Inaction

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Far lonelier than the dark depths of Pluto can be public patches deserted by living, breathing people. And it happens, with unfailing regularity. This desertion of a civic responsibility then threatens our welfare and survival as a species.

Let me start small.

The black dog  got too close for comfort today. It came within a foot, saliva swinging and swimming over meat eating canines and he growled. I had no forewarning. He was quite placidly settled on a mound of sand in the nippy air. I was swinging along energetically, bent upon extracting the most out of the morning jaunt.

Just as I made to negotiate the turn, Blackie got to his feet. Crouched over dipped forelegs, he ducked his head, fixing me with eyes rolled back. Overcome by a fearful cold wave, I swung my short black baton, screaming with my stomach. Three more strays meanwhile had crept up behind the vicious leader, baying and snapping. They began to  encircle me, scraping the tar with their claws, bodies primed to pounce. All sense of my surroundings began to recede. I only saw and heard and responded to this one live threat facing me. Rattled at their aggressive hostility, I lunged for a brick and swung it at the pack. Their ears promptly went flat just before they loped off.

I stood there, shaking. My heart raced and sucked for breath. 
As I regained focus and the eye lens cleared, I looked to my right; there had been the slightest of movements. A morning walker was edging tentatively into view, leading his Dachshund by a leash. He had seen me! He had heard me! I saw that in a snap from his crafted gait. He had waited for the inconvenience to pass before entering the scene.

We are like that. We hate engaging on terms not familiar to us. We also have a fundamental belief in our ineffectiveness.

That is it. Our daily life is fuelled by a numb inertia.

We don’t really believe we can make a difference. When we talk of changing the system, we are invariably thinking lofty, as in systemic at the national and global level. Truth is that we have our own personal circles of influence within our reach where we exercise total control. The slightest shift in those still waters of habit can

shoot off vibrant impulses of change.

What if that gentleman had stepped forward? What if he had not dashed back to routine safety? What if he had charged at the brutes? What if he had come with me to lodge a complaint at the guard room? 

My faith in humanity would have soared, infusing me with the energy for a hundred civic deeds. Imagine the positive domino effect. Instead I came away from the experience feeling alone, afraid, isolated, convinced that our homes are lined by mean streets.

It is not that we are powerless. We are power wasters. More and more, our strength has come to mean numbers. We do not assert affirmative social action even in the immediate radii that belong to us. Inaction is more convenient.                                                                                        

Soulmate (Micro Fiction)

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“The Indian Railway’s Second AC has lost its elitist air” Harshal told himself irritably.

Elbowing his way into his assigned seat, he glared at the passengers already settled in. They wore that shifty eyed look of proprietary, typical of wait-listed Indians. He rolled his eyes at the pedestrian domesticity surrounding him, cursing the college alumni association for advancing the reunion dates. He could have travelled better!

Now that he was in, it made sense to settle down quickly. Ticket checked, dinner order confirmed, toilet visit out of the way and bedding in place, Harshal plugged into his music and reading material. The feverish anxiety of a station halt had lulled into the rhythmic calm of chugging wheels and a pleasant ennui, his eyes began to droop.

Notes, the buoyant notes of jasmine and rose came streaming up his nose, as though from another lifetime. Spriha! Her Coty Sophia parfum, unmistakable! He sat up, heart in a roar.

There was a woman in yellow, seated beside the travelling ticket examiner. Harshal got up as though mesmerized, moving towards the two. “Spriha,” he uttered throatily, “What are you doing here?” He smiled at her sparkling laugh. “Are you attending the reunion?” he was sure that explained her presence on the same train as him.

“No, I am getting off at Allahabad. A meeting came up and I am trying to confirm a berth here,” Spriha turned to the TTE again. “Come and sit with me while he figures it out, might take a while,” Harshal motioned towards his seat. The two sat in silence, leaning away from each other. He felt levitated, a sensation of being in a hot air balloon with her, two souls on a joint flight wrapped in a wistful wisp of what might have been. There was catching up to do, Spriha’s brother Sukrit was Harshal’s batch mate and the two shared an entire web of friends and anecdotes that kept them engaged, breaking pace only when her destination rolled in. She got up, looking down at him quietly, and then leaned over to kiss his forehead as the train slowed to a stop, “Goodbye!” He caught the fragrance again, willing himself not to lunge and never let go.

