating a few South American nations.

Ram Kumar just had three agendas for his life- success and safety of his family, prosperity of his children and profits in his books of accounts. About the rest of the things in the world, he did not care much. And William’s joining the army did not remotely count in any of these agendas.

******

The rocket went and hit the exact spot where it was aimed at. It hit the base of a huge rock which toppled as a result of the explosion. A chaos resulted. As soon as the guerillas were off guard for a moment, William charged at them with his men in tow.

“Hit the left flank, Nunez. The left flank”, William shouted to his corporal. The machine gunners turned their guns to the direction. William and few of his men were nearly three hundred yards from the guerillas, when they took cover behind some rocks.

He called for his sniper and instructed him, “Jeremy, you need to take out the chaps with rocket launchers”. The young man, who was barely twenty years old, nodded to his Commanding Officer. Rockets and rounds from the enemy crisscrossed in all directions. William knew this was the time to remain calm.

William then raised his voice and told his men, “Nunez and Hustler shoot a rocket each at these jerks, Jeremy takes out the rocket launchers, and then we charge. Remember guys, time is short. Shoot a volley, use grenades and take cover. I don’t want anybody hurt. Am I clear guys?

Two dozen men affirmed in unison.

The final charge was violent. Grenades were hurled from both sides. Hustler’s rocket hit the bull’s eye but Nunez missed it. As a result, the left flank was not completely paralyzed. The charge was partially successful and they were able to gain some ground. As soon as they gained equal elevation, the machine gunners set up their guns. Jeremy and his scout took cover behind some rocks and started their job of “Strategic elimination”.

The fight went on for a while, before they could hear the whirring of helicopters over them. Now the guerrillas were hit from the air as well as the ground. The radio crackled and Colonel Brad Haskins, the Commanding officer came on line, “Wolf’s lair to Omega. Bolivar, you have Gunships to support you now. Finish the job and come back”. William assured him of an early end, the conversation ended with “over & out”.

The attack pulverized the guerillas. When it all ended; the smell of gunpowder, the splatters of blood and sounds made by the wounded was all that was left behind. William arranged for his wounded soldiers to be evacuated. He looked at Corporal Salazar Nunez who was bleeding from a bullet wound on his shoulder but was grinning with his mouth wide open. William hugged him and said in Broken Spanish, “Amigo, Es hora ir de casa”, meaning, it was time to go home now”.

******

“Bolivar down, Bolivar down. We need MEDEVAC”, the Radio operator repeatedly screamed into the radio. The message was of no consequence. A bullet had passed through William’s head, splitting his skull. He fell on the ground immediately.

His men fired in the direction of the bullet’s origin, but they had already lost their commander. The guerrillas had retreated, but one of their final rounds took William away. His men surrounded him and pointed their guns on all sides ready to take on the enemy. “Bolivar down, KIA”, the radio operator slowly said into the radio. His lifeless body and his rifle lay side by side.

******

William’s funeral was attended by very few people. But these few people mattered to William, and he mattered to them. Ram, Helen, Joanne and Gerard stuck to each other through the memorial service. Before the body was cremated, the attendees paid their last respects to the fallen soldier. Colonel Brad Haskins led the US Army in paying their respects to the fallen soldier. His moist eyes and choked voice was evidence of his sorrow. He was barely audible when he presented the flag draped around William’s coffin to his mother and said, “On behalf of the President of the United States”.

******

Ram opened a letter addressed to him a few days after the funeral. It was from someone in the Army, a Salazar Nunez, whom he did not know. The contents of the letter gave him some clarity.

Dear Mr. Kumar,

I was one of the few men who had the privilege to fight along with your son, and my superior officer, Lt. William Kumar. My words can never compensate your loss, but I feel it is my profound duty to write to you and express what I felt about him.

He was not only an exemplary leader, but also a true soldier. He knew that, as always in human history, good is no match for evil without the power to physically defend itself.

My parents were also immigrants like you. And I like your son took this country to be “home” and fought for its sovereignty and its people. The future generations of this nation are indebted to the sacrifice made by Lt. Kumar.

Please convey my condolences to your family.

Regards

Corporal Salazar Nunez

Ram was close to tears. He thought that balancing his books would be the distraction he wanted. He started making the calculations. He finished the calculations and wrote down the numbers at the end. Then he put a small mark ahead of those numbers. It was a “minus” sign. His venture had made a loss.

