Over the Seas (Part I)

Guruji gazed at Vastav’s palm, consulted almanacs and made a grim face. Guruji’s scalp was smooth as an ice skating ring. A frown came on his face and he closed his eyes; no one had put him in such doubt. After a long silence when Vastav’s fate hung in balance and everyone doubted if Guruji had actually dozed off, he exclaimed “You will cross seven seas one day!” For a family where generations settled in five mile radii, this was news.

It became a part of family folklore. “We will never let him marry a foreigner.” His mother would tell relatives or “We have strictly told him, he cannot settle abroad.” She would often brief acquaintances. Her face lit with pride when she talked about it. Others reciprocated with ‘we will see to that’ look.

Vastav achieved many things but many others from the neighborhood also did. Like all kids who did not study biology, he became an engineer. Like all engineers, he passed having no idea what course was all about. Not only that, like all his course mates, he managed a job nothing to do with engineering. Everything was as inconsequential as it should be; a decent pay, an idyllic rat race and an unremarkable human being (like all) in that city.

Vastav’s family bore this with difficulty but years passed and he could manage visiting only metro cities. Through distant signs in the beginning and accusations later on, it was made clear that he was not living up to his destiny. He was turning out another humble human being and humility gave no cause for pride of family; worse it never gave rise to envy of relatives.

Vastav decided it was time to please his boss. His boss, like all bosses, worshipped perfection; his idea of perfection was himself. He believed in leading by example and his examples led to himself. Vastav worked like a donkey and smiled at donkey’s work. He brayed with gratitude when his boss patted his back. For some time it appeared Vastav was growing a tail; wagging it helps in perfect communication. He bore humiliations with grace, laughed at his boss’s poor jokes; at times he even rolled on the floor laughing (he never learnt he could write ROFL instead).

His boss asked Vastav if he wished to go abroad and he advised Vastav that he should go abroad but his boss never decided when Vastav will be sent abroad. Vastav tried to convince, cajole and claim but failed. Just when he decided to declare the grapes sour (but dreaded to tell his family so), he was nominated for a foreign training. The place was Amsterdam; even the name sounded beyond seven seas. It was not bad to have a tail!

His family immediately convened a Puja. Not only it took care of celestial concerns, it also provided an announcement platform. All his neighbors, relatives and friends of neighbors and relatives were invited. While Guruji generously distributed blessings, his family increased their awareness about Amsterdam. Kids of the neighborhood learnt that Holland, Netherlands and Shenzhen were almost same.

It took three months to plan for a ten days trip. Amsterdam was a cold place hence he was given clothes to survive at Antarctica. He was given Ayurveda ingredients with ability to keep a naked man warm in freezing cold. His supply of pickles and snacks could last a decade. A friendly neighborhood doctor studied diseases of Netherlands and gave him all medicines just in case.

Vastav’s mother had heard about the missing Malaysian plane and she instructed to inform immediately in case there was a mishap. Apart from tears and hugs, she gave a list of people to bring cheap souvenirs. Her emphasis was on cheap. Being an Indian father, who are men of few words with their son, his father’s only advice was “Avoid talking to strangers.” There was an issue with the Passport but after a processing fee to a tout and a convenience fee to an official, it became a thing of the past.

The real problem came when Vastav’s luggage was pushed through the X-ray scanner. A cacophonous “Beeeeeep, Beeeeeep” disturbed the slumber of entire security of the airport. Partly agitated and partly dreaming of reward for catching hold of a terrorist, they asked Vastav to open his stuff. Vastav took out shampoo sachets and pickles, hair gel and toilet soap and his deodorant and mosquito repellant cream. He then opened clothes folded in neat crease and shaving kit filled with cosmetics. Pockets of his trousers had currency hidden in between. There was a large box full of laddoos. His pressure cooker stuffed with Thepla packets.

The queue behind him grew like a serpent. Vastav opened his medicine bag and all those tablets, potions and bottles were spread on a sheet. After going through the prescription written by his friendly doctor (he carried it, just in case), they declared him a medical miracle. Vastav though had to bear ignominy of discussing bowel issues in a crowded place and they confiscated his large laxative bottle.

Everything else was smooth. Vastav lied on a large couch in the lounge and took three copies of free newspaper. He roamed around the duty free shops and took note of discounts. He also gawked at beautiful girls; the ones you often hear about but hardly see.

The final moment came and Vastav proceeded to board. The airliner was not a conveyance of his dreams. A large air tube had been stuffed by a diligent packer; you wondered so much fit in.  It was wrong to call it cattle class; cattle could not survive in this much space. Vastav maneuvered his way through the aisle while harrowed passengers juggled to place their luggage in overhead cabins.

Vastav was allotted a middle seat in the rear and by the time he reached, all others were comfortably seated. He had a well fed lady on his left with a kind face and a disturbing stare. On his right was a ten year old kid who was glued to his videogame. Kid’s mother gave Vastava a stern look as if she just warded off a pedophile. It needed an effort to get in, and Vastva knew it would need a miracle to get out. It was God’s signal for some bladder training.

The air hostesses were nothing like advertisements. They had a curvaceous body if you treat cylinder as a curve. Some resembled inverted cones. They smiled in a way only airhostesses could and started briefing security instructions; passengers yawned, looked sideways and listened to their earphones. The airhostesses continued their choreographed steps.

Vastav tried to concentrate, who knows when a plane lands at the sea. He had to watch the glowing lights, move towards the exit gate and slide from the wings. He was also supposed to blow jacket kept under his seat (he checked it just to be sure), pull the string and help himself before helping any child. The child sitting next to him stressed him; kid might become an added liability. He had to wear oxygen mask too when it automatically comes down.  

Suppose there was low pressure when plane landed on sea. How could he blow the jacket while wearing oxygen masks? Or what was to be done in case plane crash landed on land instead of sea. He decided to seek clarifications these nuances. There was a button on the top labelled stewardess and it made an amusing sound when he pressed it. He pressed it, waited, and did it again. Nothing happened. The kid next to him found it amusing and started doing it too.

The airhostess did come after an hour but this time it was to serve food. Vastav focused on claiming free liquor advertised in the menu.  It recommended cocktails but when he asked for it, she gave him vodka and lemon juice. “You can easily prepare it” was her curt reply. The Vodka shot was of help and he decided to ask some more. She said she will come back again. The kid spilled his curry on Vastav’s lap. Kid’s mother looked angrily at him and as a habit; Vastav immediately apologized and caressed the kid. The kid continued to nibble his food indifferently.

The airline offered unlimited beverage but he one had to ask unlimited times to get it. After three shots of Vodka, Vastav felt his stomach inflate but getting out of his seat was a challenge. The queue for toilet resembled one at temples on special days. His long cherished dream was finally coming true. He wanted to tell this to someone. The auntie sitting next to him did not appeal. The kid was again hooked to videogame. He looked around and saw an old man chatting with a brunette. The girl was really beautiful. She would have understood how Vastav felt but God had been unkind to him. The auntie next to him started snoring. It was an unfair world.