Harshal sat inert through the rest of the ride to Delhi, his heart bursting. Why had he not come clear with Spriha? What had stopped him from professing that he did indeed believe they were meant to be together? He had suddenly lost all appetite for the reunion. But the national capital was being announced and he braced himself for the overly enthusiastic reception at the station.

There was no one as he alighted, not one familiar face in that teeming rush. “Could I have mistaken the date?” he felt disoriented even more. Lifting his light tourister bag, he advanced slowly towards the exit gate, scanning the racing faces. He had nearly jostled through when he caught sight of Vikram scrambling towards him. “Sorry Harshal, apologies but I have bad news. There has been a horrific tragedy. The party has been called off. We are going straight to Sukrit’s place.”

Harshal dropped his bag with a thud, the blood beginning to gelate, “What happened?” he croaked, not wanting to know.

“Spriha passed away in a road accident last night. She was on way to the railway station to board a train to Allahabad. Some unexpected official presentation I believe!”

Harshal spun around ponderously towards the train. It was pulling away. The woody spiciness of her Sophia began to ebb and leave him. Fiery tears ballooned to hover on his unmoving lashes He blinked rapidly then turned to follow Vikram out into the world.

Guria

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With William, Hannah and Ada

I felt a little out of place. I was neither a volunteer nor a Caucasian and I wore an orange necklace.

One of the first things the Guria children exclaimed on seeing me with the visiting group was, “You are Indian!” I may have imagined the tiniest drawing back, just a slight dip, a nanosecond of uncertainty but it was gone before I had the time to permit defensiveness into my smiling reply, “Yes, I am Indian and my name is Neerja.”

My association with Guria was through Hannah 

( https://www.princeton.edu/bridgeyear/meet-the-volunteers/hannah/ ) and 

Ada ( https://www.princeton.edu/bridgeyear/meet-the-volunteers/ada/ ) both of whom are currently doing the service program that my daughter Asawari pursued at Serbia during the year 2010-2011 http://www.princeton.edu/bridgeyear/updates/archives/?id=5417)

(L to R) Nick, William, Allen, Mackenzie, Tyler

My trip to Varanasi was about the Bridge Year Program (BYP) community spirit. I felt a sense of connection with the students who were doing in India what my daughter had done for nine months in Novi Sad and Nis. Hannah and Ada had made me the generous offer of showing their service location and I was honoured to be at Guria on the afternoon of 6^th April 2013.

I was impressed. From the start! I watched Ada deftly hail an autorickshaw, negotiate a price and effortlessly slip into the extension next to the driver’s seat on the ride up. We trundled past Hannah on the way, a determined and purposeful rider on her bicycle, negotiating the unforgiving city traffic with panache.

Tom Davis, currently volunteer at this “grassroots anti-trafficking NGO” had insights to share. We stood talking on the periphery of some high decibel excitement involving Kho-Kho and Kabbadi. Even on this flash visit, it was clear that there were huge challenges to be faced for any effective change to take place.

I wondered if Tom or the Guria team ever felt paralyzed at the enormity of the task. I mulled over any disillusion the apparent difficulties might have caused their young American volunteers. I felt concerned about the potential of false hopes being given the Guria children. Tom was reassuring in his even, thought through and open responses.

Guria’s positive role was evident in the orderly manner in which they conducted the meditation session I attended, far more disciplined than my own class in Delhi. The children were expressive, forthcoming and expectant of participation and friendship. Two little ones whispered amongst themselves, standing next to me, hazarding a guess at what my orange necklace might have been worth. Their estimate? Rs 100!