But this wasn’t a loss which could offset his biggest loss! The figures in the books dissolved into his tears as Ram cried uncontrollably.

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

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.

Sounding the Bombay Bugle

At the outset, I think it is my duty to express my profound gratitude to Ms. Rao (See I told you, that your name would be in the first line) - an attractive and bubbly 20-something whose creative use of languages amuses me to the hilt. Not to forget the “Roys”- the charming couple who has always made me feel at home in Mumbai (After telling me that I have started looking like somebody called Omar Abdullah). Also, my sincerest regards to a gentleman by the name of Dr. Anirban Bose who wrote an amazing read in “Bombay Rains, Bombay Girls”.

An archipelago of seven Islands, the city was under various rulers before the “Treaty of Bassein” ceded it to the Mughals. Later on, the Portugese occupied it before it became a dowry for the British Ruler Charles II, who married the Portugese Princess Catherine of Braganza. It was the Portuguese who gave the city a majority of its regal buildings-mostly churches. Charles II, unable to find a fruitful use for this piece of dowry, leased it to the East India Company for an annual lease rent of £10.

Life changes for anyone the moment one steps into the city. From the far flung suburbs like Dahanu road, Bombay starts getting into your system. By the time once reaches Borivali, the secretion of adrenaline into one’s body increases manifold. Even the laziest human being who lives in a state of trance between “play” and “pause” is forced to go into the “fast forward” mode the moment he steps into Bombay. The city is huge and the distances unimaginable. This however does not deter any “Mumbaikar” from pursuing any kind of vocation.

Bombay is comparable to a “Big Mac burger”. There is a different layer giving a different taste every time one bites into the city. Bandra or Juhu shocks you with awe with its elite rich while Dharavi makes u shake your head in disbelief with its poverty. Colaba & Churchgate gives you the taste of British remains with its old Victorian architecture while the skyscrapers at Andheri or Powai welcome you into the future. Nariman Point oozes of power as the address to India’s biggest corporate giants while Hiranandani Gardens at Powai send you to a foreign locale without any air fare. Oh! How can I forget the mills in Parel. Numerous nameless mills stood there as proof of the “industrial revolution” of India’s commercial capital. Most of them have now gone down with time and given way to office complexes and shopping malls. One of them was “Phoenix Mills” which gave way to “High Street Phoenix”- a shopping mall that could compete with the best in the world. A part of this is “Palledium”- home to biggest brands worldwide.

Ms. Rao, I think of you as I type out these words. Your expert comments as a tour-guide coupled with your motherly affection for me (although our age difference could be termed a “generation gap” with me on the higher side) makes me always remember you with lots of warmth.

Now, my readers need an introduction to this charming young lady. Ms. Rao is a smart and attractive, bubbly student of advertising who is on the right side of 20s. She owns a variety of talents which include speaking half a dozen languages (at least she abuses Holmes in all of them!) and designing posters selling you things which one is in no need of. Her choice of world cuisine is phenomenal and she was successful in introducing Holmes to “Nachos” (Please don’t try to pronounce it as it is Mexican and is more related to a certain Ms. Mori) and “Maroosh”- a Lebanese joint that serves yummy “Butter Chicken wraps”. Her words & pictures speak of a beautifully designed 22nd floor apartment (imagine 22 floors) but Holmes decided not to think of it as he suffers from “Vertigo”. So, in a nutshell- she is a “pure” Mumbaikar.

Ms. Rao’s directions led me to Matunga. The distance was to be bridged with the help of a “local”. The Electric Multiple Unit (EMU) trains run by Western Railways and Central Railways affably known as “locals” in Bombay parlance run like arteries through the heart of Bombay. Now, if one is not from Bombay and is not used to this mode of transport, one has to be very careful. First, there are three lines-western, central and harbour. A wrong choice might lead you to the opposite direction. Secondly, they are a quick-guide to the aftermaths of having the 2nd largest population in the world. They are so crowded that an infrequent traveler would be scared out of his wits. There is no room for being gentlemanly and all primate skills remaining with us “homo sapiens” should be used to the maximum. So, if one wishes to board or disembark, following rules is extremely important. Failure to do so might result in different kinds of injuries.

