The Moonlight Hides

Jochona luchana dura nila gagane

Emana manena eyi madhu lagane —

(The moonlight hides in the distant blue sky,

yet the heart refuses to be still in this intoxicating moment.)

I

“I will wait for you to come and not leave this place for eternity till you come”. Was the parting shot of Divyankit to Archana as she hurriedly crossed the road to catch the already moving town bus.

She had paused in the middle of the road, between the here and infinity, and given him a smile that was gentle, softer and innocent – much like Archana.

He did not know at that moment that it would take his entire life time trying to piece together the smile in his memory. The unique tilt of her head, the smile that starts slowly and then suddenly widens on the way even as it lingers on for a while. He would carry it with him and hold it against every darkness that followed.

That was the last time he saw her whole.

II

It was the end of June and monsoon arrived in the city of Bhubaneswar like a memory which was sudden, overwhelming and impossible to ignore.

For Divyankit, a rustic fellow from the villages of the rural Balasore, Utkal University and the city of Bhubaneswar was a dream come true.

The summer of 1969 was special. It was the year that man had walked on the moon. It was a message which declared proudly that distance will never be an issue for mankind and that ordinary men were no longer required to stay in the places they were born.

Coming from humble rural farming background, Divyankit’s father, Prafulla Babu had a dream – the dream of seeing his son become a magistrate. This dream slowly germinated the day he went to the collectorate on some work and witnessed the elaborate length that the people went through to organize themselves around the collector. He was particularly enamored by the deference, the ceremony and the silence that followed wherever the collector went. That day he realized the power of this position and swore that his son would one day become a collector.

Divyankit has been a good student from his childhood. After standing first in his district in the matric examination, he studied plus two science in the local Fakir Mohan College at Balasore. An outstanding student, suddenly Divyankit found Science was not his cup of tea. The endless theorizing of Physics, the causticness of Chemistry and the gory starkness of Biology turned him away from the temple of Science.

While Science bored him, literature inflamed him and books seduced him.

He had always been drawn to the rich history of Orissa and the amazing contribution of Oriya literature which breathed life in to it. In the haunting melody of “Boita Bandana” he could almost see the Sadhabanis standing at the shore, sending their husbands across uncertain seas to distant lands like Java, Sumatra, and Bali. Every note was woven together by hope, longing and courage. The songs of Raja and Nuakhai festival still reverberating in the writings of fakir Mohan Senatpati and the devotion to Lord Jagannath very much visible in the writings of poets like Sarala Das & Jagannath Das.

In to this world Divyankit wanted to melt away and discover his own identity.

Hence, despite the reluctance and misgivings of Prafulla Babu, who thought by only studying Science can one become a civil servant, Divyankit enrolled in the Bachelors of Arts for his graduation. He convinced his father that only graduation is needed to become and IAS; irrespective of the stream.

The wheels of time rolled on and in three years’ time Divyankit passed hi B.A examination with distinction and the rarest achievement of being a topper & gold medalist of the college. Everyone was elated but the elation with a deep-seated conviction of what lay ahead was only seen in the eyes of Prafulla Babu & Divyankit.

To reach the most cherished summit – Divyankit Das, IAS.

III

In the late 60s and 70s of Orissa, to become a civil servant was a matter of great pride. The position was coveted not for the salary but the perks and powers that came with it. The ostentatious and sometimes the pretentious display of officialdom, servility and a penchant for cowering before such figure gave it a saintly halo to what was otherwise a glorified clerical job which was a hangover and a sad carryover of our colonial past. Anyways, with the social norm set, normalized and nay glorified, the race for the post almost became a cradle to grave story depending on which part of the age spectrum you are looking at it from. Those days, many young IAS officers were from the Orissa cadre and a prominent role was played by the prestigious Utkal University where many of the reputed educationist and professors guided and mentored young men and women to help crack the UPSC Examination.

So, it was decided that Divyankit would go to Bhubaneswar and study in Utkal University.

Getting an admission was very easy for Divyankit as being the gold medalist, the university welcomed him with both hands and to top it off, his education and other expenses was completely free of cost from the scholarship he received from the state government.

IV

The young and still evolving capital of Bhubaneswar was a thing of wonderment and enigma for most of the Oriya people. It has been just designated as the state capital 2 decades ago and was slowly figuring out its own identity. With government building and residential colony coming up alongside history of yesteryears in Lingaraj, Rajarani and Kedargouri temple along with myriad others; it looked like a modern city which was jostling with history to make a mark for itself.

Divyankit arrived at Bhubaneswar, one hot and humid evening of May, with lots of dreams, aspirations and excitement. He was dropped near the University gate and had to walk nearly 3 Km to reach his hostel. Completely tired, he immediately slipped in to a deep sleep.

He dreamt that he is back in the village and had met his friends who were very happy to see him. Off they went to the village pond which was thickly nestled around by large mango trees overarching the water body bearing the sweetest mangoes. He felt suddenly happy and alive to be back in his village. They ran and climbed on the mango tree and the tradition was that they will pluck the most juicy, ripe and tasty mango that they can lay their hands on and then drop it to the pond. Followed by this, they will jump in to the pond, all at once to collect their bounties. As Divyankit was plucking mango, he heard someone creeping behind him. Thinking that one of his friends is making a mischief and creating a prank, he swung around to push him out.

Behind him was a wild animal which was gnashing its teeth which shone through the darkness, menacingly.

“Bou lo… Marigali” (Oh My mother, I am going to die), cried Divyankit and fell in to the water. He heard all his friends laughing and giggling.

Divyankit woke up with a start.

He found that he has fallen off the cot and was dripping wet with a group of boys all staring and laughing at him from above.

“Looks like a village simpleton” said one. “Poor guy, must be a fool to come to Bhubaneswar” jeered another.

“Get up and show some respect to seniors”. Said one of them curtly, looking like their leader.

He was angry, sullen and really bewildered to get such a ‘welcome’ to the Temple city of Bhubaneswar.

“Why did you pour water all over me”? Growled Divyankit to the team leader.

“Manoj Bhaina, he’s showing his attitude to you. Show him his place” exhorted the pack of jackals to their leader, egging him on.

“Oh, our dear brother is angry with us… Sorry bro, please forgive us our mistake” Manoj bent down in mock supplication inviting copious amount of laughter from his gang.

Divyankit looked at him with cold derision.

“What? Are you angry with me? Will you hit me now? I am so afffraidd” Said the team leader mockingly while playfully slapping Divyankit, somewhat a little hard. This infuriated Divyankit to no end and the next moment the full blow of his fist landed squarely on the chin of the bully.

Thud!

Manoj hit the side of the table and landed hard on the ground.

He was bleeding and if one looked closely, may be missing a tooth. This sudden escalation was too much to handle for the group as they had a reputation which was feared and no one had dared challenge or stand up to them which gave them a lot of thrill.

Not having an appropriate answer to Divyankit’s rebuttal, the team leader and his group crawled out of the room – as silently as they had come in.

The next day, Divyankit had become the hero of the campus even without attending a single class. The tale of his courage and strength had travelled far and wide. He was literally mobbed and gheraoed to get a first-hand account of his heroics. It seemed the Bully, Manoj, was a notorious character and was a known mischief maker in the campus. Many were thankful to Divyankit for showing the bully his place. He was a rage amongst the girls too, having achieved his cult status, they started comparing him with Rajesh Khanna given his long hair and fair looks. Divyankit didn’t mind the attention and was basking in his new found celebratory status.

That’s when he met Archana.

V

It was an overcast afternoon and a Sunday. Most of the hostelers had gone out for a movie dekko of ‘Aradhana’ which was slowly achieving cult status. Divyankit politely refused, out of no interest in movies and also the fact that he treasured his post lunch siesta with the fidelity of a man who understood that the mind, like the earth, needed fallow time. He woke up around 4 pm. Alone, he decided to visit one of the magazine shops just outside the campus. At the shop he browsed few magazines and bought the latest edition of Illustrated Weekly of India.

And then suddenly the downpour started, quite unexpectedly and surreptitiously. People pressed in under the narrow awning, shoulders touching, umbrellas dripping. Divyankit waited, holding his magazine, watching the street turn into a moving skin of water.

That’s when he saw her.

Coming out of the magazine store, her kohl lined eyes eagerly looked hither & thither furtively, as if searching for someone. She was wearing a simple, light lemon green colour salwar suit the color of new rice shoots, simple and unadorned, and this simplicity was what first struck him. The absence of effort, and how beauty had arranged itself within it regardless. She was shy and demur but yet appeared confident and poised, a fine balance between the traditional and the modern. She looked beautiful and yet uninviting, serene and yet chaotic, silently eloquent and yet non verbose.

She was the epitome of paradoxes and contrast, Divyankit concluded.

While lost in his thought, he did not realize that the rickshaw he had hailed has been waiting for sometimes.

“Babu, Babu, will you go or should I leave”. Said the Rickshaw Wallah, now visibly impatient and very wet.

“Bhaina, please wait. I will go” Said a voice which was so sweet and mellifluous that Divyankit seemed to melt in to it.