BYP India on the Vindhyachal 

There was hope there in a young voice that said, “My ambition is to become a reporter so that I can tell everyone of the injustices I see around me.” There was a sense of pride there when a small boy thumped his tiny chest and claimed, “I taught Tom to speak Hindi.” There was a sense of security there in the little ones who toppled over during meditation to fall asleep. There was resolve there in the gravity underlining the cheerful faces of the adults in charge.

I sat there trying to guess what lay behind the closed eyes of the older girls. Did I imagine a shade of sadness? Was there a fear of what the future might bring? The tall gates that were hastily closed every time struck me. This was difficult work Guria was doing. There were too many invested agencies crusading for the status quo outside of these four walls.

Of these, the most ludicrous and foolish was us, the Indians who have the luxury of being ordinary and middle class. Unaware of our power to effect massive changes around us, we bumble through our work schedules and weekends at the malls. We have no clue how badly help is needed outside of our self-constructed walls of order and security. We cannot begin to imagine why there has to be a pretense, at the least, to an inclusive world.

A sliver is all that is needed. A shift of our glance, a speck of our time, a fragment of our thought. A thousand more Gurias would be too little!

Guria and the people behind this NGO are to be highly commended.

Visit: www.facebook.com/guriafreedomnow

         http://www.guriafreedomnow.blogspot.in/ 

Vanished (Micro Fiction)

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Seven years of a good marriage is enough for a couple to develop telepathic connection. So attuned can you get to each other’s energy rhythms, it is possible to be together and alone at the same time. Ratan was an early to bed, early to rise disciplined professional while wife Meeta kept owlish hours for her creative output. On most days, he would be winding down about dinner time just as she would be going amber, ready to turn green as night fell.

“I missed my morning walk today. What’s the time? I could swing it even now” Ratan glanced at the ticking clock right behind her on the wall, “Nine, it says! You’ll do your usual two rounds I suppose. I might be flat out when you return" he forewarned her.

“Not to worry, I better grab the moment” Meeta trotted towards her bed room busily. Slipping into her jogging gear, she let herself out into the windy dark, “Please don’t latch the front door by mistake Ratan. I hear lightning outside and I might cut the stroll short.”

"It is a flaky kind of night to step out,” the husband called after her.  He had driven home under an overcast sky, the breeze was angry and twigs had danced on his car bonnet. The rain gods hadn’t made up their minds yet! “Our campus is quite safe though with the two guards at either gate” he decided to turn in. “She is carrying her mobile phone in any case,” he was not one to fret.

Placing thoughts of his wife aside for the moment, Ratan began his nightly ritual. He approached the refrigerator to fetch a water bottle for his bedstead. A printed sheet under the Chinese magnet caught his eye. It looked fresh. The type style was bold. A security alert! Strange, he thought. Meeta must have missed it; the helper had likely received it and placed it under the magnet, having forgotten all about it during the day’s events.

Intrigued by the unusual heading, Ratan plucked the single leaf and ambled to the silent study. He was not unduly concerned. This was a secure cantonment, what threat could the security people be warning them about?  The clap of thunder and falling water bothered him more.

  

Pushing the typed notice under the lamp, he reached for the switch. His chest felt it had been hit by a train.  He nearly fell back in horror then dived for his phone, pressing the quick dial with a trembling hand. There was no answer! He redialled, willing her to pick up. “This can’t be happening!” he dialled the guard room. “Yes sir, Madam walked past gate number two some twenty minutes ago,” the soldier reported from his post.

Ratan made a dash for the garage. Meeta took fifteen minutes to cover one loop, she was five minutes late. The water would have slowed her down, she was not carrying an umbrella. The rainstorm had gathered force and silver blue streaks were propagating in the carbon skies above.  He pulled onto the road, headlights blazing, wipers at maximum speed, unsure if she had taken her regular path. An asphyxiating emotion had begun to weigh him down as he drove past gate number two for the third time. There was no sign of her. He parked his vehicle, alighted, raised his face to the downpour and howled her name. The phone circuit went berserk with the neighbourhood up, alerts were sent out, there was shock and alarm.

A grown, GPS-ed, facebooked, credit rated, emailed, PIN ed mother of two had vanished into thin air that harrowing night. No sign of her. He fractured in the head and heart with ache at the mystery of her disappearance. For him, there was no closure, ever.