Braving all of this I reached “Matunga Road”. Without asking for directions Holmes used his “sixth sense” of topography. Now this is something one should not do in Mumbai. This led him into a “vicious circle” which did not end till a Junaid Miyan, a tea-stall owner gave him proper directions. The advise that I give you in the above lines also came from him along with the directions.The hunt for “Ramashray” was over. Ladies and gentlemen, this is the place that serves the best south Indian food in Mumbai. The idlis melt into your mouth and the sambhar seems to be straight from Tamil Nadu or Karnataka.

Supporting the Railways ably is the Bombay Electric Supply & Tram co. (BEST) which run the bus service within the city. Nostalgia sets in when the sight of BEST double deckers in old feature films run in front of our eyes. Not to forget the yellow and black cabs that ply around the city. Known locally as “Dukkads” (Gujarati for Pig), originally they were cabs run on Fiat 1100 model cars which later changed to Premier Padmini (Holmes so much misses the sight of a Premier Padmini in India now) and now cabs in all models can be found plying. No Indian city can beat Bombay as far as public transport is concerned.

The biggest problem Holmes faced in Bombay was that every face looked familiar. It was during a visit to Bandra Bandstand and Marine Drive that this problem surfaced. There were beautiful faces all around and all looked familiar. It is said that any visit to Bombay is incomplete without going to “Chowpatty”, but Holmes decided to keep the visit incomplete. The crowd was too frightening.

Initially, this problem of familiar faces was dismissed as some kind of delirium, but later this was confirmed when Holmes visited the “Roys”. Mr. Roy happens to be a classmate of Holmes since his teenage years. An extremely sharp fellow, his technical skills were always in demand. After a degree in Engineering, he served the Tatas for a while before he shifted to another MNC which weighed him in “pieces of silver”. It was during his stint with Tatas that he found his better half in “Mrs. Roy”. Now, the lady in question happens to be extremely beautiful. These two lovebirds have always proved to be the best of hosts whenever I have met them. She dishes out the best chicken biryani in town and his bar serves handsome proportions of Scotch whisky. So, the combination will attract Holmes time and again to Mumbai.

I was on my fifth helping of “Jack Daniels” when the bell rang. The hostess was out shopping and the host was in no mood to get up. I kicked him on his posterior as I got up to open the door. As the door swung, what do I see? An angel was standing in front of me with a cup in her hand.

“Hi @#$#$%” she said as she looked at Mr. Roy. “Hi &^%”, Roy replied back lazily.

“I need some milk” she said to me. I wished I was a cow, but “by Jove”, I was not. So, I walked to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and poured a cup of milk for her. As I put the cup into her fragile fingers, she smiled at me and said, “Thank you so much”. My eyes remained opened as the smile smeared itself on my heart like butter. A flustered Mr. Roy looked at me and quipped, “She is Sonia from #$%^**- the serial that is aired on ……”

Oh Yes!!! (I copied Archimedes). I was on cloud nine.

This “Oh Yes!!” continued the whole days because his apartment complex hosted more than a dozen TV artists. Mumbai is full of people from the “silver screen”. With Bollywood being based there, the city is a dream destination to all who wish to shine in this tinsel town.

This brings me to the two greatest wonders of Bombay- Bombay rains & Bombay girls. I am ignorant of Dr. Bose’s standing as practitioner of medicine but as a writer he is par excellence. The beautiful way in which he weaved a story on both these sensuous topics is simply praiseworthy. So, Holmes couldn’t help adding his own observations to them.

When the almighty turns on a faulty tap which leaks for a while before it is fixed, this phenomenon is called Bombay rains. Come July, and nature starts with a heavy downpour. It is so extreme that it brings life to a standstill. Television footage shows different walks of life reacting to it in a different manner. The poor curse nature, while the “secure and dry” elite talk of coffee & romance. Then it recedes but the drizzles continue till the last weeks of September. It keeps drizzling non-stop for days together. Any hope of the rains stopping completely is futile.

Normally, rains stop life in various cities. Life doesn’t stop here even when the heavens are pouring out. The whole city is engulfed by umbrellas. From an aerial view it looks like the earth has been engulfed by a myriad of colours. On a normal day all one can see in Bombay are people. On a rainy day all one can see is umbrellas.

It is during the rains that “Marine Drive” is the most romantic of places in the world. Holmes too decided to get drenched in the rain. Although the feeling was quite incomplete without the presence of Ms. Adler, but it was something that I could use to coax her to join me in Mumbai. A merry-making Holmes was walking down from the “queen’s Necklace” to Churchgate when a stern voice said, “Have you gone crazy? Dancing like this in the rain would kill you with pneumonia”.