He felt the raindrops reverberating and echoing that voice multifold which descended unto him in thousands and million tiny drops, melting his soul and driving him to insanity even as his entire being started to wither away and flow along with the rainwater – to eternity, to its source, its creator, and if one was so lucky, to the beloved.

That evening, Divyankit walked in a daze, all of 3 Km to his hostel, even as people stared at him and mistook him for a madman. The Illustrated Weekly of India started to slowly soak and disintegrate piece by piece even As Divyankit continued his walk in a trance. “What was that? What did I just witness? Can it be all true or am I day dreaming? Who is that goddess who appeared suddenly in my life and disappeared as soon? Where would I find her or see her again” Thought Divyankit, his mind in a tizzy and brain taking leave of his senses. He did not realize that he had reached his hostel and that the guard was asking him to come in.

The next day, Divyankit had severe cold and fever due to which he was unable to attend his classes. His hostel mates took care of him even as he slipped in and out of long stupor and deliriousness due to high temperature. In this state also, he was still inside that trance and the mad dance of thoughts that were taking place in his head. Completely mesmerized and bewitched from the brief encounter with the girl, he was helpless - Cupid had hit hard.

VI

The next day, he rushed to his class as he did not want to miss out more on his study.

“Could you please pass on the copy to me”? Again, that mellifluous voice and the sweetness pouring in to his ears. The voice came from behind him. He turned, and the world, which had been resuming its ordinary dimensions, stopped again.

He saw the sweetest creature again looking at him with the most innocent pair of eyes.

If there was an orchestra of musicians, this would have been the loudest symphony in the history of music – just that it will not be a jarring and vexing one but would be the most harmonious ensemble to have ever been put together.

She was indicating towards her friend sitting in the front bench who was ready with a notebook and wearing an expression of exasperation and disbelief.

Thereafter, Divyankit followed her dream girl wherever she went: to the canteen, the library, the students’ union room and literally everything under the Sun and inside the university campus.

It became so obvious that even the Professors started to take note.

One day after class, as the queen of his heart was going towards the library, Divyankit followed her but instead of the library she went in to the girls’ restroom, with him following suit.

“Don’t you feel ashamed following me around” She suddenly turned and confronted him.

Her face surprisingly did not show anger but the silent disappointment of a very patient person. Suddenly taken aback, Divyankit was retreating back. That’s when she moved and blocked his path.

“I have been noticing this strange behaviour from you since the last few days. Now it has become a joke in the university and I am getting a bad reputation for this” Divyankit noticed big drop of tears accumulating in her beautiful Kohl lined eye threatening to burst open and along with it unleash the hidden emotions that she had accumulated against him.

He could not let it happen.

“I am so very sorry” Said Divyankit, now really apologetic after suddenly becoming aware of the consequences of his erratic behaviour on the girl’s reputation. “I never meant to hurt you. If you could give me a chance, I could explain it to you”. Said Divyankit, now really feeling bad for the girl.

“Is this boy troubling you, Archana” Said one of her friends who was coming out of the restroom, looking at Divyankit suspiciously.

“Ah, so Archana is her name” Said Divyankit to himself. Now mighty pleased to put a name to the face.

“No, no. its alright Deepa. We were just talking about the notes for the political science lecture. It’s nothing” Archana immediately rescued the situation before it could get out of hand even as Divyankit’s puppy face and constant stare was not helping the situation either.

“Come, let us go to the canteen. You will get yourself lynched here”. Said Archana, half dragging and half carrying him out of the place.

In the canteen, they sat in a corner and it was time for Archana to put things in to perspective and drill some sense to his ‘thick skull’.

“You must understand that you cannot follow me around like this”. Started Archana. Seeing him again getting dreamy eyed, she decided to be firm. “Look, I come from a conservative Brahmin family and its with lot of difficulties that I have convinced my parents to allow me to study for masters. I want to prepare for civils and become an IAS officer which has always been my dream.” She blurted out all at once and paused to catch her breath.

By now Divyankit had come to his own senses and was beginning to understand the gravity of the situation. But he was also helpless. Helplessly in love with Archna. There was no rhyme or reason for what he was feeling but he could not shake it off just like that.

“You look like someone from a good family and I am sure you have your own career ambition. Please focus on that and let us go our own separate way”. Said Archana decisively.

“I can help you with your civils preparation. Infact I am much ahead in my own preparation and find it to be very easy”. Blurted out Divyankit almost in a matter-of-fact manner.

This was his last salvo to salvage the relationship which was beginning to disintegrate even before it had formed.

Archana looked at the boy intently. He seemed like a decent boy. Was actually handsome & fair and had a boyish charm about him which was rather cute. She really liked him but feared that this will only fan his obsession, if at all he comes to know of it.

But the IAS preparation offer was also tempting.

This boy was a known scholar, a gold medalist of his college in graduation and it would be a good arrangement if he chooses to also help her with the preparation, thought Archana.

Reluctantly she agreed.

They agreed to meet after the classes in the library.

VII

Divyankit was far more brilliant and amazing in studies than what Archana had imagined. His childlike inquisitiveness and understanding of basic fundamentals and nuances of subjects amazed her. He not only had a penchant and flair for literature but also a good grip on History as a subject. What really made him unique and special is the point of view and perspective that he formed from both these subjects and how well he was able to use this to articulate and explain away all that was happening in the country and globally.

A true IAS material indeed, Archana thought.

The study session went on well and suddenly without realization, 6 months had passed.

One day while studying together, Divyankit was underlining some passages from the History book. Archana was in a playful mood and kept fidgeting with the pencil and stationaries around.

“Why did you keep following me like a stalker, Divyankit”? Archana suddenly asked in a serious tone.

Though it was meant as a playful prank meant to startle him, it stopped him right in his track. He looked at her intently, his face undergoing a thousand change – of surprise, discovery and hurt.

“It was because you were the most wonderful girl that I ever met in my life. The moment I saw you at the magazine shop, amidst the rain and the thunderstorm, my world seemed to have stopped spinning. It was as if you were the goddess that I had been waiting for all my life or for so many lives and as if my Moksha were waiting to happen at your hand”.

His passion and fervor surfacing and overflowing now, Divyankit started crying. “Don’t you feel the same way, Archana. Can’t you see the enormous love that I have for you – in my eyes, in my words and in my entire being. Don’t you feel a thing for me, Archna”.

Now he was inconsolable.

In all this, Archna felt a slight tug in her heart. How heartless of her, she thought, not to understand the true love of a man who has all along loved her with the purest of intention and with all his heart. It is not that she did not like him but kept him in abeyance in fear of her family and what the society might think. Seeing Divyankit’s emotional state, Archana also teared up. She wanted to hug him. Tell him that she loves him more than the world and would have preferred nothing better than him.

Instead, she just got up and left.

VIII

For the next 2 weeks both of them avoided each other. If suddenly per chance, they bumped in to each other or saw each other from the distance, both of their heartbeats raced and Archna’s face turns a crimson red while Divyankit could not help stop his smiles which widened to a grin.

Both of them were outrightly and hopelessly in love with each other.

What proceeded from there would fill half the chapters of any bestseller romantic novel. In classroom they will keep looking at each other till people frowned, hold hands under the table while they studied and tried to give each other small gifts without any reason or season.

As they neared the end of their final year and also the UPSC exams, the study hour extended. Archana got permission from her family to stay in the ladies’ hostel to study longer and use the library.

Post dinner walk used to be a romantic affair as both of them just held each other’s hand and took the long walk in the winding university road. Sometimes they will sit in the garden in silence hearing the nature, the sound of the crickets and their own heart beats.

One full moon night and as both of them were passing by the garden, Archna said “Divyankit, let’s sit in the garden in this beautiful full moon night and enjoy its bliss. We have not been able to sit here for a very long time due to the study pressure.” Divyankit agreed.

As they sat down, both started talking about their life, what they want to become, what would make them happy and feel fulfilled.

Then as suddenly as they had started talking, they stopped.

Silence fell.

Outside, the moon lit up the earth in a slightly mystical veil of soft light which made the moment magical. A patch of cloud floated across and suddenly the moon went out of sight, briefly.

A cloud moved across the moon. The garden went into brief, complete darkness.

And in that darkness, Archana began to sing.

She sang softly, almost to herself a song from Adina Megha, a popular Odia movie, sung by singer Nirmala Mishra.

It almost felt as a confession:

“Jochona Luchana Dura Nila Gagane

Emana Manena Eyi Madhu Lagane

Jochona Luchana Luchana”

(The moonlight hides itself in the distant blue sky,

Yet the heart refuses to be still in this intoxicating moment…

The moonlight hides… and hides again.)

Mesemerised, Divyankit just closed his eye and let the melodious voice of Archana awash him with the emotion as he floated out in to reverie, with the moon playing hide and seek above.

Archana also got lost in the song and continued…

Bakula Aakule Jhure Sakale Aakale Jhare

Biraha Basa Ra Rachi

Sara Nisi Abhisa Re

Nila Kanei Rahe Chahein

Niti Niti Maune

Jochona Luchana Dura Nila Gagane

Jochana Luchana Luchana

(The Bakul flowers ache and fall in longing,

Morning and evening both seem touched by absence,

Love writes itself in the language of separation,

Through the long, silent night of yearning.)