When the hurt became unbearable, he would pull out the phone they had found lying in the grass by the road that day, about two hundred meters from the guardroom. He would jab the voice recorder fearfully and listen, heart in mouth, to her last recording, “This stretch feels spooky somehow. Maybe I should head back home. But wait, the trees make such a picturesque archway as far as the eyes go. The leaves are spinning in a vortex. There is a muddy wetness, the wind slaps my limbs. I feel very alone. What is that coming round the corner? Motor bikes, in this weather? The riders are hooded, there seem three. They could be youngsters visiting a friend except that there is something menacing in their approach. They seem to be slowing down.” 

 

Several seconds of static followed not unlike Ratan’s own mind, silently hissing with questions.

Meeta was a writer and often dictated stories as she walked. Was this for real? 

Truancy (Micro Fiction)

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Chunni Chand leaned across the shop counter to grab the hurtling school bags; the students were running late for the matinee show. They slapped a twenty rupee bill each on the grimy counter and swung their knapsacks across, only to hit out at a pace towards the cinema across the road. It was a school legacy generations had graduated, smiling about. You were not a ‘true blue Raffanite’ if you had not “CC-ied”.

CC as Chunni Chand was fondly known was in cahoots with the truant. He provided a range of services to the young of this select school; safe-keeping their bags during school hours so they could play hooky with less conspicuity was base one!

Peskiness was not a fault; he was clear on that, it was their teen age.  He hummed nasally now, doing a brisk business of selling paan, cigarettes, Aquafina, and the odd snack while his young clients sank into their cinema seats, the titles of the latest Hollywood blockbuster rolling on the big screen. 

“You are my pumpkin pumpkin hello honey bunny,” rang Chunni Chand’s caller tune, back at the shop. CC gurgled through the betel juice in his mouth,”Guh gg ghello!” The voice at the other end was frantic, “CC ji! Nitin here! Trouble, trouble…my father was to meet Padma Ma’am at 10 today, please arrange a parent, quick. Three hundred? Yes, standard rate. My details are in the school diary, blue bag, yes. Just take care of this, all right. I have to get back to the movie.”

CC glanced at the dusty clock on the far wall, subtracting ten minutes automatically; there was still a half hour to go. Ever since he had attained adulthood, CC had gotten into the habit of keeping his time telling devices ahead by ten minutes. His sluggish childhood pace had scarred him somewhat, his family had arrived late on several occasions while he was growing up. Shaking his head free of those painful memories, he pulled out his well-thumbed register now. Running over his stock cast of “parents for hire” he did a mental match, taking notes from Nitin’s diary particulars. Within minutes, Nitin’s ‘father’ was signing himself through the school security gate, wearing the deferential look of a parent summoned for chastising.

“Intermission time" CC smiled to himself like a cat with the cream, popping open lemonade bottles with grand gestures. A hungry horde of students was pouring in a steady stream from the direction of the school. It was not considered cool to carry packed tiffin from home. The teens liked to hang out at the corner shop, munching and socializing. “The sandwiches would hold until lunch hour”, CC calculated; he had better order some paneer rolls though; several kids ate on the long commute home. He was kept busy over the next hour. It was not until the school bus engines began their start up roars that CC next subtracted ten from the clock face. “Where are these kids?” he began to fret in his head. “Nitin’s father should have been back with a debrief from Padma Ma’am!”

Just as he made to scan the building across the road, Chunni’s blood froze at what he saw in his line of vision.  A frisson went up his brain stem. He cast about in fearful futility before turning to the bags in confusion. Blue bag, Nitin had said? His hair stood up with alarm. There were two!

Always! Every time! His father’s words drilled his smoking ears, “You must think things through. Stop racing ahead by your silly ten minutes!”

Chunni Chand Banaras Paanwale was turning the minute hand anticlockwise when the School Discipline Officer and guards landed in full force. 