The voice belonged to Jankibai. Jankibai in her 50s and lives in one of the suburbs of Mumbai. Everyday she travels two hours to and fro to sell flowers. Her clientele she tells me consists of the office-goers who get down at Churchgate and buy flowers in various forms before going to their workplaces. Her day starts at 3 in the morning and ends at 7 in the evening. How much struggle one has to go thorough to survive, Holmes thought.

Bombay girls- my face lights up as I write on them. Ladies, Holmes is a big fan of yours. Dr. Bose, I must tell you that your observations on them have been slightly incomplete as well as inaccurate. Holmes wishes to add a few more tit-bits to your observations. These women are the mascot of Bombay’s grace and charm. They portray the strength and agility of this city and its steely resolve.

The best places to observe them are the “local” railways stations. As the trains pass and one cast a glance at the “Ladies only” compartments, one can see the different women who constitute Bombay. Madam Sandra Felix lives in on Sandhurst Road and travels everyday to the “Portugese Church” at Dadar. She has been doing so everyday for the past four decades. She was on one of the trains which some miscreants blew up some years back. Did it scare her to travel in a train? Holmes’ question had a very queer effect on her. She blankly stared and got into the train as it made its way into Sandhurst road. Holmes did get the answer he was looking for.

Abhilasha Kadam was my co-passenger in the first class compartment from VT (Victoria Terminus, now renamed as Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus after the biggest Maratha Hero) to Panvel. We got talking on the way and she told me that the marathon journey from her house to VT never tired her. She was interning with a law firm which had its offices near VT. Dressed in a lawyerly white shirt and black pin-stripe trousers, she gave me a word tour of the Bombay High Court and the field of Corporate Law in Bombay. Two hours later when the train made its way into Panvel station, she bid me goodbye and walked her way into the crowd. I would never see her again but she had made her mark on me.

It is the gritty determination of these womenfolk and their confidence which make me appreciate them so much. In one of the compartments, I saw an upper middle class girl reading Kafka’s “Amerika” and in the same compartment a group of ladies returning from the office were chopping vegetables. What a sight. This could never be seen in any other city of India. Where can one two such different kind of women coming into close contact of each other in their daily lives?
Now guys, please at no point think that Holmes took a disguise to get such details. You can compliment my sharp sense of observation for that.

Another piece of addition I wish to make is the”Bombay Spirit”. This is a city which will never be short of it. Anything may come by, anything may happen, but the spirit and morale of the “Mumbaikar” will never be found lacking.

Assistant Sub-Inspector Sharad Mulshankar Gaitonde retires from his service in Mumbai Police in a few months time. These days he is posted at Juhu. In his prim and proper uniform and his peak-cap by his side, he sipped a “cutting” (A “cutting” is a portion of tea which is over in 3-4 sips. This peculiar portion originated in Bombay and is an integral part of it) on a roadside joint. I approached him asking for directions to Colaba and then tried to strike a conversation while I ordered a cup of coffee. Initially, he was very reluctant to talk about his profession to a stranger like me. So Holmes had to use the old method to befriend him. When I offered him a Benson & Hedges cigarette, he did not miss the opportunity (After all cops in India never refuse anything they are offerd).

Then he got talking. He was an eye-witness to two of the most gruesome happening in this city. In the 1993 bomb blasts, he was a constable on rounds near the Air-India building when the blast took place. And when the terrorists attacked on 26th Novemeber, he was in a Patrol car near colaba. Both the incidents are fresh in his mind. One sentence of his is fresh in my mind, “I have seen enough bloodshed in those two days to last a lifetime. But that will not dampen my spirits. I shall serve the “force” till I retire”.

As me and ASI Gaitonde talked suddenly a chaos broke out. I was surprised. In a cool voice he said, “Amitabh Bachchan must have come out to his balcony”. What a city! What a city! Holmes did not even realsie that he was standing in front of his house. ASI Gaitonde added, “Earlier they came to see him. Now they come for Asihwarya Rai”. Holmes smiled at the grey-haired man whose irritation with the crowd was clearly visible on his face. He called a constable and asked him to disperse the crowd.

Bombay evens out everybody. From fishermen to milkmen, from middle level babus to well-dressed executives, from top-notch Investment Bankers to coquettish starlets, from industrialists who drive Indian economy to entertainers who drive India crazy—everybody shares Bombay. It doesn’t belong to anybody. Even the regional elements who tried time and again to stake a claim to Bombay being theirs failed miserably to do so.