A drop of water fell on Divyankit’s cheek.

Suddenly awakened from his deep reverie, he looked up and saw tear welling up and tracing down her face in the restored moonlight, her eyes bright and far away.

“Promise me Divyankit. You will never leave me. You will always be there for me. There will be no separation in our story. We will love, live and be with each other till eternity. Promise me…” Said Archana fervently and with a passion which was so unlike her.

Divyankit hugged her close and tightly. “Of course, my dear. Of course,”. He whispered.

He meant it.

He meant every syllable.

He had never meant anything more.

Above them the moon came out from behind its cloud. A temple bell marked the hour, and the night continued its long, indifferent passage through the sleeping city.

IX

Time flew like a fading song one hears on a full moon day.

Finally, the day of the UPSC Prelims examination came. Both Divyankit and Archana had a solid preparation and with everyone’s blessings, excelled at the examination. The result was out in the next 20 days.

Both of them had cracked the prelims. Everyone was elated and excited.

Except one person. Manoj, the university bully.

Since the day Divyankit gave him a sound thrashing, he has had a complete loss of face and his prestige as a strongman lay in tatters.

What made the matter worse was that Manoj was the cousin of Archana.

He really hated both of them going around in campus. What was also very much unbearable was how come a girl from a “Sasan Brahmin” (group of Brahmin who were given land by Kings and were the highest custodian of Vedic learning & rituals of Lord Jagannath) family can go around with a lowly “Chasha” (peasant family). He really wanted to give Divyankit a good thrashing to take revenge and also dissuade him from roaming around with his cousin but was afraid of a repetition of his previous experience and the public humiliation that will follow.

So, he did what every other weak and cowardly fellow does.

He decided to spill the bean with his Aunt & Uncle on how their daughter was going around with a low cast man and how it is bringing disrepute to the family and the entire “Sasan Brahmin” clan. This infuriated both the parents and also humiliated them to even think of being touched and nay even ‘violated’ by the “mleccha” (outcast)…

Chi chi chi… What shame and embarrassment.

Since her father was an influential man with high connection in the government and with who’s who of the society because of his position, they decided that this boy must be punished and made an example so that none should dare to even come close to their daughter.

Divyankit and Archana would not forget the evening of 23rd June.

“Where is that mleccha who dared to vitiate my daughter. Come out, if you dare to” Shouted Mrs. Tripathy on top of her voice, gathering the occupants of the gents’ hostel.

She was accompanied by the rowdy gang of Manoj who had made all arrangement to ensure Divyankit gets a sound thrashing.

Hearing the commotion, Divyankit came out of the hostel unaware that it was all centered around him.

Manoj indicated Divyankit to his Aunt.

Even before her Mother could react, Archana’s father rushed towards him.

The slap was loud and clear.

Divyankit was more surprised than hurt.

“How dare you roam around with Archana. Do you even know who she is? The high caste that she belongs to? The society she comes from?” the barrage from her father continued.

Some of Divyankit’s friends came to pick him up and few looked at the elderly gentleman angrily.

Manoj, as if waiting on a cue, latched on to this opportunity.

“They are going to hit uncle. Come on you all, let us show them their real place” Roared Manoj as his army of followers surged forward.

Manoj lifted his hockey stick to hit Divyankit who ducked and saved himself. He swung around and let the impact of his big fist land squarely on Manoj’s stomach.

Manoj writhed in pain and reeled backwards.

By then, Divyankit’s friends, now in large numbers, tackled and overpowered Manoj’s gang. Seeing their leader in pain and a pitiable condition along with their own battered state, they decided to retreat back and left with their tail between the legs.

Drama ensued in the following weeks.

Archana was house arrested and not allowed to go to the university.

Divyankit and friends were warned by the university not to indulge in such anti-social activities. What got most affected was Archana and Divyankit’s joint study for the UPSC.

In all this Manoj was seething with white rage. The pain and the pure shame of humiliation had completely changed him in to a mad and raving man.

A man who was thirsty for the blood of Divyankit. His entire identity and honour now laid in the dust even as his gang and followers forsook him. He had become a laughing stock in his circle and the mere mention of him and the famed duel invited much mirth, derision & laughter.

So, he hatched a sinister plan.

A plan which will be decisive in establishing who the real man was.

X

In the meanwhile, the two lovers became forlorn, morose and went through emotional turmoil even as they were forbidden to meet each other.

He moved through the hostel’s days mechanically across lectures, meals and the pretense to study. His books lay open but the words held no meaning to him. At night he laid awake and thought of her hand over his on the library table, and the weight of her against his chest in the garden, and the song she had sung in the dark when the cloud crossed the moon, and the promise she had asked for and the promise he had given without hesitation or reservation or the smallest shadow of doubt.

Hearing of the incident, Prafula Babu and Divyankit’s brother both travelled to Bhubaneswar to meet him. Prafulla Babu exhorted him to come back to the village as his life may be danger. After much cajoling, coaxing and convincing by Divyankit’s friends, was his father persuaded to allow him to stay on to prepare for his mains exams.

It was true that his life was in danger, thought Divyankit.

Indeed, what he held dearer than his life, Archana, was in danger. And what was more in danger was their love, tender feeling for each other and their beautiful relationship.

He somehow had to talk to her.

He knew that Archana would be distraught about his wellbeing. He also wanted to know if she was alright. And to reaffirm his love for her and assure her that he was always with her.

“But how to do it? Who will do it”? thought Divyankit.

That’s when he suddenly recalled Archana’s close friend - Deepa.

So, he wrote a long letter to Archana assuring her of his wellbeing and hoping to god that she was alright. He fervently requested her, as well as mere words will carry, to meet him near the magazine shop, the next day at 5 pm. He gave the letter to Deepa.

Manoj had been busy.

He had gotten wind from one of his trusted sources who overheard the conversation between Deepa & Manoj, as luck would have it. The heavy Jeep in his house, which was parked since years after a severe accident, was suddenly becoming Manoj’s centre of attraction.

It was time to press the Jeep in to service.

To a bloody action.

XI

She arrived in twilight.

5 pm was a time when the magazine shop generally becomes crowded with customers and students from the university visiting it. Divyankit reached 10 mins before and waited for Archana.

That’s when he saw her.

That simple girl, wearing a chudidaar, with hair clipped together in a simple knot at the nape of her neck with few soft strands escaping. With the Sun in her back, this was giving her an aura unimagined.

As she came nearby, he saw her eyes were swollen as if she has been crying a lot. There was tale tell signs of bruises near her neck. Divyankit could look no more.

“Have you been waiting for a very long time”.

Again, the honey dipped sweet mellifluous voice. The melt in the ear melody and the irresistible symphony. Divyankit pulled himself out before he slipped back to one of his trances.

That was Archana and the effect that she had on him.

“How have you been my dear”? Asked Divyankit affectionately. “How pale you have become. Are you missing me” he said half-jokingly.

Archana burst out crying.

She cried without covering her face. He didn't say anything. He put his arms around her and she let him, right there on the road outside the magazine stall, with the students and the rickshaw pullers and the whole ordinary afternoon as witness.

Her parents have been unforgiving.

Venting out their anger and frustration at her ‘outrageous and indecent’ act, they were relentless in their onslaught of abuse – verbal and physical. It felt as if it has had been already a decade that she met Divyankit. And when she finally did, hearing his voice, his loving concern and the comforting presence was enough to bridge the dam of emotions that she had been holding for so long. She had been steadfast during the dark time – to not cry and shed a single drop of tears so as not to give them the pleasure of having broken her and in effect the love that Divyankit and she shared.

“Divyankit, please take me away from here. From all the pain, trials and tribulations. To a place where I could be with you and only you” Archana said amidst tears streaming her face.

“I will dear, definitely I will take you away. I promise”. Said Divyankit as he stroked her hair and took her in his embrace.

As they sat down in the open-air cafeteria by the magazine shop, they discussed about life. How it has turned so strange for them, remembered how they met first and of all the tomfoolery that Divyankit ended up doing, of their walk after dinner, the sitting together in silence in the park in the moon lit nights, that immemorable song.

They smiled, they laughed and they cried.

Two-star stuck lover, deeply and madly in love. Cruelly separated by the society, its norms and the strange rules made by humans to keep humans away from each other.

“Let us meet here exactly after a week. You come prepared and we will go off to my friend’s place in Calcutta. There I will find a job and we can lead a happy and peaceful life” Said Divyankit, his voice now filled with conviction and determination.

Archana looked up and smiled.

She knew that now everything is going to be fine because her lover said so.

It was almost dark and much past the time that Archana had committed to her family. She had come away with Deepa with the pretense of going to her house for study.

“I must leave. It’s getting late”. Said Archana urgently. As she got up to leave, she stumbled a bit, about to fall.

Divyankit caught her mid-way.

That moment froze for both of them and eternity stopped at that point in the honor of two lovers.

XII

“I will wait for you to come and not leave this place for eternity till you come”. Shouted Divyankit as Archana looked at crossing the road. She stopped midway and gave him a sweet smile.