Vastav decided to catch some sleep instead. He closed his eyes and saw clear blue sky outside. He was passing through large clouds and he could feel fog on his face; he could smell the wind. He was flying on a king sized bed, just like Aladdin.  They were about to put him inside the scanner along with his luggage. His mother reminded him to bring cheap souvenirs. His tail was almost feet long now and his boss loved it. There was a large balloon in his stomach and he needed to pee. The brunette was now sitting next to him. She giggled and they hugged in the cramped washroom. She then shook him real hard.

“Wake up and fasten your seat belt, we will land in fifteen minutes.” A stern looking steward was standing next to him.

To be continued…

PS: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any real events or person, living or dead is partly coincidental and partly author‘s inability to veil.  

Farewell Children, May You Find a Better Place!

               My son rides his bicycle, smiling next to me, uttering gibberish. He is singing a rhyme he learnt recently and now he has totally jumbled it. He giggles when he passes by. When he comes again, he notices my stare and looks enquiringly. I hold him in a tight embrace, a tear trickles down unknowingly.

            Somewhere in the land of enemies (or so are we told) hundreds of kids are killed.  

            I try to imagine the assassins. They would have planned it meticulously. Months ago they would have selected target; months ago they would have decided to slaughter these kids. During nights, or in the time of leisure when they not working hard for their chosen deed, they would have been with their family. Did their children recite rhyme in gibberish? Before leaving, would they have kissed their children on forehead, like parents do before dropping wards at school?

          They would have checked their ammunition, lifted their guns and started for school. Would they have carried one bullet for each kid? On reaching school, they would have taken positions, loaded their gun and started firing. Would they have smiled after hitting target? A small skull opened from middle, blood oozing and a white school uniform turning red. Bull’s eye! Bravo!

          I try to calm myself. It is a far far place. What it means to me? My eyes do not relent and tears start tricking in. I curse them from the bottom of my heart. My curse is as sincere as anything can be. I can feel the heaviness of heart of bereaved families. May you rot in hell! If this is religion, no man can have anything to do with it. I feel ashamed to be a fellow human being. We failed you kids, we seriously did. You deserved a better place.   

         My son senses that there is something wrong. He insists on playing with him. This time it is clay castle and I am asked to plan it properly. Trust me son, I will not fail you! 

Till We Meet…

1

Dear Vidya,

Pardon me that I did not write for many days, the work is keeping me engaged and I had a hectic week. I had gone to Haridwar and Dehradun to finalize a deal. Yes, it was necessary to go; you know I hate travel. There was a day to spare and I rushed to Mussorie. I stayed in the same ‘Padmini Resort’, the old heritage hotel where we stayed during our honeymoon. It is not like it used to be; they have done away with the wooden dining room and small concrete cubicles have come up in its place. You do not see many people but the place is noisier than before.  

View from hotel’s balcony is still the same. You see snow-capped mountains shimmering during the day and expanse of valley beneath. At night you see bright lights at Dehradun and the city appears twinkling with Christmas bulbs, as if you have risen above the star studded nocturnal sky. The balcony has a swing, though you have to resist cold wind to enjoy it. I could not sleep thinking about those days.

We had just entered the hotel room when you said, “Honesty should be the basis of our relationship.” I could not understand what you were getting to. “People build relationship on lies by being pleasant all the time but we should not emulate that. Tell something about me which is not flattering.”

“You snore while you sleep.” I had taken the bait. Even today I can imagine you as a young bride; somewhat chubby and extremely beautiful, sleeping softly on bed; and snoring. You used to put a vermillion dot on forehead and there were henna marks on your hand.

“Your face resembles a frog.” I was not handsome but no one had told me that before.

“You look funny when you cry, especially when you make that wheezing sound. I resisted laughter while you cried taking leave of your family on our wedding day.” I could see a frown on your face.

“You look like a moron when you talk gibberish to your pet fish in the aquarium. Fish can’t hear whatever you say.” You were mocking me now.   

“You have a tendency to become fat, especially when you resemble your mom.” I realized I was in trouble as large tears swelled in your eyes and we could have divorced that day. I did not say your mother was fat; I just wanted to say she was on the heavier side or something like that but it was a wrong choice. It took million apologies (two of them on my knees), detailed explanation about everything I said before and three hours thirty minutes to mend things. Honesty is not always the best policy.

Barring that day we had a good time. We roamed for hours discovering the picturesque landscape and large oak trees covered with moss kept us company. There were occasional paintings on the rocks, or a name inscribed on tress and we relished tea at roadside stalls. Yes, I remember everything. For the first time in my life, I felt what proximity means; it was a mixed feeling of togetherness and sharing personal space. You know one day after making love, when you had fallen asleep, I lay awake. You appeared so carefree, so pure that I promised myself, I will always keep you like that; and I will always love you. It was one those solemn promises that can be made rarely in lifetime.    

Fifteen years, looks like ages we have been married. Imagining life when you were not there looks distant, remote. I feel I was incomplete before and our identities merged after meeting; both of us became new. It is difficult to put in words what I mean. Right at this moment, when I am thinking about you and looking at this paper wondering what to write next, there is a strange feeling, something which is strong like incense or music with déjà vu. I am not sad or happy but it is blissful. How do you write something which can only be felt? I think you already know what I mean.  

2

Let us talk about something else. You asked many times how I felt when I first met you; I vividly remember that day. After days of incessant rain, it was a sunny afternoon and sky was blue like never before. The weather was good with a cool breeze blowing. There was water everywhere and on your way home, I just managed my trousers from getting stained.

 I was tense with all that continuous bickering of the kids, aunts teasing like never before and a wet peck on cheek that your grandmother gave. People settled in groups and talked about various things, woes of traffic, Ayurveda treatment for incurable diseases and political upheavals. Amid all this, you entered and the limelight shifted.

Your feet were beautiful. I noticed it because my eyes were fixed on the floor. I was conscious that someone will mock me looking at you. I saw your face when you got seated and I saw you were angry. Yes, this is what I felt when I saw you, that you were angry. Your face softened slowly but it took time before smile came. Perhaps you were angry at being paraded in this way. We were left alone for ten minutes to decide our fate.

“Stop fidgeting, they will feel you are disappointed with me.” You said pointing towards relatives hidden behind doors. I was nervous to say anything and I just kept staring; you had deep eyes, sharp features and a prominent nose. Before I could utter a word, you again asked “What is my name?”

“er…Pinki…” I felt being ragged at first day of college.

“No that is my pet name. It is Vidya Arya. You don’t even know that and you want to marry me?” You were enjoying it. I saw you smile and something happened; I realized I had always known you.