In the end- it is the spirit of Bombay that survives and triumphs. Victoria Terminus may turn into Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus, Parven Babi might fade away to give place to Katrina Kaif, a new economic scandal may come and go, even the nature of attacks on Bombay may change, but one things remains standing upright- The spirit of Bombay. It is the grit and determination of these people which keeps this city standing on its feet. People like Assistant Sub-Inspector Sharad Mulshankar Gaitonde, Abhilasha Kadam, Madam Sandra Felix, Jankibai, the “Roys” and of course, the bubbly Ms. Rao.

Shalom! Bombay.

The tale of Agnes, Steak and Caramel Custard

“Yes Madam, can I help you”, the clerk at the reception asked her.

She had just entered the magnanimously imposing structure of the Head Office of Imperial Bank. She was frail with a recognizable hunch which was clear evidence of her eighty something years on this earth. She was dressed in a floral printed skirt with a white blouse which had frayed with innumerable washes. She carried a small plastic basket along with her polished leather handbag. A scarf fluttered whenever the high powered revolving fan threw a gust of air towards her.

“Anybody walks into this office these days”, the clerk thought while he continued to smile at her. Her appearance was not imposing by any standards and thus gave him no reasons to entertain her more than necessary. “Can I help you Madam”, he said again.

Removing her spectacles and keeping the basket on the desk in front of her she politely moved her lips, “I wish to meet Raghav Mehra”. The clerk almost burst into a sarcastic laugh, but then he did not wish to be impolite. “Do you have an appointment? Mr. Mehra is a very busy man”, his sarcasm was now completely evident. She gave him a blank stare which showed her disappointment. She continued to stare at him for a positive reaction, which made him all the more uncomfortable.

“I am sorry; In that case I won’t be able to help you then. Mr. Mehra would not be available without an appointment”, his words were giving her a signal to close the conversation and walk out. She picked up her basket and turned around. Her face was drained and all one could read in it was a melancholic expression. The clerk breathed a sigh of relief. “What a pain”, he thought as he went back to his work.

But his apparent ordeal was yet to end. The lady retraced her steps and put the basket on the desk again. Slowly she muttered in hope, “Could you please tell him that Agnes wishes to see him. I saw his photograph in the newspaper today and wanted to see him. Maybe he will find some time”. This irritated the clerk. With no options he dialed a number which was fresh in his memory and spoke into it before he put down the receiver.

“Could you please sit on the sofas over there. I have called his office. They said they will call back in a moment”, he raised his hands to show a line of sofas behind her. A few people were sitting on them. All were visitors who were waiting to meet Bankers at Imperial Bank. Some were nervous, some irritated while some gave out no expressions at all. The old lady found herself a seat in the corner and waited for the moment she was looking forward to. It did not take long.
The clerk hurried to her with an “ear to ear” smile. There were movements around the reception. A well dressed man also came quickly towards her. “Is she the visitor”, he asked the clerk. At his nod he addressed her, “Hello Madam, myself Krishan Kumar, Protocol Officer. Nice to meet you. Chairman Sahib is coming downstairs to receive you”. Agnes gave him a blank stare. Either she hadn’t expected his sudden change in behaviour or maybe Kumar’s “murder” of the language made her numb. It was difficult to say. All around her she could feel that the attention had shifted to her. People were referring to her in hushed up tones. Why had she suddenly become important?

Suddenly she saw that a few people had gathered around the line of elevators. One of them opened and a man with authority came out. He was in his mid-fifties and he oozed of power. Dressed in a grey pinstripe suit he walked up to Agnes in a hurry. There were so many feelings visible on his face- surprise, restlessness, happiness and not to mention, a smile. “Nothing has changed about him”, Agnes thought, “the same face, just a bit wrinkled with age, a smile that still had the same innocence, as it was thirty five years ago, hair that had become thinner and had turned grey. But the same walk”.

“Agnes, how are you”, he said as he hugged her. People beside him smiled. Such reactions were not expected from Raghav Mehra, the Chairman of Imperial Bank,an organization that had the ability to influence the nation. An orderly took the basket and followed them as she slowly accompanied him to the elevator that would take him to his plush office on the 37th floor of the building.

The reception’s telephone rang. A known voice asked the clerk “has somebody by the name Agnes D’Cunha arrived”? The phone clicked after it had got the necessary information. Then the phone rang again, and again, and again for the same reason. The clerk was flustered. What is so important about this frail lady that more than a dozen top executives of the Bank were enquiring about her?