That smile. Soft and open. The smile that holds nothing back. The smile of someone at peace with a decision.

At that moment Manoj’s Jeep sped towards them.

Manoj’s focus was only on Divyankit trying to cross the road...

There was a loud thud, then the scream and suddenly a large crowd.

Divyankit got thrown off the road side. When he opened his eyes, he saw Archana nowhere.

Then there were loud screams as he forced himself through the crowd.

He pushed through.

With urgency, with desperation, with hope. The world had been stripped of everything except the need to reach her.

He reached the middle of the human circle.

A lovely pair of Kohl lined eyes were looking for him here & there from where they lay on the road, they finally found his face and stayed.

Stayed with the whole force of her; all the mornings in the library and the evenings under the neem trees, the full moon and the university garden, the song she had sung in the dark garden when the cloud crossed the moon and the world went briefly away — stayed, and looked at him from a distance that was immeasurable, and said what could not be said any other way.

They stayed there, staring from the point of no return but too reluctant to let go.

And then, slowly, the way the moonlight goes behind a cloud, began to leave.

Divyankit slumped on to the ground. All vision a blur and all sounds a garble, holding Archana’s hand.

He held it the way someone holds the last page of a good book you are not ready to finish & let go.

The way you hold something you already know is gone and cannot stop holding anyway, because holding is the only thing remaining that belongs to you.

He did not call for help. He did not speak. There was nothing in him that language could convey.

Manoj was crying with loud sobs with his head buried between his legs.

Even as the distant transistor played on…

Jochona Luchana Dura Nila Gagane

Emana Manena Eyi Madhu Lagane

Jochona Luchana... Luchana…

The Elder Son

 The morning was slowly slipping through Amina’s finger like water.

She had found Imran’s shoes under the kitchen shelf, his schoolbooks hid behind the sofa and an untouched glass of milk colling on the table, a thin film forming on top. Razia's uniform was still unironed. The rice from last night was still in the pot, clinging stubbornly to the sides…

Monday invariably brought in its wake an utter chaos for Amina as she tries to balance everything like the Dasabhuja Durga Maa. And somewhere in this two-room house was Siraj, who was supposed to have swept the floor an hour ago.

“Siraj” … “Siraj. Where has this stupid boy now disappeared to”. Muttered Amina as she hurried around the house trying to bring order to chaos. Her voice was swallowed by Javed's loud snoring from the adjacent bedroom.

She never expected this life. Even after eight years of marriage with Javed.

Her father had been a DSP of police, the first from their community. Her grandfather, Sattar Sahib, had served as Peshkaar in the old royal court before the British took over and made him a revenue officer. They had lived in a sprawling bungalow in Cuttack which was gifted by the erstwhile Raja. A sprawling bungalow with long verandahs, deep ponds ringed with jasmine, a garden with fruit trees ranging from the ordinary mango and guava to varieties Amina had never seen anywhere else. Her grandfather had later given her mother an adjacent plot to build on, when her father was posted away for years at a stretch and the children needed to be settled in one city for school. That house too was beautiful. There was a kitchen garden where the seasonal vegetables grew, and a backyard full of custard apples, guava and Mango that fell into the grass all the time.

As a girl Amina had climbed the mango trees in the back garden and read her textbooks sitting in their shade without a care in the world.

Her grandfather was the one who kindled her love for science by encouraging her to explore everything that appeared mysterious in nature. Why does this happen? What makes that move? She had chased answers like other children chased kites. Her father attended all her annual day where her name was invariably called for first prize in Science Subject. Through her interest and determination, Amina completed bachelor of Science from the local college – a rare feat for a girl from her community. Given her interest in teaching, she went on to complete B.Ed – a fact which was a matter of pride for her family members.

In 1950s India, being a girl who is highly educated and qualified belonging to her community was a sure recipe for disaster from a matrimony perspective. It was difficult for her parents to find a suitable groom for her in their community.

What they eventually found was Javed.

Javed was the son of a Zamindar from the nearby villages. He was good looking and had a government job; a most sought-after groom in the marriage market. However, Javed was looking for a wife who will also be a service holder (a popular term for being in a job). So, the match was hooked, cooked and booked as both the pair were married off and set forth to deal with life’s journey and what came along with it - the joys, discovery and travails notwithstanding.

What Javed had not calculated was the mess of it. The children arriving within three years, the school which took most of Amina’s day time, the cooking and the cleaning and the mountain of small work that waited for her at every hour of the day. This led to quite a bit of ugly scene and not so nice arguments between the husband & wife which proved one point clear as the daylight – Javed’s inability in helping in any way his wife in her daily chore. This arose part from incompetence and part from the lethargy that privilege helped seep through.

In the whole conundrum, Amina’s father-in-law stepped in as a ray of- hope in what was otherwise a bleak scenario stripped off any silver lining. Due to his stature as a Zamindar, he convinced poor families to send their kids as domestic help to Amina’s house, in rerun for a ‘handsome salary’ of Rs 80 per month. The househelp who came in were barely five to six years older than her own kid, a scenario which may appear hilarious and yet was tragic but was the only practical solution which emerged at that point in time and Amina was not complaining either.

The solution came with its agony & pangs. The first boy had cried for a week and run away. So had the second. The third had lasted longer before he was also engulfed by homesickness forcing him to flee.

By now, Amina joked to her friends that the line of her former house-helps would stretch a kilometer from her lane to the main road.

------------

But the recent one, Siraj, was different from the rest.

He kept the children engaged and looked after them like an elder brother. He was obedient, respectful and consistent, a quality which endeared him to Amina and his family. The one who was the happiest was Javed. He was relieved that now he will not have to bear the brunt of Amina’s taunt for not helping her with household chores and looking after the kids. Coming from a privileged background, he was unaccustomed to the drudgery of household works. He never anticipated that married life will bring in so much responsibility and hardships. One who loves the cool weather that rain brings in should also be ready to deal with the mud and the messiness that comes with it. Amina would think most of the times but will not utter it given the harmony that women are expected to maintain disproportionately in their matrimony.

Siraj, however, settled down quite well in a few weeks’ time. What Siraj truly meant for them, came three months after he arrived, on an ordinary Sunday.

Amina’s daughter Razia was playing with Smita, the daughter of the Marwari family next door. Smita had a beautiful doll which Razia adored but Smita will not have her anywhere close. That Sunday, Razia decided to take things to her own hand to free the doll from the clutches of the ‘evil queen’ Smita. What ensued was the cutest fight ever but transcended to loud shrieks and cries from the children, a common occurrence which was ignored by both kids’ parents.

However, this time, the elder brother of Smita, Kishor, decided to step in and was trying to pull his weights literally, given his seniority.

Siraj has been lying on a palm leaf mat on the verandah watching the ‘cute’ duel with glee. However, he became suddenly uneasy with the appearance of Kishor who has now started to physically push out Razia forcibly.

“Don’t you dare to touch my sister”. Roared Siraj as he caught Razia from falling with one hand while deflecting the next move by Kishor.

Amina was cooking breakfast for the family while simultaneously trying to clean up the house, soak clothes for washing and warding off lecherous advances by Javed who always seemed to be in the mood on Sundays and holidays.

Hearing the cries of Razia followed by Siraj, Amina dropped the cooking spoon which landed down with a thud on the ground as she rushed outside to see what is happening.

There on the ground lay Kishor, still surprised but quick enough to understand it as a genuine assault even as Siraj towered over him with Razia behind him. “How dare you touch my sister and push her to the ground”? Thundered Siraj with the authority and command of an elder brother.

Kishor, who had evidently not expected a servant boy to say anything at all, least of all in that voice, stumbled backward and sat down hard in the dust. Got up. Dusted himself. Said nothing and Left.

It was as atrocious, as bizarre and as surreal as it could get but Amina could not help but notice the adorable demonstration of genuine love, affection and care that Siraj demonstrated in a moment that mattered, at least for her.

Siraj carried Imran on his hips as Razia held on to his hand proudly as they approached her. For a brief moment that day. Amina forgot about her chaotic life, the drudgery that came with it and a husband who was unloving and uncaring and the bleakness of it all. She embraced her three children. That moment she was a proud mother of her children and today her elder son had stood up like a man to confront all that is unjust, unfair and partisan.

That evening Siraj ate two plates of rice and asked if there was more.

He had stopped crying in the mornings a month ago but after that Sunday something had settled in him and he came in fully, the way children do when they finally believe they are allowed.

He had found his home. And if she was honest with herself, so had Amina.

-----------

"The boy has simply vanished into thin air." Javed collapsed onto the sofa, wiping his face with the back of his hand. "I checked the bus stand, the railway station, even the truck depot but nothing. Ye mere Maula, tu meri madad kar. If Abbaji comes to know, he will grill me alive. Siraj's father is a known goonda and that mother of his… tauba, tauba… the woman can raise a storm over a fallen leaf." He had gone quite pale. Amina found this faintly funny but brought him water anyway, as a dutiful wife is expected to do.