“Yes, I am going to marry you. I would have proposed on my knees but everyone is looking and then I also do not have a ring.” I surprised myself when I said that.

 Sweets were exchanged and the date of our wedding was fixed. After I came back, I had doubts. I did not talk to you about anything and I did not even ask if you were ready for this marriage. I wanted to meet you again but lacked courage to do so.

“If we have to get married, we better know each other.” You said after two days when you landed unannounced outside my office. Although our marriage was fixed, we had arranged our love. We talked for hours and I never knew there was so much to tell each other. I learnt all about your neighbourhood, your academic woes and even that you were planning to turn your diary into an autobiography. “Isn't it too plain to be turned into a book?” You were not amused. “I will make sure it does not remain so after marriage.”

I remember we finalized a bucket list. Watching Akira Kurosawa movies was first on our list and we completed it. We even managed to visit Taj Mahal, albeit the moon light was missing. I think we were never serious about earning black belt in Taekwondo and becoming famous before we turn thirty was just a wish. We never went trekking Himalayas and could not manage Nile Safari in Egypt. We could have taken ride in hot air balloon and watched a movie at drive in, but we never tried.

I could not recognize you on the wedding day. Beautician had turned you into a quintessential bride and you looked uncomfortable. We sat on regal chairs and people came to get pictures clicked. By the time it was over, my facial muscles were stiff. After this the photographer expected us to give romantic poses. “Put your hand on his shoulders, only one hand, just slightly ahead, hold his left hand with the other one, now fold both your hands and look there, we will impose his picture. Not like this, bring a smile on your face.” You resisted killing him. Although you were sitting next to me, we could not talk. We will not marry our kids in this way. 

3

My father cried when he took Pakhi in his arms. “Welcome to our family.” He said with a lump in his throat. Pakhi was wrapped in light pink clothes and there was a woollen cap on her head. She was so small that she almost disappeared in those clothes. She had tiny fingers and always clenched her fists. My mother declared with a grin, “She looks like Vidya, but she will be more beautiful.” Everyone made strange faces while greeting her and uttered gibberish.

 I was afraid she might get hurt if I hold her but when my mother put her on my lap, I realized I was longing for it. She lied still with her eyes closed, and I felt she smiled in her sleep. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen; she would always be. I took my finger towards her palm and she held it tight. That day while looking at her face, I realized what innocence means. 

I remember the look we shared when you came out of the delivery room. I held Pakhi, a part of our shared selves and it was mesmerizing. It was a feeling of pride, happiness and something which is beyond words. When Aryan came four years later, our family was complete. Life changes when kids come in the family and how we relish in mundane.

You never completed your autobiography but I will write a book about life of the ordinary. In this world of extraordinary, there is not much about simple people. I do not know about the protagonist, probably an average man who is average in everything; average life, average aims and average accomplishments. But he will have a lovely wife and most wonderful kids. 

The book will capture images that have stayed with me. I remember lying next to you on winter mornings and the warmth of your body, the fragrance of desert cooler during hot summer afternoons which reminded smell of earth after rains, recipes tried by you and the aroma from kitchen, rainy days with tea and gossip in the balcony, Aryan reciting nursery rhymes one after the other, Pakhi dressing as an angel, birthday cakes and blowing of candles (which invariably always Aryan did), doctor’s appointment and tears of kids after getting vaccinated, sores at Aryan’s feet which came again and again, new year resolutions that often failed but enthusiasm when they were made, the wrist watch that you gifted me (I am still wearing it), festivals, new clothes and chirpiness of Paki when she was happy, playing cards and you letting Aryan cheat, social gatherings and sharing a ‘let us leave soon’ look, debates if we were raising our children properly,  sharing a kiss when kids looked other way, seeing our children grow and wondering how time flies, and being thankful for being a family.

Do not think that I will write only niceties about you. I hated it when you ensured a hundred things before we made love. You spent hours finalizing the perfect background music. The lighting should be perfect, not too bright, and not too dim and children should be completely asleep. The room also should have pleasant odour. No I am not cribbing; I am just stating my point of view. I like to keep my mouth open while I chew. I also enjoy burping sometimes and not saying sorry. I know how to tie shoelace, how to wear socks and how to fold clothes properly. There are different ways to do these things actually.

4

Pakhi and Aryan have just fallen asleep; they insist on sleeping in my room. I listen to what all they did during the day and them I read them a story. I am not good at animating but Aryan cannot sleep without listening those. Even Pakhi enjoys them though she is almost reaching teenage. The good thing is I also lie down early because of this and it is rejuvenating to watch children sleep, they look so serene.

The wall clock has started making a distracting sound. It announces every second at night as if no one pays attention during the daytime. Many crickets have appeared in our colony and they chirp loudly, disturbing the otherwise silent neighbourhood. A lone night watchman took round outside, beating his wooden stick loudly on the road. Somewhere at a distance, there was a turf war of stray dogs. I turned sides for long, but then gave up the effort to sleep. I took out picture albums from the store room and cleaned dust gathered on those. I could not have done this in front of children. I have started growing old and tears come easily.

We were so thin when we got married. There was a spark in our eyes, a feeling that our future was going to be great. We were smiling in those romantic poses; we were genuinely happy. You wore blue sari and you looked good. Your father looked tense in all the pictures; perhaps being father of the bride has that effect.

There are so many people we never met again. Shyam uncle, who had come all the way from USA got paralyzed after that. Kamala aunty also never came again. Do you remember she was the life of our wedding? She danced and sang all the time and made everyone else do so. She gifted you a seductive nightgown before we left for honeymoon. You had promised her that you will try it out soon; you are yet to fulfil it.

I created a collage of pictures. It was a lot of work, selecting pictures from various events and gently pasting them on a sheet. Touching old pictures is a different experience, something like going back to that age. I even found pictures of our childhood. Sounds strange but our parents were as young as we are when they were of our age. I read somewhere that if two persons live together for long, they start resembling; I think we started looking same.

I found pictures of Bidyut. Although he was my elder brother, he was best friend I had. He was so happy and full of life and I was shaken when he left this world after few days. I could not face bhabhi. You were a pillar of strength for our entire family and I can’t imagine how I would have managed without you.

Last year on that day in hospital, when you left us alone, there was no one to comfort me. There was a heavy weight on my chest and it was difficult to breathe. I felt that there was no ground beneath my feet. There was so much to be told, so much to be said. I hated those monitors kept in the room, those tubes attached to your body and your swollen face. It wasn't you, there was some mistake. Your hand was cold, it did not move when I held it tight. It was a kind of test, nightmare may be but it was not the truth. I could not have cried in front of you, it was bad for your recovery.