Collusion (Micro Fiction)

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Aqseer 

There was an odd comfort in the smell. It hung in the boxing ring, a rank and oppressive bromhidrosis stoked by the boxers’ Shiv Naresh polyester shorts. There were emotions there, circulating in the fetid air with sweat molecules; fear, fatigue, friendship, failing, form and flack.

Kohli watched the ring from the door. The Red corner had knocked the Blue down. As he made to rise, Red reached out and struck again. While the Refree called the two fighters out on a foul, Kohli turned away. The National Championships were coming up and there were the usual butterflies in the pit of his stomach. “I am not nervous about winning or losing. My anxiety is over whether I will get to fight at all,” he would often gripe to his mother. On his way to the changing room now, he could see his father in the Coach’s chamber, pumping hands, ingratiating himself towards the 28^th Junior Championship selections. There was a week to go but one never knew with the Haryana lobby, more than merit was at play here. Kohli loathed this aspect of sports in India, “I am willing to work and fight to death but I cannot do this hi hello business,” he vented despairingly to his mother at home.

Just as he was entering the hall after having changed into his boxing gear, his father hurried up to him “You will have to fight Pawan Tokas of the Munirka Boxing Club if you want to go to Akola.” The parent thrust the sipper at his son, “What took you so long? Now get up there on the ring and rehearse your attack combinations!”

Kohli stepped over the ropes, snatching his towel from the turnbuckles. Dhiren from his stadium was waiting in the Blue corner. The two got down to clean punches and scoring blows. They fought four rounds and Kohli worked up his tally. His knuckles ached pleasantly as he pulled off his gloves and helmet, a rush of air singing on his scalp. Leaping off the raised platform, he walked up to meet his coach ambling in.

“I don’t want a Referee Stopped Contest tomorrow, all right. Give it your all,” Sidhu sir thumped him on the back, pushing him towards the weights. Kohli picked up the dumbbells and began to count. “One, two, and three…,” he stopped short. “Who was his coach talking to near the water filter there? The player looked out of place and yet strangely familiar.” He craned his neck to get a better look at the unfamiliar colours; it was hard to tell from the distance. His father had fallen asleep on the hard bench the federation provided for the parents.

Placing the weights down slowly, taking care to roll his back, Kohli padded up to where his father snored gently. He shook his drooping shoulder, “Papa, look at that. What is Sidhu sir conferencing with a player from some other stadium for? And I am quite certain that is Tokas. What is he doing here, studying my game? He is competition, not supposed to be here, and certainly not the day before our championship.”

“Don’t be silly! You should trust your coach. Get your things together, let’s go. It is not in our culture to doubt one’s teacher,” the faintly impatient parent helped  his son clear up and the two made their way deferentially towards the exit where the coach had just seen off Tokas, “Touch sir’s feet. No matter what, you need his blessings. You are his disciple, you must show him respect” Kohli heard his father hiss behind him. He laboured down, nearly over Sidhu sir’s feet then rolled his back up, “Respect has to be earned Sir. I am sorry!”

The two older men watched in confusion at his squared figure marching out of the National Stadium Boxing Hall. 

Delusion (Micro Fiction)

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Meha shifted the phone over her slowly reddening ear, and then flexed the neck.  Her mobile device had begun to feel hot as waves of anger assailed her. The voice at the other end was becoming increasingly unclear, ending in a series of gulps and strangled sobs after every sentence. “Sshh, I hear him calling. I have to go,” Meha strained to understand the garbled words but the phone had snapped shut.

“Homes are supposed to meet our needs. When do they transform into hell holes?” Meha sat staring at her Apocalypse pink Blackberry, paralyzed with concern.  Where was the line she had better stop short of? Need she worry about her anguish becoming interference? Did the meddling clause have any moral standing in the face of bone weary misery? She chewed on a clove to ease the molar that had begun to pound more with distress. No amount of inhaling and exhaling seemed to ease the tension in her muscles and nerves.  

A violent vibration lit up the small screen. Meha jabbed at the answer key, heart in the mouth. “Are you all right?” she asked in a whisper, even though she was sitting thousands of miles away from the caller. “I have just come upstairs and locked myself in. He was charging at me,” the stammer sibilated at her over the transcontinental radio waves.