"Phone for you." The Marwari Sethani's voice came sharp over the wall. Theirs was one of perhaps three telephones in the entire lane, a fact she ensured nobody forgot alongwith her other prized possessions - colour TV, VHS and telephone all under one roof.

The voice on the line was Abba Ji's, feeble and weak. “Come quickly. Both of you”. The line disconnected on the other side.

They packed in twenty minutes and caught the last bus to the village.

The bus smelled of diesel and tired bodies of people travelling not for joy but out of necessity. Somewhere in its wake, Amina found herself thinking of her Vidaai, that first trip into her husband's world, the shock of arriving from her father's grand house and well-manicured lawn into all this dust and chaos. She had come to understand that some distances were not measured in kilometers.

They reached the village after dark. Irfan was waiting and it was a good thing too as an angry crowd had gathered near the bus stand, pressing around Javed with questions about Siraj. Irfan was a well built and a hefty man. He pushed a clear path through and got them to the ancestral house without incident.

Hazra Bi embraced Javed and her grandchildren, then said to the room at large, carefully not looking at Amina, that in her time women had ten children and still managed their homes properly, that today's modern girls believed a government job absolved them of every other duty. “Tauba tauba”…

“Siraj’s mother, Asma, has been sitting on a hunger strike at the market place and saying that she will only eat from her son’s hand” Said Abba Ji visibly irritated and frustrated. “you rest up Beta. You people had a long journey and must be very tired. We will talk in the morning” Said Abba Ji even as he affectionately patted Amina on the head like a father. He admired his daughter in law and was very happy when the alliance was made. To have a graduate daughter in law is something only few people are blessed with, he will think, an enthusiasm which was not shared equally by his wife.

-------------

Before the Fajar azaan, while everyone slept, Amina slipped out in her burkha and took the long way through the mango orchard to the market square. Asma had set up a befitting spectacle: on a charpai, her arms were raised and she was wailing loud enough to ensure that her voice carried through the market. “Mere bacche ko le gaye, pata nahi kahan hai, haaye, in logon ka gairat ho, Allah inko kabhi maaf na kare” Around her a motley crowd had assembled: some genuinely worried, some came for the fun and some, who were like her, were there to see the performance that she was putting up. After a certain point of time, to Amina, she started resembling like her mother-in-law.

“This woman, Asma… such a drama. We all know where the Son had disappeared and what plan she has…” her voice got lost as the crowd reacted sharply to another of the antics of Asma.

Amina walked back through the orchard in the early light, the dew cold underfoot. She had heard enough to know that something evil & insidious is at play.

The next morning, over breakfast on the Dastarkhan, Javed proposed returning to the city. His friend Manoj was the DSP there and could help in the search immensely. He said this with careful phrasing and due rehearsal because Abba Ji still had, even now, the ability to make him feel like twelve years old. After giving it some thought, Abba Ji nodded and said “I think you are right Javed. Your presence at the city will be more fruitful than here. Don’t worry about the people here. I will handle them”. He said with some degree of conviction.

They left that afternoon. As the bus pulled away Amina watched Abba Ji's figure shrink at the gate, even as he waved at them. She felt particularly sad as she understood the sorrow of leaving someone behind who deserves better than what life has handed them. Javed watched his village disappear from the window.

They reached the city late and found a rickshaw home to the two-roomed house where it all started.

From the next day, Javed took off along with Amina to start searching for Siraj. This was part owing to the love and affection for the boy but mostly due to the fear of official action as Siraj was still a minor and having disappeared from their care, they could be held accountable and it may have adverse effect on their job.

What also helped was that the city DSP, Manoj, was a school friend of Javed and when Javed reached out to him, he was very supportive and assured all assistance.

They split the search in 2 parts: Javed would work with his friend, DSP Manoj to locate the boy with the help of the police team and Amina with her brother would try to scour the neighborhood to find out the whereabouts of Siraj. Luckily, they had a photo of Siraj which was clicked when the family went off for a photoshoot in the local photo studio recently. As Siraj had become close to them as a family, they also invited him to join them for the photo. In the photograph, he stood slightly apart from the others, not quite sure of his place in the frame, but present.

The search went on for almost a week with the city police leaving no stone unturned to find the servant boy of Manoj Sahib’s friend. They rounded up all suspects from their list including child lifters, ex-felons, small time thieves and others with some criminal record. The search was so intense with police vehicle coming 2 – 3 times a day to pick up Javed that it led the neighbors to start developing respect for both Amina & her husband for their ‘higher’ connection in the police hierarchy.

The search of Amina with her brother also did not yield much results. The people in the neighborhood were sympathetic of their situation but could not help much beyond that. Looking at the photo, many thought that it was Amina’s kid that had disappeared but were not very supportive when they came to know that it was their servant that they were looking for. Some of them even showed utter surprise to see Amina getting so concerned about a servant disappearing. “These vagabonds roam around for few days and when they become tired & hungry, they all come back, eventually”. Was how an old grumpy lady summed up.

Nobody had seen him.

While Javed was anxious about this event snowballing and affecting his job, Amina was much more saddened in way a mother will understand. She missed the reassuring presence and persona of Siraj who, like an elder son always stood by her and was also a very loving brother to her children.

On the eighth evening, tired and worn out, more mentally than physically, Amina asked Javed to get some food from the local Muslim hotel Ajmatiya.

Ajmatiya was the old hotel on the main road, run by the third generation of the Habib brothers, famous in the Sultan Bazar area for its meat dishes. Siraj had loved the place. In his free hours he would wander over just to stand near the kitchen and talk to the staff. Maybe it was his way of socializing and fend off loneliness. Amina didn't think of this when she sent Javed.

She was just tired and hungry.

--------------

Javed pushed through the door of Ajmatiya and joined the short queue at the counter. It was the evening rush; a few regulars seated at the heavy wooden tables, the smell of mutton shorba and something caramelising in the back, the low murmur of conversation. He gave his order and stood waiting, half-watching the door to the kitchen for his order.

The door swung open.

Out came a boy carrying a tray, moving with the trained ease of someone who knew the room. Blackened hands, a smear of coal dust across one cheek, wearing working clothes with his head down and concentrating on the tray.

Then the boy looked up.

Javed felt the recognition hit him like a nuclear missile. The world seemed to go briefly spinning in his head. There was Siraj. His Siraj, their missing Siraj, the boy whose disappearance had cost Javed a week of sleep and a humiliating number of visits to Manoj's office. Here, in an apron, carrying food to someone else's table.

"Siraj!"

The word came out louder than he really wanted with every head in the room turning towards him. Siraj stopped. For one moment the boy looked at Javed indifferently with no guilt & surprise. It was an expression of a person who may have been found but had not been exactly hiding.

Javed covered the distance between them in four steps and grabbed the boy by the arm.

What happened next went fast like a blur. The tray went flying. The two men from the kitchen came through the door. A chair scraped. One of the Habib brothers, the heavyset one who managed the floor, stepped between Javed and Siraj with his arms out, trying to pacify him in low voice that Javed could not hear over the rage in his head. Javed tried to go around him. He couldn't and swung around and caught an elbow somewhere on his face or perhaps he walked into the wall, later he couldn't be sure. Suddenly, he found himself outside on the pavement, with a cut lip and a torn shirt and the door closing behind him. The Marwari Seth from the lane was passing by on his evening walk and saw him.

-------------

Amina heard the commotion from inside and came out to the verandah to find Javed at the gate with the Seth holding his elbow, blood at the corner of his mouth. Before she could get to him, he pulled his arm free and came inside walking past her. Then he turned and that’s when it all came out.

“This is your doing. You gave him too much liberty. You encouraged him. You treated him like one of the family and now look… look at what is happening now.”

She stood there and did not say anything. She had learned this over the years, that certain things were like monsoon squalls: they came, they went, and the only thing to do was stand still and wait them out, because whatever you did in the middle of them only made things worse.

She thanked the Seth, who left with a sympathetic look at Javed and a disappointed one at Amina.

Then she sat down.

Siraj had been at Ajmatiya all along. He had been working of his own choosing and full knowledge of the hotel staffs. He had not been kidnapped or lost or in any danger. He had simply left, and gone somewhere he wanted to go, and continued to exist cheerfully a fifteen-minute walk from their house while they turned the city upside down for him.

She did not know, sitting there, whether what she felt was anger or relief or something in the region of grief which could not be named. She lay down and stared at the ceiling.

That night she did not sleep.

---------------

The next day she took leave from the school after the farcical incidence of the previous day and found that Javed was also languishing at home. Unable to bear his sight, she took a rickshaw and bundled her kids on to it heading towards her parents’ home.

Getting back to one’s parents’ house is the most cherished and treasured moment for any girl, especially after marriage. Amina was not someone who was known to run to her parents’ house at the slight sign of hardship. However, this incident proved to be beyond her tolerance and patience and she needed a good break from all the chaos and confusion.

She does not know for how many days and nights she slept. Her mother would try to wake her up and feed her even as she stayed in a dazed condition. Again, she will slip back to the stupor, a dreamless sleep where you find yourself in a twilight zone, swinging between day & night, between clarity and confusion and between trust & betrayal.