I failed my promise that nothing will happen to you and I never felt so helpless before.  It was difficult to see you sink. There were dark circles under your eyes, your lips were dry and you were white as snow. The vigour left your body and you were skin and bones. I knew it was side effect of medicines as you were responding well to the treatment, even doctors admitted that. I kept sitting their holding your hand, praying for a miracle. How could you leave me like that?  I wanted to scream but no sound came from my throat.

Other memories of that period are vague. There were lot of people at home and I was never left alone. They decorated you like a bride and I applied vermilion on your head. Everyone cried; I felt extremely lonely and there was no privacy to grieve. I wanted you to console me; I wanted you to say that everything was going to be well. A glass bier took you to the crematorium; you slept peacefully on your way. I was asked to lit a heap of wooden logs and someone who resembled you.

I was afraid to face Pakhi and Aryan but they took it better than me. They have grown more than we knew. Pakhi has your grace and authority apart from your looks and Aryan is mature for his age. He was our pampered child but this incident has made him sombre.

My day begins with missing you. I hate the stubbornness with which I continue to live another day. Your memories live with me but I am not happy. I want to feel you, to hold your hand and listen you speak. I never thanked you for many things. You taught me how to live, you taught me how to bear success and defeats and you turned our house into a home. I never thanked you for walking by my side, for weaving your life together with me. I never thanked you for your companionship; I never thanked you for loving me.

We will meet again one day. We will meet when we are young and still have those dreams. It will be on seashore, when the sun is rising and it is a beautiful new day. We will watch fishermen going in the sea and large waves swinging their boat in its lap, we will watch lovers playing on the beach and make castles of sand; we will watch the tides wash it away. We will walk hand in hand and get amazed at vastness of the sea. We will meet when everything is calm and the sea is still. We will meet when there is silence all around, silence which is not melancholic but serene. We will meet when everything is as it is supposed to be. We will meet when there nothing but happiness.

Waiting to meet you soon,

Aniket

Dearest !

‘Give me an idea to write a story.’ Aniket said.

He quietly placed his head on Vidya’s lap as he lied on sofa. She turned her face towards him and strings of curly hair came on her face. She was wearing a big red bindi, her cheeks were not thin as they used to be and her petite frame of adolescence had given way to graceful womanly shape. She looked at him thoughtfully, resting her chin on her palm. Her bangles clinked while doing that. She probably wanted to say something but just stared and gave a smile. Her dimple looked exactly the same.    

‘Write something different this time, something not inspired from our story.’ Aniket guessed her words.

The wall just behind the sofa was covered with their photographs, bright happy moments of their past, neatly set up in black outlined frame. Vidya had personally selected each of them.

The picture on the topmost left was a school group photograph. Vidya dutifully played the ‘guess where I am’ with anyone who was ready to play. It was a typical school photographs devoid of fun, with teacher sitting at front and children sitting or standing behind in a row. No one smiled in the photograph. A blue banner at the background read:

Class VI B, Sacred Heart Convent School

August, 1998

It was the year when she got admitted to his school. She was the daughter of new District Collector and her sitting posture, erect, proud and full of grace bore testimony to that. She became new star of the school and he never gathered courage to speak to her for next three years. That was the reason he wrote his first story; to express what he could never say.

It was an honest story written with naiveté and the school magazine did not find it worthy of being published. Vidya, being the ornamental ‘student editor’ on the editorial board found it labelled ‘Not suitable for kids’ and read it for curiosity’s sake.  That day when he was sitting alone, she came and said ‘Promise that I will be the first one to read whatever you wrote’. There was something in her eyes which told they had known each other for years.   

He came rushing whenever he came up with anything new. He loved to observe her facial expressions while she read; clear symmetric lines appearing on her beautiful face. That was enough reward for his work.

As years went by, a bond emerged between them which people termed love. They found it a blend of camaraderie, trust and craving for each other. Her father, who had retired by this time, did not approve. Aniket was not affluent and her father saw no future in him. ‘You are going to repent one day. He writes childish love letters in garb of stories and I will not let you ruin your life for a struggling wordsmith.’

Time passed by and it became difficult to keep count of publishers who rejected his work. Only Vidya kept him going and just when it appeared that everything was lost, his first book got published. It was a story of hatred, not love. The protagonist was struggling middle aged writer who found inspiration in a beautiful teenage girl. It was a dark story and the writer was possessive and cruel. He followed this girl wherever she went but she could never notice him. Her beauty increased every day and young men who proposed her multiplied exponentially. These young men also vanished without leaving a trace, and she was always left alone. As the story progressed it was difficult to decide what was more intense, his longing for this girl or his hatred for anyone she loved. When the story ended, countless corpses were scattered in writer’s chateau.

Vidya gave this book to her father to read and he consented to their wedding. After his first book got published, he never looked back. There was a rush amongst publishers to print his old work and he was termed as king of romance. His best work was inspired from his life. His latest book got him the prestigious Palm Award and an honorary PhD. That was a year back. Slowly he found difficult to concentrate and was never happy with whatever he wrote.

‘You know Vidya, I am aware of my mediocrity. This world is going to brand me failure.’

‘You are again stuck in Writers Block, you need a good break.’ He did not recall if she actually said it or just meant to say. They hardly needed words to communicate. Was this perfect union of man and wife? This finality did not comfort him. Why was he so restless at the height of his success?  

‘I think I have given this world whatever I had and it’s time to leave. I want you to hold me tight, I feel very lonely.’ Aniket said. There were tears in his eyes. She had never seen him like this. He shrunk on the sofa like an old man. There was a melancholic smell in the room, something which could have been labelled as the smell of death, and she was determined to ignore it.

‘Aniket, you have always bounced back with an amazing story. Do you recall the story that wrote about your proposal? It was really wonderful.’ His eyebrows relaxed after hearing that. He loved whenever she talked about his work. ‘I loved how the character wooed this girl, taking her on long drives in his dilapidated fiat and the manner in which he lighted his house with scented candles before hanging upside down to propose.’

‘And then the house caught fire from those candles.’ Finally a smile came on his face.  

She kept on talking about his stories and he maintained his smile. He forgot if she was talking about his writing or story of their lives. She talked about the night when they made love for the first time. He could feel that scorching summer heat and her tender skin. She talked about his love of her fragrance and his longing for her. He tried to decipher if it was love or lust. Both appeared to be the same thing. He thought about their nights on the terrace when they endlessly chatted till the dawn came, the sound of the trains passing nearby tracks and wind gushing in before the rains.

She mentioned strain in their relationship when she got busy with her work and their fiery debates if they should have kids. He then remembered their stillborn child, a lifeless lump of flesh and bones; and her tears which came every day for years after that. Moments of his life, of pride and embarrassment, of companionship and solitude, of love and his loss flashed before his eyes. It appeared that today was the judgement day. His life was being telecasted and someone was to pronounce judgement. Everything was in compartments, neat, isolated compartments and his eyes kept on moving between them. He was watching the moments and also living them. He could feel each moment’s joy and pain and whenever he tried to look for her, Vidya was standing next to him. He couldn’t remember the face of his mother and it had blurred with Vidya’s face.  He felt that she was his mother goddess.