“Stay calm please. Keep safe. Look after yourself. This is not your fault,’ Meha entreated forcefully, hunching over the phone as though she could somehow transport herself digitally through the instrument and across the seven seas. A muffled sound hit her in reply, “He is banging on the door! I will call you back,” there was a click.

Meha slumped back on her bean couch, nursing the hot cup of cardamom tea her maid had brought in. The hot, aromatic, spicy brew was what she drowned herself in during times of personal anguish. With every sip now, she sat up more, debating in her mind the several courses of action available. It was hard to gauge the dynamics at work in another time zone. “Spousal violence in Canada,” she hurriedly typed into the search box on her IPad.

Clink! Her tinkerbell notification rang with the yellow envelope on the phone screen. She tapped and read the blurb, “I have had enough. He is delusional; says he wants to divorce me; told him to go ahead. Don’t worry about me. I am going to take my pill and sleep now.”

Meha turned to her day as the geosphere continued to rotate away from the sun. It wasn't until later in the evening that she logged on to Facebook to find a Canadian status update: “Marriage is a beautiful adventure.” 

Bias (Micro Fiction)

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A micro oven is all Pihu needed to create her own heaven. And ten seconds is all it took. The dried whole milk filling inside the pastry would soften just so, leaving the case crisp for delicious crumbling in the mouth. Two gujiyas made to order and total satisfaction! She demolished them now, hungry out of nervousness. There was an awareness pitch she had to make to a group of educators on gender sensitization that afternoon and she debated on how best to challenge their deep seated gender beliefs.  

Laptop, pen drive, marker pens, folder, notes…she went down her check list, reminding herself to carry the presentation on a compact disc after mailing it to herself.  “Good luck Mum! Relax. You will do fine” her daughter and collaborator smiled sympathetically at the sight of her bustling mother. A feminist in thoughts and action, she had contributed to the design and content of the slides. She chewed on her morning ritual diet of five soaked and skinned almonds while assisting her mother with the departure. Soon enough, Pihu was turning the ignition key to back out of the garage.

Within the hour, the presenter was plugged in and ready to deliver in the conference hall. She surveyed the growing audience, reaching for the water. It was a diverse group. Liberal, progressive, conservative and she saw their homes reflected in their reactions to her as the talk progressed. “We face a changing social reality in which true equality is struggling to happen,” she had begun, moving on to the routine devaluation of girls and an urgent need to quash stereotypes.  The delivery progressed well and there appeared to be unanimity over her perspective that it was time to bring the change to bear on every day decisions. “We must emphasize humanity rather than femininity and masculinity. We cannot permit gender to become a person’s destiny,” she concluded to cheers and applause.

Several teachers approached the lectern to compliment her at the end of the talk. Some took her visiting card, a few asked to speak privately about personal views and experiences. Pihu was gathering up, smiling in the afterglow that comes with meaningful interaction when the Principal’s peon walked into the hall, “There is a message for you from the Human Resources office madam, please meet them on your way out.”

It took her a while to find her way to them. The Executive Committee was riffling papers, talking in murmurs when she entered. The Human Resources Director beckoned her in, “Madam, we would like to use your expertise in gender studies to help us with an appointment decision. We are taking a vote between two equally qualified male and female dance teachers for our flagship girls’ school at Kullu. Which of the two do you think would be most effective? Should gender be the deciding factor here? ”

Her own response niggled at Pihu throughout the drive home. She was appalled at who she had recommended. “Just goes to show! I am like the urologist who preaches eight glasses of water a day to all and sundry while he himself barely manages to down two” she kicked herself mentally.

She eased the car into the driveway, feeling small. Her daughter let her in, right hand raised for a high five with Mum at which Pihu shook her head. “A cup of green tea?” she frowned at her mother uncertainly, moving towards the kitchen. 

“Yes please, I have a bad taste in the mouth,” Pihu replied in a small voice, nodding assent. 