“Amina, beta Amina… Wake up Beta, see Habib Sahib is here to see you”. Amina’ s mother voice seemed to echo and come as if from a far-off valley. Giving a faint smile in her dream, Amina changed side and went off to her sleep. Only after a strong jolt and violent shaking by her mother that Amina finally came to her senses.

Putting a Dupatta on her head, Amina walked to her father’s study where Habib Sahib, the owner of Ajmatiya hotel was sitting.

Seeing her come, he got up courteously and said half embarrassingly “Bitiya, sorry to trouble you and wake you up. I really wanted to see you and explain things so that you should not count me as guilty as I will have to show this face to Sattar Sahib in the Yome – Qayamat” He said almost embarrassingly and full of regret.

Keeping his eyes low, Habib Sahib continued, “Beta, I never wanted to take the fool Siraj as one of my staff. But what can I do, my sons would not have any of it. The staffs also know him and have gotten fond of him. I was helpless,” Said a visibly dejected Habib Sahib.

“On top, Siraj’s father came and threatened us that if we did not give him money, he will let you know that we have lured Siraj to join our hotel. Its only when I came to know that they have created ruckus in the village and also received confirmed news that they were trying to extort good amount f money from you Bitiya, that I said enough is enough and came running to you” Habib Sahib was now visibly shaken and disturbed, perhaps in the apparent guilt of being the culprit who has set off this unfortunate chain of events, started to shed some unabashed tears.

“On top of that, my wretched blood had also the temerity to mishandle Damad Ji... Chi, Chi, Chi”…. He started crying uncontrollably.

Amina’s father comforted him but he was beyond consolation. Izzat and Waqar (dignity & honor) meant a lot to people of his generation and he could not bear to see the same now run down to the ground due to the unfolding events.

That evening she took a rickshaw home.

---

The rickshaw came down the main road and slowed turning into the lane. Ajmatiya was on the corner, its doors were open and the evening smell of coal smoke and cooking mutton drifting out into the dusk.

And there was Siraj.

He was crouched at the side of the building beside the coal stove, extracting the spent pieces, sorting the usable coal with the same complete and serious attention he had once given to every task in her house. His hands and face were black with it as he was utterly absorbed in it.

He looked up as the rickshaw approached. Saw her.

His face opened into a smile: a wide, innocent, a flash of white in a coal-dark face. It was not the smile of a boy who knew he had caused trouble. It was the smile of someone who was simply glad to see her, and wanted her to know something without having the words for it; beyond the deviousness and plotting of his parents, beyond the accusations and allegations that everyone was heaping on him he wanted her to know…

“I am all right, Mother. I found the place I was always looking for. Don't be angry with me.”

Amina looked at him.

She felt the months of his presence in her house, the early morning crying, the doll fight, the two plates of rice, the stories about his village told while he swept; and she felt them pass through her without the sharp edge of grief she had expected.

He had not been hers to keep. He had been, for a little while, exactly what she needed, and she had been, she hoped, something of the same for him. It was enough. It was beautiful and as with every beautiful thing, it must come to an end.

She gave him the smallest nod. Just enough. Then she turned back to her children.

Imran had fallen asleep against her arm. Razia was watching the lane go by with her serious eyes. Amina tucked a loose lock of hair back from her daughter's face and held her close.

She thought about Javed. He would be home already, probably, sitting in the dim of the bedroom with his injured face and his bruised pride and the particular sullenness of a man who knows, somewhere, that he was wrong. She thought about the door she had closed so long ago and whether it was too late to open it, and decided, in the way you decide small things sometimes in the back of a rickshaw, without fanfare, that it was not.

That nothing was too late for people who loved each other, started a life together for the love and now bonded together by their beautiful children. Now, no matter how imperfect their relationship has been, there is always time for new beginnings.

She would go home. She would make the dal he liked, the slow Friday one, with the proper tadka and the whole spices and the patience that the Ajmatiya cook had explained to Siraj, who had explained it to her. She would put the children to bed. And then, perhaps, for the first time in longer than she could clearly remember, she would sit down with her husband and actually talk to him.

The rickshaw moved on down the lane.

The House with the Color Television

 I. The Kohinoor of the Lane

One summer morning in early 1980s, in a modest neighborhood of a sleepy town of Cuttack, my best friend Kuna and me, stood frozen, stunned, utterly dumbstruck.

A pickup truck stood right Infront of the Marwadi Seth’s house, and men loaded the household items one by one. Iron trunks screeched against the concrete. Utensils clanged and thudded. Furniture groaned as it was dragged out into the unforgiving morning light.

This awakened the neighborhood with a huff.

Our lane was a graveyard of ancestral pride, lined with rickety and crumbling houses that were once symbols of prosperity. Homes which were once made by proud and successful forefathers, now left in the hands of wayward children unworthy of that rich lineage.

A familiar sour smell hung in the air as the household waste water slushed leisurely through the open drains – a smell which was slightly inconvenient but well tolerated by the accustomed neighborhood.

However, to us children, this lane wasn’t an echo from the past but a joyful playground of infinite possibilities, with adventures waiting for us at every corner.

“Pintu, are you listening to me”?

Kuna rocked me like a goli soda bottle, forcing me to come out of my reverie.

“What”? I blinked, startled.

“Arrey baba” he said, voice heavy with betrayal. “Jignesh is a liar. He told us it was all a rumour. And now look at this!” said Kuna, dejected.

Now, the Seth family in our lane were all together a different story.

It is said that the Seth came from Rajasthan with nothing and used to roam around as a street vendor selling “Har ek Maal Saadhe Saat Rupaiaya” (all items for Rs 7.50 only).

Through sheer hard work and an entrepreneurial mindset, he prospered. First, he opened a small shop and then several more, and now is the owner of one of the largest garment shops in the city.

That is the success story of everyone who does hard work and shows perseverance.

It may appear strange how such a rich man landed up in a lane like ours. Some elders in the lane say that the Seth started his “Saadhe Saat Rupaiya” business from our lane and found the people to be very amiable and kind. As a result, when his fortune changed, he bought an old, dilapidated, large house and renovated it for himself and his family.

And some renovation it was.

The house emerged transformed, painted bright and proud, its windows always open. And Seth did something no one else in the lane ever did.

He invited us in.

Though we had seen it from the outside, what we saw inside blew our mind.

It seemed as if we had stepped in to a Bollywood cinema set - a large, lavish house with the latest furniture and expensive upholsteries with the latest gadgets and all items that comfort can want and more. The home had five bedrooms with a large drawing and dining room. Each of the kids had their own bedroom, with rooms painted in the choice of their colors, curtains and bedsheets carefully picked up by the Sethani which had Mickey Mouse and other Disney characters printed on them, smiling at you from every corner.

Once invited in, men sat on his sofas. Women admired the curtains. Children wandered without being yelled at. He did not ask anyone to leave. Everyone was welcome as the familiar warmth of Seth and his family embraced one and all.

And inside, glowing like a relic stolen from the future, stood the color television. It was indeed a rare possession for the lane and the Seth took great pride in showcasing it. It occupied a pride of place in his drawing room, sitting atop the teakwood table, polished and shining like a true Kohinoor diamond.

The first time I saw it, I thought it was alive.

Colors moved inside it. Actual colors, not the muddy greys of the black-and-white set that we saw in shops or other wealthy households. When actors cried, their tears shone. When songs played, dresses exploded with blues and reds I had never seen together.

With a VHS player.

And stacks of movie cassettes.

Little did we know then that this Kohinoor carried a curse of its own, and that our excitement around it would quietly grow into the source of many troubles and small miseries that waited for us in the days ahead.

***

II. The Departure

The next day morning the final loading began.

What met me outside was an incredible scene where the entire neighborhood had gathered outside their house to see off one of the most beloved family leave the lane.

Women, stopped mid-way from their Jhoti - making Infront of their houses - a traditional practice of creating Rangoli with rice flour against a background of mostly dried cow dung on the road, which was beautiful, aesthetic, and very Odia.

I looked at Kuna grinning in that infuriating, devil-may-care attitude of his.

It was very much like Kuna and I looked at him visibly irritated.

“Sanga, why are you cross with me?” Kuna said.

“Arrey, naahin Sanga”. I jumped before he could answer. I am just so sad to see Jignesh and his family leave the lane. It feels strange,” I said, trying to be as sincere and with as straight a face as possible.

Kuna looked at me for a long second, then snorted. “Don’t give me that, Pintu. White lies and all.”

“What white lie?”

“Are you really sad that Jignesh is leaving,” he said, folding his arms, “or are you mourning the loss of the colour TV, the VHS player, and our shameless back-to-back ‘free shows’ at his place?”

This time I did not get angry with him.

For the first time, the fool made sense and paraphrased our shared emotions correctly.

Suddenly Jignesh and his family came out of their house, met the people of the neighborhood and piled up in two hand pulled rickshaws.

The truck pulled out of the bend and the last sight of the packed TV, perched atop the furniture, was a sight so heart rendering that both Kuna and I let out a shriek, startling the neighbors and infuriating our parents, inviting royal size slaps from our respective fathers.