            Noise of shrill doorbell broke his trance.

‘You slept few hours back.’ Vidya was sitting still, lest she disturbed his sleep. She gently kissed his cheeks and asked him to open the door.

‘Hello Bhabhi’ Harish said as he entered the room. He was Aniket’s childhood friend.  

‘Aniket you should allow Bhabhi at least some sleep at night.’ He had noticed their red eyes and never missed an opportunity to tease.

‘I will get some tea.’ Vidya left the room sheepishly.  

Morning was different from the night before. Birds chirped loudly outside, a beam of sunlight entered the room and everything looked changed. There was a calm expression on Aniket’s face.

After an awkward silence, Harish asked: ‘You have not told her anything?’

‘You are not my judge.’ Aniket said staring at blank. ‘Is everything ready?’

‘Here is your Visa for five years. Best of luck for your relocation to a new world, you never deserved Vidya bhabhi’. He gave Aniket a disdainful look and threw the documents at him. Vidya came with the tea which Harish quietly sipped and left without saying goodbye to any of them.

The day progressed just like any other day and in the afternoon they went to sleep. When Vidya woke up in the evening, she found a note:

‘Dearest,

I know that you deserve more than just a note. You merit everything that is worth in this world, but then you married me; an unsure restless soul. I am restless now and I do not know where to go. More than that, I know that cannot stay at the same place. I do not have the courage to apologise to you; others will never forgive me.

By the time you wake up, I would have already started my journey for an unknown terrain. To begin with, I am going to Colombia. Why Colombia, because I just found its name in the newspapers and it was Marquez’s land; remember Marquez, you introduced his writings to me.

I feel that my ideas, my creativity is already dead; the thought is suffocating actually. I need life to hit with a brick on my head.  I want to go to a place where I do not find your love. I want to get hurt, and I do not want you to be there to protect me. I always loved you, and I love you now more when I have the fear of losing you. I do not know if I will ever see you again but let us hope that one day when everything is well, when we are young and madly in love, we meet again. 

Everyone will think that I am mad but perhaps you will understand. I did not wish to die, I wanted to live.

Yours,

Aniket 

Point of View

The moment has come. He has lifted me in his hand, and no one may ever know what I meant. His other hand is putting a bundle into shredder and I could be next. I doubt if he will give me a glance. I have not lost hope but can destiny be changed.

The shredder makes a soft grinding sound and its shining blades whine for more. It would cut me like a cake, first tearing me off and then splitting me into bits. I would be reduced to pieces of junk.  

You may think what a piece of paper can mean. You may even accuse me of boastfulness. I do not blame you but the confidence which comes when everything goes well. You succeed in life, have secure family and childhood and nothing can go wrong. A hallucination takes over and you feel that there is only good in this world. You also believe that everything that you have is here to stay.

You can continue to believe that till life hits you with a brick on head!

Anyways who will appreciate my effort; I am just a dirty wrinkled rag. Can words scribbled on me change my worth? On a dark lonely night, I was quietly slipped on his table. For weeks I was buried under heap of papers. I cautiously hid myself. It was suffocating and hot, but I survived that. I waited and prayed that he gives me a glance.

Today when he has picked me up, he is not in a mood to read. The pile of papers has grown and he wants to clear them all. Some go into the trash bin but most are being diverted towards the shredder. His hands are careless but firm; they hold me tight at an edge. His fingers rub my ink.

They are hard and coarse, but that was his past. He was not so careless at that time; he was not so certain about life. His world was small and his dreams were large. He struggled hard to make his mark.

Many years have passed and now he lives in his carefree world.

He has held me for some time and he has not moved. His gaze is fixed outside. Maybe he is enjoying view of the sea. He recently shifted to this sea facing room, another sign of his upward ascent. The sea makes a loud noise. It rhythmically rises and fall but he does not get the message. He has refused to see other tell-tale signs as well.

Men feel that fate changes out of the blue but they ignore destiny’s subtle hints. For him, even I was sent.  

His eyes appear dazed. He is looking outside but his thoughts are somewhere else. May be he is thinking about his wife. Theirs had been an arranged marriage but she made his world. He was hardly an ideal husband but she was always there for him; without any bitterness, without any complaints. He never truly realised how much she meant to him.

Perhaps he is thinking about his kids. They were small just few days back, he can easily recall their first steps and today they are ready to face this world. He wanted to play with them, participate in their growing years but time just passed. Very soon he would take a long holiday.

He knows his family would not blame him for not being there. They would understand. Of course everything may not be rosy but they love him. At least he believes as much.

I do not see even a faint smile on his face. On looking carefully, I feel that his expressions are sombre. Maybe he is planning his next professional move. His business is at crossroads and he has to take some bold decisions soon.

His partner and his childhood friend has been his strength. They started all this together and he could trust him with his eyes closed. In fact he is more than family to him. Of course they had some differences but creative people always have that. He knows that his friend will support him. He hopes as much.  

He might even be thinking about his health. He was so involved in this work that he neglected his well being. He recently got unwell, but it was a minor affair. It did keep him on bed for a few days but recently he has started gaining his strength. There is nothing to be worried about. All his tests have shown improvement and everything would soon be well.  

   

He is a good man and everybody knows that. He has even helped many beyond his means. He has been fair even to his foes. He has also discharged his duties and his family will vouch for that. He is a self made man. 

That is the reason I feel sad. I feel sad because this is an unfair world. Kind men meet brutal fates. I may not change anything but I wish to prepare him for what is to come. I pray that it does not so happen that one day there is no ground beneath his feet.

Cool sea breeze has entered the room and I think he is back from his dreams. His eyes are looking towards me and his fingers move on my surface. The shredder is still making a whining sound. I want to scream but I cannot utter a word or move; I only carry a message. It is he who has to read it. If I fail, he will have no one else to blame. 

An Ode to that Wrinkled Face

This is not a story. A story should have a beginning and an end but this has only memories; distant and vague. The sad part is, not many are left.

She would always recite same stories; a story about some shepherd and his sheep or that about an obedient son. I would lie down in her lap and would fall asleep while listening to those. She covered me with her saree’s pallu, and I felt warm and secure. I have never slept so comfortably at any other place.

She was short and frail. Her hairs were silver and grey, and during winters she would comb them in the sun while I dozed off in her lap. Her skin was wrinkled and formed parallel folds. I played with the skin around her palm and face. It was so different from mine and I still remember its feel. Her cheeks were hollow and there were no teeth left. She had dentures and her face changed when she wore them.

I liked her hollow face.