Darshan Banerjee was surprised to see his boss Hitesh Mishra smiling. Mishra, Country Head of Treasury Operations at Imperial Bank was known to be a fellow who never smiled. Today he grinned as he left his office. Banerjee dialed into the intercom and called up a colleague, “Meeesraaaa is smiling”, he said into the phone.

There were similar occurrences in other departments as well. “Old Men” were acting like “young probationers”. The Executive lift (available to Senior Vice-Presidents and above) was constantly doing rounds to the 37th floor. Protocol went for a toss. The chairman’s secretariat was wondering who this Agnes was, who had broken all hierarchy in Imperial Bank. The Chairman’s office was crowded with people. Senior Vice-Presidents, Country heads, one Vice-Chairman and the Chairman himself. Extra chairs had to be sent in to accommodate twenty nine executives who were sitting with the old frail lady.

“Order some tea with chocolate cup cakes” Varun Mathur, the Vice-Chairman ordered. “Sir, ensure that you get five for Harirajan, or else he will snatch ours as he did earlier” quipped Sakar Ray, Senior Vice-President of the Human Resources Department. Everybody broke into laughter. People outside the room were still confused as to what was happening. Suddenly somebody found a common link. All the men in the room had joined the bank in the Western Provinces area.

******

“Coming for lunch. Lets gobble up some lunch before the boss comes back”, Diwakar Pandey said to his batch mate Anil Verma. Both of them were probationers at Area Head Office of Imperial Bank. Getting into a conversation, they hurried down the flight of stairs and walked out of the office. After walking almost a kilometer in the sun, they came into a residential area. From a distance they could see a huge man coming towards them.

“Hey Hari, what’s for lunch?” Verma asked the burly man. “Your favourite caramel custard is there kiddo” said Harirajan to his junior colleague.

The board on top of the house said, “Lisboa”. It was originally painted in blue but now could be confused with black. Motorcycles were neatly lined in front of it. Inside the house sat scores of young men and women eating. Both the fellows got inside and found a place. “Agnes, we are here”, they smiled at the lady who moved around the tables with an apron around her and a smile on her face.

“Man, you have lost so much of weight” she looked at Diwakar and said. “Johhnyyyyy…..get baba a bowl of custard” she screamed at one of the stewards. “I will have a steak with potatoes and rice” Anil declared. Everybody was referred to as “baba” or “baby” by Agnes. She nodded in approval before she went to the next table.

“Lisboa” was the house owned by William D’ Cunha. He had arrived in Khudabad, the capital of Western Province just before independence. Western Province was full of textile mills which employed a lot of Christians who came all the way from the Portuguese ruled parts of the country. They came as technicians and settled there. When William lost a hand to a malfunctioning machine and could work no more, his wife Agnes turned the house into an eatery. Initially, Willie (as William was affably known to all) sat on the counter and chatted with customers while he collected the bill. One fine day he died leaving everything to Agnes and their son Thomas. Agnes had run the place well. Imperial Bank and the Police Commissioner’s office were in the vicinity. Officers from both the places frequented the place for steak, roasted meat, cutlets and caramel custard (which was Agnes’ delicacy). Business was brisk.

It was “family” for everybody. Most of the officers had come from various parts of the country and found “Lisboa” a good place to eat and chat. Most stayed in the nearby area of Kamalpur and frequented the place. Agnes knew all of them by their first names. She was like a mother-figure to all the young fellows. Everyone had a “line of credit” which had to be liquidated on the 5th of every month. People who failed to meet the date were allowed access only if they had a valid reason. Once in a while somebody ran off without paying but Agnes did not care. She was not a professional. She cooked, people ate and paid. Jesus was kind to her.

The “Bankwallahs” were a vociferous lot while the “Policewallahs” were quieter. This was contrary to their professions. As most were “regulars”, there was hardly anybody who sat there without company. Couples were to be found chatting over innumerable cups of coffee followed by dinner after office hours before Agnes had to tell them that it was time to go home.

Friednships and love blossomed equally there. When Nilkamal Singh, a Police Service officer got pick pocketed of his salary (imagine what an irony), it was Raghav Mehra who overdraw his account to lend him money. And when Joe Sridhar, another Police Service officer asked Neelima Matthews to marry him, she said yes only on the condition that Joe would bring her twice a week to “Lisboa”. An excited Joe had agreed to all seven days.