Adultery (Micro Fiction)

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“Disgusting” she shook her head at the mess around her on the international flight. Blankets lay strewn over seat backs, ear phone wrappers savagely torn, half eaten sandwiches dotted the floor and untidy newspapers lay sprawled over armrests. The Air India flight coming in from Delhi had just landed at Newark and the passengers were alighting. Bitty juggled her emotions and the maximum weightage cabin baggage. This was her first time in the United States of America and her bridegroom of six months was expected at the airport to receive her. Her dry throat eased around the Sualin she had hastily popped. She took a deep breath, jostling along with the other impatient Indians to the exit door. There had barely been time after the wedding ceremony to get to know each other and she was unsure of what to expect.

The baggage collection took lesser time than she had anticipated. She had come prepared with a five dollar bill for the trolley.  Her brand new, bridal red bags stood out against the browns and the blacks on the conveyor belt and she was soon out of the building into the American public space. Dragging deeply on the sharper air, Bitty scanned the emotional arrival scenes. A big, bobbing, bold placard caught her eye across the drop off lane, “Welcome to America my Bitty bride!”Angad was stabbing the air excitedly with the unabashed sign, his mother standing close besides him.

Everything seemed larger than life. And quiet. Bitty’s ears hummed with the silence and the hushed smoothness of the car. She stared at the desolate neatness they raced past on the wheels. Her groom sat with his mother in the backseat. She rode in the front, assailed with sudden loneliness next to the unfamiliar driver. It seemed like a long drive before they began to ease into a three car garage of a picture perfect house. “My Mom made you an Indian meal. She is an excellent cook. Just wait, you will love it here!” Angad jumped out of the car to help the driver with the travel cases as his mother hurried ahead into the sprawling house, leaving her alone by the front door, tentative and out of place.  

It was inexplicable. The interiors were squeaky free of dust and done up beautifully. There was that air of plenty and yet she felt cold at the dinner table a lifetime away from home. She made an effort to pay attention to the conversation around her, “Life has been very unfair to my daughter. Did you know that her husband cheated on her with his colleague? Good men are very hard to come by these days. I hope you realize how lucky you and your parents are. Angad is a great son, a wonderful brother and I know, he is going to be a fantastic husband.” Bitty looked uncertainly in her groom’s direction only to be met with a benign smile of self-satisfaction.  

Unknown to her, the jetlag was stealing up, “Why don’t you go upstairs and relax? It takes a couple of days for the body to fall into the new rhythm. Angad’s room is downstairs, next to mine. You can move in with him when recuperated,” the gratitude Bitty felt for the elder’s thoughtfulness dissolved when she entered her room. Plush on the inside, it was in one corner of the house. The view from the window was beautiful but dead. Unmoving trees stood sentinel in a perfect row, grave and watchful. The closest residence seemed far out when Bitty peered through the washroom blinds. She talked to herself aloud so as to curb the emotion of being shut out. “You are going across the oceans, to another time zone. And human beings are complex creatures. Should you ever feel alone, really and completely alone, open this envelope and use the contents but first use your judgement,” her mother had pushed it at her just as they were exiting home in India.

Unused to the deathly stillness and disoriented with the travel, she was tiptoeing down the creaking boards the next morning, letting the voices guide her. “Last night, she…oh God…she pressed me here so hard. I had heard Indian brides are coy but Bitty…,” her husband was bent over the dining table while his mother held a heat pad to his back.

“Bitty! Angad has a disc herniation. Please be extremely careful during relations!”

A rush of giddiness billowed over Bitty. She stumbled back up into her room, nearly tripping over the unfamiliar carpeting.  Leaning momentarily against the door she had banged shut, she gave  her head a good shake before unzipping the side pockets of her tourister to pull out her mother’s good bye gift. Tearing it open with an anguished hurry, she plucked out the folded paper.  

It was an open return ticket.

Tender (Micro Fiction)

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“Vinay is feeling horny!”

David was holding out the crisp ten rupee note to Rohini. She looked down in confusion at the untidy scribble on the paper money. Vinay and horny? How could that be? It was their driver honking away in the messy Dhaula Kuan traffic! Vinay was sitting on the left front. She did wonder why he was wearing a smirk but he was nowhere near the horn.