She wore white cotton sarees and had two silver bangles. To amuse me, she would take them out and rotate on earth. I close my eyes now, and I can see them spinning, two bangles with blackened silver and linear grooves; I hear the metallic sound when they fall flat.

I locked her in bathroom one day. No one was at home and she kept on banging at the door. I cried and cried, and my neighbours broke the door to release her. The first thing she did was to console me. I still wonder why she never got angry at me.

She was my only friend. My father and mother went out for work and it was with her that I spent my entire day. We would start with Peek-a-Boo, then she would chase me while I ran and after that she would colour my picture book. She was my Aladdin’s lamp and no wish could remain unfulfilled. She got my favourite toys, helped me bunk school and avoid eating vegetable curry that my mother gave. She would quietly bring in chapatti and milk which used to be my favourite dish. She would fly with rage if anyone scolded me and would pack her bags to leave. My parents would invariably relent.

In the evening she took me out for a stroll. I held her finger and she would fend off elder kids who wanted to play with me. Some people would tease her that I was not looking great, but she would defend me with all her strength. How could her grandson not look good?

Her wooden rosary bead was her constant companion. She would keep on rotating it in her hand and murmur god’s name. She did that even while she slept. Every day she gave bath to Lord Krishna’s statue and performed her daily rituals. Then she would put a small chandan tilak on my forehead. After that she would put on her glasses, take out Gita and fix it on a stand. She chanted it in her soft voice, harmonically moving in the front and back. I sat on her lap as if it was a swing.  

She was particular about doing all her work herself. She would wash utensils, clean clothes and cook her food. She insisted on doing all this even when she was ill and this resulted in frequent fights with my dad. No one would interfere and in the end, both will not eat till the other had food. This banter is still fondly remembered at our home.

I do not know what kind of lady she was. It sounds weird that a grandson should know what kind of women her grandmother is. She is just a grandmother, period. Today when I think about her I do not remember her crying, I do not remember her laugh; I can only recall her serene face. I try to guess if I ask her a particular question how she would react to that. No answers come. I can only see a smile on her face.

I do not have her pictures with me. Her solo images exist, but we will discuss about that.

I was eight when she left. She started falling sick and was admitted to hospital at frequent intervals. When she was discharged, my parents behaved in a strange way. A bottle of Ganga jal was always kept beside her cot. My father would sit holding her hand, and at times his eyes were wet. I was not allowed to play with her but they would ask me to listen to her stories. She was often tired and would not recite them in her usual animated tone. I still remember the last story that she told.

My parents never told me that she was going to die. Somehow I gathered a vague feeling that she would not stay with us for long. She had been admitted to the hospital for quite a few days and I was alone at home with an aunt when a telephone call came. I overheard that she was no more.

I kept looking outside the window waiting for her arrival; my tears would not stop. A large crowd gathered at our home. She was brought back in an ambulance; and when they took her out I observed that they had put cotton in her nose. It appeared that she was in deep sleep. My father’s eyes were swollen. Incense sticks were lit around her dead body. Everybody cried and it was a sad scene. I had never seen so many tears. I was asked to kiss her for a last time. Her cheeks still had those folds.

I was quietly sent to some other place and I do not remember much about that day. Her last wish was to be taken to some particular ghat in Varanasi for cremation and my dad honoured that. I resented balding of my head.

A photographer was called and most of her pictures belong to that day. Other than that, her large picture, in which she is sitting on a chair in an attentive pose, is present at our home. Probably the one who clicked it had an idea that it could be garlanded one day. I cannot relate to that picture and she appears unnatural in that pose.

Her void still exists. Why did she leave me so soon?

I see my son playing with my mother and pray that he is more privileged than me.

The Real Truth

I am a smart man. You may ask how I know that, but there are some things which could not be explained. A smart person just knows that, period.

If you still do not believe me, I do not care. My neighbours also did not for a long time. But now you should ask them and they will tell that I am a smart man. Their attitude changed the day I was appointed an Inspector. No, I did not become a cop; they do the boring job of running behind criminals, I became an Inspector in the Social Welfare Department. People do not appreciate the work that our department does, but it does great work and the reason they could do that is smart inspectors they have.

The first day when I went to office and met my boss, we looked in each other’s eyes and there was a spark. It was something that happens when two intelligent people meet. He immediately understood what I was made of and decided to give me a tough job.

Our department looks after many NGO run home for kids. These NGOs claim that they rehabilitate abandoned/poor kids but one look at these urchins and you will know that they were happier on railway tracks. Which child ever preferred a, b, c, d to the exciting life of railway platforms?

For years they worked under our guidance, but recently this home received the prestigious Golden Tortoise award and in their indolence, forgot to mention my boss in the thanksgiving speech. There was extremely no problem with that, but an institution which commits such folly at international stage could not run the home well. That was the day my boss understood something was wrong. He gave me the tough task of finding the real truth and sent me there for inspection, with even more powers that departmental inspectors had.

As I am different from rest, I decided that this inspection should be done in an unconventional way. Only kids of that home knew what real truth was, and to know that I had to become their agony aunt. The administrators of that home shivered when I went there, and I told them straight that I was not there to inspect old registers, but will take children to the nearby beach.

It was the kind of beach whose exotic pictures in magazines, showing blue water and unblemished sand, ensured that everyone drove down there and spent rest of the time contemplating if it was the same place they had looked at. I knew that it was just another place where sea met land, and both were exploited by a large number of human revelers but it would have served my purpose.

Anyways these were children from a ‘Home’ and as I stopped my jeep, all of them ran in different directions of the beach. This is what I do not like about children; they have no respect for the person who brings them to the beach.

It was high tide when we reached and the sound of waves hitting the beach had a cheering effect. The beach was spread across a large span, and the one frequented by tourists was the worst. Area just right of it was covered by fishes and nets, and the fishermen used that place to unload their catch. It was full of stink which ensured that only fishermen with strong nose stayed there. On the left, there was a beautiful isolated patch and no one went there because of the red crabs. These fiery looking crabs appeared from holes, again drilled the beach and disappeared in the sand.

These children were attracted to this part and started playing amongst the crabs. One of them started building a castle of sand, another found a handball and the rest went for sea bath. The only problem was that although they did not mind mingling with crabs, they were not ready to include me in their games. I had to become their friend first to uncover the truth, but every time I tried to join, they went to another spot. I tried to woo them with snail shells, beads and jute hats but they were not impressed.

I decided it was the time to play trump card. I went to a nearby stall and bought some chocolates. Children are a real greedy lot, and if nothing impresses them, a chocolate does. Once I had collected enough chocolates, I called Akash who was youngest of them all. I told him to calls the kids so that I could give them a chocolate each and he would be given one extra to do this task. He was a dumb sort of kid, whose response to stimuli was not up to the mark but it worked nonetheless.