Jignesh turned, confused, trying to understand why his leaving hurt us so much.

I don’t think he ever did.

***

III. The Failed Plan

Once the Seths departed and both of us went off to Kanika Kothi, the old palace where we hid when home felt unsafe. No one owned the palace, though its walls had broken and bats and rumors haunted its rooms.

Once alone, Kuna said “Actually, Sanga, I wanted to tell you that all hopes are not lost with Jignesh’s departure”.

He smiled with his eyes gleaming with the fire of a conspirator

 “There is a house in our close neighborhood of Sri Vihar Colony where a drunkard lives. It is said that the drunkard is a wealthy heir and has the entire house and all the wealth to enjoy”. He said drawing an air of mystery around the tale.

He continued. I was dying inside with excitement at the mystery and getting irritated at Kuna for not telling it quick enough.

“The whole day the man does nothing except drink and lay in his drawing room Infront of a large imported color television with movies playing in the VHS, which is also imported. What’s more, the window is always open for anyone to see whenever they want to”.

Both of us happily shrieked and squealed as he blurted out the last few details excited of the possibilities that lay ahead for us.

 There and then it was decided that Kuna and I would try to go for the movie watching at the drunkard’s house the very next afternoon.

Afternoon, of course, was the problem.

The tricky part was that it was peak summer vacation and most parents considered afternoon siesta sacred. It is not only a habit but an institution in itself in eastern India. People ate, melted in to deep slumber and awakened unreasonably refreshed and cheerful by afternoon 4 pm. Nay, in Odisha, afternoon was popularly known as char ita bele (4 o’ clock) as life truly geared up and resumed for the evening after that.

Stepping out then was dangerous.

Now I had my misgivings on this new adventure which I shared with Kuna.

However, he convinced me that this is a trip worth taking and that we should not miss it for anything.

Convinced, against my better judgment, we decided to sneak out the next day during the afternoon siesta.

 The next day afternoon, two little boys tried to escape for their mid-summer adventure but barely made it past the doorstep.

One of us tripped over utensils kept for washing.

Unfortunately, it was me.

 The noise woke up Kuna’s household as well.

They caught him mid escape.

That afternoon, the neighborhood could no longer sleep as it reverberated with the wailing and bawling of two innocent boys at the mercy of their fierce mothers.

Later that evening, we met up. Battered brothers who have fallen through hard times. Bruised, humiliated but our resolve now stubborn and hardened. Our plan was not going to die. We thought about the most opportune time when we could make the plan work without raising any doubt with the parents, especially the two heartless fathers.

It was decided that we will do it during the evening grocery run.

Evening grocery run was when each household will send their kids to fetch groceries from the local shop. As the fathers were too tired after a long day of office work & travel, it generally fell on kids like me and Kuna to fetch the groceries. Our incentive was a chocolate or a lollypop and if one was lucky, eat the tasty Dahibara Aloo Dum, the hallmark of Cuttack.

It was perfect. Trusted. Routine. Invisible.

So, two days after the last beating, we were handed our grocery lists and sent out. The two friends walked toward the local shop—

and quietly took a detour toward our cherished destination – the drunkard’s house.

***

IV. The Final Run

On and on we went, crossing roads, neighborhood and every rule meant to bind us back; with the breeze in our hair – truly carefree like the bird. The sun was setting; crimson light bled into the streets, staining the walls and stretching our shadows into uneasy shapes. The evening felt unreal, cinematic. It fueled us, pushed us forward.

We did not know what lay in store for us as in Jignesh’s case, we knew beforehand which movie will play. This uncertainty thrilled us & propelled us forward.

We finally reached the drunkard house. It was a palatial bungalow with long driveway and manicured lawn with a central fountain and our real point of attraction: the backyard. We snuck up the wall and landed on the other side of the narrow lane.

Through the open window, light spilled out: blue, yellow, impossible.

What met our eyes was unbelievable! A massive imported TV was playing the Amitabh Bacchan blockbuster Sharaabi - Fate had a macabre sense of humor, showing a movie about a drunkard to our very own resident drunkard.

Then we watched.

And watched.

And watched.

Time evaporated as the movie took us through various twist & turns as a lovable drunk with a golden heart drink his way through daddy issues, falls in love, sings iconic songs, and somehow proves that being Sharaabi is a personality trait, not a problem. And inside the room the reel was playing out the real!

“Arrey, sighra asi ki cassette badala… Nua bhala filim laga” (“Come and change the cassette and put on a good new film”) The drunkard shouted in Odia to his man servant when the movie ended.

What bliss!

V. All Hell Breaks Loose

That’s when we heard a gasping sound and turned.

“You scoundrels! Do you know what you’ve done?” shouted Jena Uncle, our neighbor. “Your families have been searching for two hours. The whole neighborhood is out looking for you. Your fathers are at the police station; and here you are, watching movies like thieves!”

The noise drew people from the neighborhood. Hands grabbed us, pinned us down, just as we tried to escape.

Off went Jena uncle to inform our fathers.

All our bad luck.

That devil, he took the effort to take out his scooter and transport our fathers so that he can have a ringside view to the entertainment that will unfold!

No longer that Jena Babu hit the brake that both our fathers jumped out from behind and descended on us.

All hell broke loose.

Slaps, kicks, punches as if it was a WWF with no rules. Random slapping, kick, punch – all followed with generous number of unmentionable expletives which in some cases casted doubt on their genuine fatherhood and having sired the both of us. The pain & hurt was there but the shame cut deeper.

From the corner of our eyes, we could see the drunkard ambling out of his house to see what the commotion is all about.

Kuna, ever the wiser, pleaded, “Papa, please, everyone is watching. Let’s go home.”

That only fueled the rage.

This infuriated his father Mangaraj Babu so much that it tempted him to tell my father “whatsay Ahmed babu? These little brats have developed a sense of prestige and self-importance. Let’s give these fine gentlemen some more treatment so that they develop wider prestige all around” Said he gleefully. Trying to match his tempo, my father said, “lets drag this vagabond all the way up to home and teach them a lesson so that they will not repeat it”.

What followed was incredibly embarrassing and shameful with the best of Gaalis. Mothers and sisters reference were used so much that at one point of time we started to feel protective of them given how they were unnecessarily getting dragged and names getting misused.

In between, I mustered up the courage and told my father “maa – behen ke baare mein kuch nahin sununga” (“will not bear to listen anything related to my mother & sister”).

This infuriated my father so much and threw him in such a fit that he started hitting with greater intensity. That day everyone on the way just looked on stunned.

People stared. No one intervened.

The procession of the two fathers, their sons, Jena Babu and some onlookers entered our lane. The expletives stopped as both the fathers had some degree of social prestige in the lane and also, they did not want to come across as ungentlemanly in front of the ladies. However, the hitting continued. The neighbors poured out and formed a line along the lane as if giving a grand salute to us, the returning victors! while some thanked the lord and other philosophized about the transient nature of life, some old devils gleefully wished the two devils (us) had drowned in the muddy pond than to have caused such grief to their parents!

***

VI. The Redemption

By next day, the lane had gone quiet. The afternoon cricket seemed to have paused somewhere even as the chalked line of the cricket creases waited for its heroes to begin the fierce war of cricket. The news of the beating had spread across the length and breadth of the lane and beyond.

Just as the dusk began to settle resignedly, he suddenly appeared, swaying slightly as always.

It was the drunkard from the Sri Vihar colony.

Everybody was shocked to see him appear in the lane, almost from nowhere. He was someone whose reputation preceded him, and in not so good way either. Hence, his appearance was not only surprising but was considered to be inauspicious & ominous. His appearance did not help ether - shirt crumpled, hair unkempt and eyes strangely shifting beneath the haze. Behind him, two boys from the electronics shop carried a boxed television set and a second carton, a brand-new VHS player.

The lane stirred and suddenly came to life.

What is this? Who called him here? Who told him anything?

He stood in the middle of the narrow road, cleared his throat, and for once did not slur. “I heard,” he said quietly. “Heard what happened.” His eyes moved to our verandah where Kuna and I sat, visibly battered, silent and withdrawn. He looked at us for a moment, then looked away, as if the sight of us had confirmed something he had already decided.

“A TV is a mere machine. A box with wires & a screen with light”. He started, as if talking to himself. He turned to the people standing in the lane and continued “It should never become a reason for children to suffer.” As if a pointed references & reproach to the fathers who had gathered there. His word hung heavy and solemn in the lane. No one spoke.

“And it should never,” he added, voice tightening, “become the reason for love to disappear.”

Someone muttered that this was none of his business. He smiled, not offended, just tired.

“I grew up with the best that money can buy. My parents had three televisions,” he said. “Imported ones. Big house. Drivers. Servants. Everything.” He paused.

“Except time.”

“I would sit in front of those screens,” he continued, now his voice mushy & soft, “waiting for them to come sit beside me.” He swallowed & choked. “They never did.” There was no accusation in his tone. It was as if he was reading from memory.