Raghav himself had found love at “Lisboa”. It was in the form of Anette Faria, a junior at Imperial Bank. They got acquainted during the “annual closing” in March. He would drop her home after the day. Soon it was innumerable cups of coffee followed by dinner for them. A wedding was a bit tricky for them as they both came from different “faiths”. But love prevailed as in the end as they got married to each other. Agnes gave an “on the house” to the regulars on this occasion. Seven happy years later tragedy struck this beautiful love story. Anette went down to jaundice. At her funeral, Agnes said to a teary Raghav, “Man, if you break down now, she will lose her faith in love.” Raghav never forgot those words. He lived by the memories of Anette. He channelized all his energy to build a future for the two things he loved most after Anette- their son Roshan and Imperial Bank. Roshan went on to become a well-known Cardiologist while Imperial Bank became the largest Bank in Asia.

Years went by. Probationers came and went by. They grew in age, they grew in the organization. Some stayed in touch while some got lost. Every week dozens of postcards and letters came in Agnes’ name. They contained news of weddings, births, promotions, transfers and of course, deaths. Agnes had learnt to live with the realities of life. As she grew older, Thomas started helping her out. He had his mother’s benevolence and was liked by all. “Lisboa” never got a facelift as far as exteriors were concerned, but inside Agnes and Thomas and all its patrons, it was always in “top condition”.

“Let’s have steak with potatoes and rice for lunch. And some Caramel custard too. What do you say Agnes?” Varun Mathur asked. Agnes took out a small tiffin box and smiled, “Am an old woman now Baba, I have brought my lunch. I will eat it before I catch my evening train to Khudabad”. But none of the “babas” would listen to her. Thomas was called and told that his mother will fly to Khudabad the next morning. Lunch was ordered from “The Oriental Lotus”- Suraj Kothari,the Senior Vice- President in charge of Public relations was on good terms with their management. A dinner was organized in the evening at “Kimberley”- the official residence of the Chairman of Imperial Bank. It was time for Agnes to meet the “families”. It was late into the night that old jokes and anecdotes did rounds at “Kimberley”. Agnes was visibly tired and went off to sleep early. The “Babas” and the “Babys” kept chatting late into the night.

Next morning Agnes left for Khudabad. Raghav personally went to the airport and personally took her to the aircraft. After ensuring that the airline had made special arrangements for her and after making a call to Thomas of her safe departure, he came back home.

******

About a year later, Raghav was taking the elevator to his 37th floor office when his cellphone beeped. He saw the message and asked the operator to take him downstairs. He made a few calls. Soon twenty-eight other people came down. Innumerable executives of Imperial Bank attended Agnes’ funeral. Many faces saw each other after decades. Quite a few Khaki-clad gentleman too were present. After the service was over, people offered their condolences to Thomas. Raghav walked up to a burly Sikh in uniform and said, “Nilkamal, I hope your wallet is safe today”. The man laughed aloud and hugged Raghav.

In the evening, when Raghav was dropped at the airport by Azam Bashir, the Area Head of Imperial Bank at Western Province Area, he whispered something in his ear. Bashir knew exactly what to do. Days later when Raghav was flying to Zurich for an international conference, he was served steak and caramel custard on the flight. He asked the air hostess, “could you please give me something else to eat. I have given up eating steak and caramel custard.” Raghav knew they would never taste the same now that Agnes was dead.

******

“Coming for lunch. Lets gobble up some lunch before the boss comes back”, Kabir Pant said to his batch mate Ankit Grover. Both of them were probationers at Area Head Office of Imperial Bank having joined the Bank three months before. Getting into a conversation, they hurried down the flight of stairs and walked out of the office. After walking almost a kilometer in the sun, they came into a residential area. After a few minutes they found the board- “Lisboa”. As they entered, they found many recognizable faces. They wished those faces before sitting down on a table.

“Arnab was telling me that the table on the extreme right is the one on which the Chairman always sat in his younger days. Apparently he dated his wife on that table. And that photograph above the counter is probably of Agnes D’Cunha”, he said.

“What will Baba-log have?” the steward asked them. Both of them gave their orders and continued chatting.

After they walked out post lunch they entered an office next door. It had a well known signboard in blue and green which read, “Imperial Bank, Agnes Mansion Branch”. Azam Bashir had ensured that Agnes became immortal for Imperial Bankers.

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