When all of them came, I asked them if they liked chocolates. I showed them the ones that I had got but did not give it to them. A person never values a thing which easily comes. I had to ensure that my investment gives good returns. I allowed them to touch the chocolates, smell its flavour and imagine its taste.

When they were excited, I told them that we will play a game. I would tell them how chocolates were made and in turn they will have to tell me something interesting about this world. Since I was a smart man and knew everything about this world, the only thing left was information of their home, the kind that outsiders did not know.

I told them in detail how chocolates are made. I started from selection of cocoa beans, extraction of butter and it’s mixing with sugar and milking. I slowly described the process of developing taste and flavours and I could see them salivating over the taste.

They wanted to eat the chocolates immediately that but I insisted on finishing the game. They told me that they did not like the wooden beds on which they slept, there were bugs in their clothes and the cow next door mowed all the time making it hard to sleep. They told me other things as well but still I was not at the top of this world. I had to get some specific information by which my boss could prove that no home could run without the able guidance of officials of social welfare department.

Getting no results, I parted with my chocolates and decided to proceed to my B plan. Akash who looked extremely sad had not told anything and I knew he had something serious in his mind. I took him for a long walk. The sea breeze had turned strong and we walked past the fishermen’s nets. This part of the beach had dense shrubs and it looked like a painter’s image of a beach.

I told him that since he was an extraordinarily intelligent chap, I would tell him more about chocolates. When chocolate is made, best cocoa beans are separated from rest and then special chocolate milk is mixed with extremely tasty sugar and milk and stirred for days to prepare an exotic chocolate. This chocolate was costlier than gold and only fortunate people got its taste.

I took out the one left in my pocket, and allowed him to touch that. It was packaged like pearl and I could see his pupil dilate with greed.

‘Just tell me one thing about your home, and the chocolate is yours.’ I saw him thinking hard and I knew I had hit the bull’s eye.

‘You know uncle, this home is not bad but there are certain things which no one knows. They never allow anyone to discover that.’ His voice cracked.

‘Hmm.’ I gestured him to continue.

‘In the morning they give us tea and snack. That is ok. After that give lunch in the afternoon and dinner in the night and even that is not bad. But the real problem lies with the evening snack.’ He spoke slowly to ensure that no one else could listen that. A boat full of sea catch landed nearby and he was distracted by struggling fish in the nets. He looked at it for some time and then again started.

‘They prominently display that they give us special puffed rice mix as a snack. Actually it is a mixture of many things and the names of the ingredients like peanuts, chilli etc. is approved by the social welfare board and they are not allowed to mix anything else in that. They ensure that everyone finishes it and no one is ever allowed to leave that. In fact even if we are sick, we have to eat that.’

‘Carry on.’ I said. The sun was setting in the sea and it appeared that this was indeed a beautiful beach. The scenery was perfect and my quest for real truth was also coming to a perfect end.

‘Since last seven days you know…..’ and then he took a deep breath.

‘You know peanuts, since last seven days there are no peanuts in that.’

Treating a Symptom is not the Cure

        Recently I had to meet a special fact finding team sent by a National Commission. It consisted of motley of NGOs along with a beautiful Bollywood starlet who worked with the commission as a part of her social responsibility. The team was concerned about the state of affairs and was equally vociferous in articulating it. I specifically remember this starlet describing sad tales of victims, the weaknesses of our system and changes that we needed to make. Despite great diversity amongst team members there was one thing common; no one had any experience of working in government; and though we appreciated their enthusiasm, none of their ideas were implementable.

         In the last sixty five years of independence, the government has fallen short to live up to the expectations of people. Not only have we failed to provide good governance, we have corruption cases of astronomical magnitude and crimes against weaker sections of society are increasing. People have started losing patience. Their anger was visible in the support that Anna movement generated in its initial phase (How they lost it later is another interesting case study). Who has not suffered at the hands of clerk who buries file in his desk, who was not been harassed by traffic constable who searches papers diligently to find a fault and how many of us could get a driving licence without depositing the ‘convenience fee’. The feeling is of utter disgust when common man faces double digit inflation and there are scams like 2G where counting zeroes of magnitude is an exercise in itself.

       Electorate want results and in a democratic polity like ours, can a solution be far behind. To deal with corruption we have Central Vigilance Commission (CVC), Lokayukta in many states and CBI. Finding it to be insufficient, we are en-route to formulate a leviathan Lokpal. To give justice to the weaker sections of society we have National Commission for SCs, for STs, for Backward Classes and the same have been provided for Women, Children and Safai Karamcharis. We also have Information Commission, Human Rights Commission and corresponding state commissions for all these commissions. It is as good as response to stimuli, you pose a problem and we will give you a commission.

      In this hurry to deliver, we should take time and ponder if the solution that we are being offered is the best. A friend of mine who was against corruption refused to pay bribe to take delivery of his driving licence. Every time he went to the RTO office he was told that his licence was not ready. He complained to the vigilance officer, filed various queries under RTI and after these efforts received his licence without paying any bribe; indeed a way to fight corruption. An imaginative departmental secretary mandated that no driving licence will be delivered by hand and since applicants give address, it should be sent by post. This is another way to tackle corruption. A colleague of mine often found complaints that files of a vital section are frequently lost. This resulted in numerous complaints most of which related to seeking a bribe. He found its solution by implementing e-office where all files are digitally maintained and processed. No physical files exist now and hence it is not possible to hide one.

     In our hurry to find solutions, we should find time to ponder if we are putting cart before the horse. Are we serious about doing administrative reforms? Have we devised a method to punish the erring bureaucrats and reward those doing good work? We are yet to put an end to the game of revolving chairs amongst bureaucrats and provide them a stable tenure. According to a research, the average tenure of IAS officers in the period 1980-2000 was sixteen months. Even this time period would appear too long in certain cadres. In her first stint of four months and fourteen days, Mayawati transferred 550 IAS officers, in her second stint of six months it was 777 and in her third stint the number of transfers stood at 970. The total authorised strength of UP cadre is 537.

     No effort is being made to restructure work procedures. We largely follow British era rules which are based on distrust. No one has time to think why a particular thing is done, why it is being done that way and how it can be simplified. An example can be attestation of various certificates. There is a huge demand for government jobs, and even if there is a single vacancy, thousands apply. We ask candidates to submit attested copies of certificates along with their application form. These thousand applicants will run around in government offices to find that mighty yet kind Gazetted officer who will take time out of her/his busy schedule to sign these. On one hand we give extreme trouble to these applicants and on the other we waste time of government employees on an unproductive work. Some other organisations ask for self attested copies and then thoroughly verify the certificates of one who is finally selected. Why can’t we make it mandatory for all?