“So,” he said, straightening, as if steadying more than his balance, “put this in the clubhouse. Let all the children watch together. Matches, movies, whatever they like.” He looked again toward the verandah. “No child should think a thing is more important than them.” The shop boys placed the boxes inside the small community room, the one with peeling paint and a broken ceiling fan.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, quietly, I & Kuna stepped out and walked up to the man everyone called useless. “Thank you,” both of us said. Not loudly. Not with any drama. Just enough.

The drunkard nodded once.

As he turned to leave, his steps were steadier than before. Both the fathers avoided each other’s eyes.

Inside the clubhouse, someone plugged the television in. The screen flickered to life; a blue glow filling the small room.

In the meanwhile, something else had changed in the lane. That night, more than one father sat beside his child: not in front of a screen, but on the doorstep, talking.

And the drunkard from Sri Vihar Colony?

For the first time in years, he did not stop for a drink.

He walked home under the streetlights, hands in pockets, carrying nothing and yet lighter than he had been in decades...

******

Modern Love Hyderabad Review

Watched Modern Love Hyderabad 2 weekends back and was totally floored by the whole series. What rich tapestry of human emotions and hues of relationship delicately and heart warmingly woven into a tale of ordinary humans going about their ordinary lives yet standing out due to a unifying emotions tying them all together - Love....

Be it the tentative, now halting now overflowing love between a daughter and a mother held together by culinary delicacies and gustatory overtures, the trick that the mind plays as a two lovers find, lose and rediscover love through a common medium of slipper!, the agonising and lacerating tale of a young boy separated from her only support - the grandmother and wondering for a lifetime on why she left him only to rediscover the love through a tiny hand clutching his little finger & pulling him back to the circle of love, on the heartless world of cinema and daily soaps, the concern of a father for her growing & marriageable daughter and a girl trying to find her soulmate through analogies drawn from the animal world!

No series could have been as diverse as "Modern day Love Hyderabad" and the first thought any producer or critic could think of would be that it would land up in great disasters. But thanks to Nagesh Kuknoor for most part and other directors, no such mishap was seen. All the stories just warmed your cockles and few of them made you reach out for that box of tissues - I did especially for the episode "Why did she leave me there...?"

A refreshing departure from the run of the mill extreme narratives in all contemporary genres of its time, "Modern Love Hyderabad '' touches you deep within making the character relatable and  in tales which are achingly beautiful steeped in love and  romance which is soul touching. The series was so overwhelming in the beauty of the narrative and characterisation that I was unable to watch it in one go as I needed the time to soak in the bliss and let my soul bathe in the eternal tale of love, romance and relationships. 

Folks, watch it at the risk of falling in love all over again....

Half Lives

 

Shuttling between office and home,

shouldering the personal and professional,

one wonders if one is not leading a half life...

 

Leaving small cities with eyes full of dreams

and a resolution in the heart to make life fulfilling...

Fulfilling those dreams to settle in city of dreams,

yet looking back at the small city left behind…

the nostalgic memory and few places which seems to be frozen in history

as if waiting for you to return to once again embrace it...

 

A waft of morning breeze, a smattering of familiar smells, 

bringing back suddenly waves of long past memories

deepening the feeling of half lives being led...

A promise of solidarity,

of being there with one's own loved ones

being relegated to the background in view of " life's priorities"

 

A journey which began in making the life full

now appears to be falling somewhere short,

showing the meaningless pursuit and mirages once chased...

 

I come to my balcony, looking at my piece of blue expanse

 that I pay handsomely to get a view,

I hear the sudden catching of breath from my adjacent balcony...

Looking at my neighbour's balcony,

I see a reflection of me staring right back at me

with the same journey and question in his eye –

" have we all lived and continue to live half lives?"...

The Migrant Worker

                          

 "Donon ka ik hi rasta hai     

Donon jalti tapti sadak par            

Suraj ki garmi se pighalte

Nange paanv

Apne thhake kandhon par

Apni bhookh aur pyas ki gatthri lekar

Jaane kitni sadiyon se yun hi chalte hain" (Javed Akhtar)

                               

                                      "And both are seeing it                                        

Both on the hot burning road

Melting in the scorching sun

Barefoot

On their tired shoulders

Carrying their luggage of hunger and thirst

Don’t know for how many centuries

They have been walking like this" (Javed Akhtar)

 

The Covid19 lockdown was declared in the country on 24th March, 2020 leading to the massive mass migration of the migrant workers across the country walking back home thus evoking multitude of emotions. Well my post is not an analysis of the mass migration, the utter chaos and bad planning behind it. May be that is a topic for some other time.

 My post is on the similarity and contrasts that migrant workers have with each other and how their lives intersect & diverge in reality and figuratively. 

 Having seen the moving image of the mass migration and having closely worked in providing relief to many such workers, the closest imagery that comes to me as a similarity is a moving image of someone close to me, someone I know...

 

And that person is me...

 

While the migrant workers mentioned here are at a basic subsistence level, one may argue on how do I identify myself with them? While I may be better paid many times over as compared to the workers in question, the other criteria that defines them also defines me.

 Many may feel, at this point in time, that I am over romanticising the comparison and that it is taken out of proportion. Allow me to explain and then you may draw your conclusions as you feel fit.

 When I am comparing myself and millions of other middle class sons and daughters coming from smaller cities to work in larger cities for better employment opportunity, actually I am drawing up a context, situation and reality which is akin, if not as stark, to the migrant workers under mention.

 Millions of middle class youngsters like me set out to establish themselves in today's world through better education and training. However, when such an education is over and then they start looking for suitable opportunity closer home, such opportunity forever eludes them as it is simply not there. Having no other options, they take up jobs and career options in larger cities thereby subjecting themselves to the bondage of a life time away from their home and hearth.

 Living in small cubicles which are called living spaces in modern cities, they get used to their little windows & balconies giving them a piece of the universe - which is always silent, does not talk to them and has no answer for them... With parents left in the smaller cities, the middle class son & daughter lives a dual life as one part of their being is with their parents - worried sick if they are doing well, depending on goodwill & charity of friends / relatives when they fall ill / have to be hospitalised and forever dying of guilt of how they can be of no use to their parents when they need their children the most...

 They try hard to go back but as they progress in their career, it becomes increasingly difficult for them to go back as similar opportunity can never be created or are available in their home states. Grudgingly and reluctantly they continue to trudge along living a life,  which though is full of comfort and better amenities but forever missing the joy, fun and the familiar camaraderie of an era gone by...

 Such urban robots work their whole life paying for endless EMIs, bills and expenses hoping against hope that one day they will get a chance to go back...

 Rushing through the maze of life in the cities, they however pause, even if for a little while, when they smell the earthy smell of the moist earth after the first rain, a random smell of food wafting through the air or the fun of kids playing a 'competitive' game of cricket on the road... The imageries achingly reminding them of a time when they were alive, bustling with energy and looking forward to life with hope and aspirations in their eyes...

 Back home their parents are proud of them and would not stop showing off to their friends and relatives of the good job & life their children and grandchildren are leading... However, the parents are very careful to hide the sense of emptiness and hollowness which comes from the knowledge that their near and dear ones are not with them when they need them the most... The parents always encourage their children to do well in their life and march ahead in the competition but once in a while you will hear a silent whisper, almost like a fervent prayer to their creator, when they ask you this question over telephone while trying to sound casual " do you see any new openings in the state which may be suitable for you".... Hoping against hope that there is actually such openings which will ensure that their loved ones return home... 

 The longings, the fear, the insecurity and the sense of emptiness is the same in all types of migrant workers - be it the one walking back home or be it the one sitting in posh flats wishing that they could also go back home...

 Is there a way out of it...? Is there a solution which will magically restore the migrant workers back to their native place...? Is there an answer to the many prayers that parents across this country are making to atleast have their family around them in the last leg of their journey... ?

 I don’t know nor do I have the answer... Some of you may say that the answer lies in entrepreneurship and entrepreneurial spirit of starting something back home... The answer to such suggestion is that many lack the entrepreneurial spirit as in the India of 70s, 80s & 90s (where the current generation of white collar migrant workers grew up in) had families which stressed on education and finding good jobs to sustain yourself. Such an approach has not bred the spirit of entrepreneurship and there is a very miniscule of people from this generation who actually go back and start something on their own - the local regulatory & economic conditions also not being conducive to such start-ups...

 So where does it leave the  migrant workers at... Well that leaves us at the cross road of emotions, longings and a sense of emptiness & hollowness in what could have been and what the imaginary possibilities were... Till such time that one formally retires from work and returns back to the cherished land to find out that over a period of time you are suddenly considered an outsider by virtue of staying out of the state for a long time...

 

Hence the migrant worker, sadly, will always be a migrant worker - in search of his identity in a city which considers him an alien and which he equally considers as a foreign place, never adopting each other, never comfortable with each other and never belonging to each other... '

 

So the spirit of the migrant worker floats around eternally unable to find a place which he can call home and missing the era long gone by where he belonged, mattered and cared for.... Continuously searching for it in the earthy smell of the moist earth after the first rain, random smell of food wafting through the air or  in the games kids play on the wayside...Reminding him of a time when he was alive, bustling with energy and looking forward to life with hope, aspirations and joy glistening in his eyes...