    There has been a consistent increase in crime but has proper attention been paid to shortage of manpower in police force. In 2010 the vacancy in the police force stood at 24.4% with more than four lakh posts vacant across the country. We have 133 policemen per lakh people against the United Nations (UN) prescribed figure of 222 per lakh. The number in some other countries is Italy (559), Mexico (491) and Saudi Arabia (386). Even if we recruit the missing personnel, our average would be way behind the one prescribed by UN.

     The magnitude of work that any government office does is huge and till Information Technology (IT) is effectively used, service delivery can never be satisfactory. An ambitious National E-Governance plan (NeGP) was launched in 2006 which consisted of 27 Mission mode projects. Some of these initiatives like e-district/digitisation of land records etc if and when implemented would simplify some extremely cumbersome government procedures. Thus to say that government is not doing anything would be wrong. To say that it is doing enough would also be far from truth.

    The budgetary allocation for entire NeGP in 2009-10 was 700 crores. The money that CBI got in the same year was 335 crores. A National Commission may roughly be allocated 20 crores per year. The figure would be around 160 crores for the eight commissions mentioned above. Then there would be corresponding expenditure on state commissions. Unfortunately there is no separate State E-governance plan. This does not mean that CBI or various commissions which have been set up are without merit. They have their legitimate role in settling outlying problems but routine issues will have to be addressed as a matter of routine.

    The point that is being made is that corruption or delayed service delivery is just a symptom. The real malady is that our governance is still not SMART i.e. Simple, Moral, Accountable, Responsive and Transparent. All problems cannot be solved by forming special bodies or commissions. Even heinous crimes are a symptom that our police forces are not well equipped and trained to prevent such an occurrence. These initiatives do not find favour with politicians because they do not yield immediate electoral dividends. The number of opportunist politicians in our polity surpasses that of statesmen who can sell these to electorate and provide the political will to implement them.

    It is time we look beyond these symptoms and cure the real malady.

Hello Again!

I hope you remember me. I am the one who told you that world is a strange place. I am seven months old now and I still maintain it.

The first thing that disturbs me is that no one understands even simple things here. When I tell them that I am hungry, my mom tries to make me sleep; when I yell to change a toy, my father checks my diapers and when I scream to get the television channel changed my parents turn it off. The people here are too dumb to learn my language and I even do not see any effort on their part. I have decided that I will have to pick up theirs.

Dear lord had also told me that when I go into this world, my parents would always be at my beck and call. They were supposed to cater me all the time and they did that for few initial months but now their sincerity is gone. Whenever I am sleeping or am busy with a toy, they try to give me a slip. Since they understand nothing but my wails, I have to resort to it to call them back.

I should also tell you that people here are too scared to try new tastes. My parents give me only milk, banana and few other things. Even when I ask, they refuse to offer their palm, mobile and beautiful shining poly bags. With their little assistance I could have explored zillion other tastes but still I have managed to taste bed sheets, books and some other things I would not like to name. Someone please tell these grownups that their life is so tasteless.

Also no one here cares about the environment. Even I know that plastics are bad for this world but they keep me surrounded by it. I have one on which they make my bed, another one for my pram and a large third which is below the entire bed sheet. I tried to reason with them that I do not like its sound; neither its taste but then they handed me a rattle instead. God save me from these morons!

I should also tell you that in this strange world, I have found a real friend. He has been with me from the time I was born. He was present in the hospital when I came, he was in my Grandmother’s place and now when I have come to my new home in Kolkata, he is here too. He quietly lives on the roof and listens to everything that I have to say. In the beginning we could not connect but as summer approached, on seeing me his three wings have started rotating with joy.

You remember last time we met; my parents had not given me a name. I feared that as lazy they were, they could have numbered me instead. Once I even overheard my father formulating hypotheses that since all good names were exhausted, people were soon going to number their kids. He wanted to reserve number ‘One’ for me as no one had taken it but the idea did not appeal my mom.

After intense efforts they finally managed to name me Aariv, meaning the king of wisdom.

Since you are my friend, I will share with you a secret. From the time I came into this world, I have been checking out people. Everybody was good but a beautiful lady stood completely out. She took great care of me and remained with me all the time. She has partially managed to understand what I say and now I want her to be with me all the time. As she might feel jealous, I have stopped going out with other people when she is around. I think I have fallen in love with her.

Oh yes, I forgot to wish her, Happy Mother’s day mom.

Hello

The world is a strange place. It has been four months since I came here and I can tell you with confidence, this world is nuts!

The day I came into this world, my family decided to convene their long due gathering. The entire family tree including its offshoot branches and long drawn acquaintances chose hospital as their venue. They celebrated by eating some round stuff packed in colorful boxes and even gave it to the nurses and ward boys but no one bothered to offer me one. What they could offer me was oversize clothes, some of which I have not been able to wear till date.

It was my first day in the world but they behaved as they were seeing a small kid for the first time. Their interest in me was more than a five year old's in a Giraffe at the zoo. They made funny faces and funnier noises and many times when my mother was not on guard, they even pinched my cheeks. Grow up guys!

To tell you about my mother, she is a good lady. Well almost!

She treats me well but I hate her when she puts those oily creams and lotions on me. I know she is impressed with that baby in Johnson and Johnson’s advertisement but Hello, trying all their stuff on me will not make me him!

I normally trust her but she has tricked me into drinking those tasteless liquids that doctor prescribed. Of course I am wiser now and have perfected the art of blowing it on her face.

My father believes in Nehruvian foreign policy of peaceful co existence and non interference in one’s affairs. I feel he is scared to show this to my mom so he daily plays with me for an hour. I think I do not mind it.

It is true that my parents spend time entertaining me but most of their effort is directed to make me asleep. They try their horrible lullabies on me in their croaking voices and I have no option but to fall asleep. Also is there any respect in this world for the sleep of four month old. It is understandable that they do not turn off the lights but watching TV aloud while I am trying to sleep is beyond comprehensible manners.

I should also say that it is difficult to live in this world under this intense attention. Whenever I try something new or utter any novel sound, my parents present themselves with a camera. I think I am too small to be in the Bigg Boss house and it really puts me off. Till now I have never allowed them capture my best shot.

They also try to make me piss while sounding that silly sssss….. It is awkward to hang in that strange position with air chilling your interiors. I have to yield to get over that embarrassing position, but do I have some human rights. Mom, Dad, I am fully entitled to wet my pants.

There are multiple other ways to irritate me and one is that whenever I am in a mood to laugh or talk, my mother dials my grandparents. It turns chaotic with so many people talking so I withdraw from that chat show. Mom can’t we have any serious talk without involving anybody else.

The pressure to perform in this world is unnerving and these people do not even spare a four month old!

Otherwise my parents are somewhat ok and I have no grudge against them but they have not named me yet. Isn’t it preposterous that a four month old does not have a name; worse not even a nick name? I have noted it down and will take account of it in future.

For the present, I make maximum of opportunity available at night by keeping them awake.