Riding a cab was a luxury she could ill afford. The client meeting at Khan Market had ended well and the Company directors were dropping their advertising executive home. A recent college graduate, Rohini was several years younger and slightly out of their worldly wise league. She sat in a self-conscious cloud of their musk cologne.

David’s aura of power overwhelmed her. He was very self-assured, blue chip in every way, travel as he did in a faint wisp of expensive cigar smoke. “Yes, right there, opposite the G Block market, you can stop here,” she leaned forward to direct the driver to her home. Alighting from the car to see her off, David addressed her, “Tomorrow? Over lunch! My place?” Her face flushed at his parting words and she got off the white Ambassador in a fluster. The giddy alloy of shame and excitement balled in her belly, evaporating a little at the smell of her Mom’s dinner wafting over the front gate. She was late and grateful her parent was not positioned at her usual look out post.

The night was spent agonizing over his invite, resolving eventually with this line of self-talk, “Would she be true to herself to pass up a genuine, once-in-a-lifetime potential to connect out of fear of something as fickle as social sanctions?” And it did not occur to her trusting parents to ask what the office was doing working on a Sunday. Rohini was soon enough dodging cycling children, scurrying maids and lounging security guards that lazy summer afternoon, on way to his upscale apartment.

His home felt cool and padded for sound. Several bowls of covered food lay on the dark wood table. David walked her from the front door and up the carpeted stairs to his living room where his suitcase lay open, ties and socks neatly ranked. She lowered herself onto the floor. “A business trip has come up. I will call you from the airport, all right? Here, you can give me a hand with the handkerchiefs," he resumed packing.

The doorbell rattled their easy silence. David rose with a furrowed brow to peer through the first floor curtains. He drew back as though stung. It was his boss and the lady wife. Drawing back quickly, he fumbled with embarrassment as he pushed Rohini out of his room towards the far end of his house in the direction of his laundry room, “I am sorry about this but just stay quiet for a while here, will you. It is the Sahnis and I can't have them catch you here. We would both be in real trouble?” The door clicked softly behind him. The woman sat there in hiding, feeling guilty and mortified and somehow unclean amidst the crisp linen.

Her agency head was nodding thoughtfully at his young employee the next morning, “I do not wish to service the Company anymore" her voice was resolute.

Preoccupation (Micro Fiction)

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Maulishree inhaled the mist floating in from the river. Tugging at her beret to pull some over the ears, she tripped down the cobblestones in eager haste. Elegant icicles were beginning to form around the car bumpers and her silhouette contrasted against them, she so radiated warmth and a cheerful pride.

Where was Om? She scanned the library for his familiar Burberry. Ah, there by the coffee vending machine, next to the carpeted staircase. The steam rose from his cup in lazy curls.

Reigning herself in, she composed her thoughts. Pradeep Choudhary of Headway Publications had said promisingly over the long distance call from Delhi, “We are ready to sign your publishing contract!” Having made up her mind on who to share the news with first, she was stepping up happily now in the direction of her eight months old husband.

“Where have you been? I needed a cheque signed for the insurance payment. I do hope you remembered to pick up an anniversary gift for the Sharmas. Did the internet guys call?” greeted her eternal organizer of a life partner.

Maulishree slumped over the bannister at his unheeding staccato.

“We really need to lighten our winter boxes,” Om began thrusting a book at her, oblivious to her hardening face. “Emotive Dance,” she peered at the title, her eyes brimming over. She gripped the tome. “Have it issued, will you?” he was turning down the stairs dismissively, taking a sip from the freshly micro- foamed cappuccino.  

The State Frisbee Champion placed her feet apart to get a powerful balance. She then raised her right arm and took aim! The book connected with his neck. He followed it to the landing, in dull brown thuds.

There clearly was a whole lot he had missed.

Fragile (Micro Fiction)

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An intermittent hiss was all that was left of the horrifying trade tragedy. Tortured metal and dying embers lay scattered around the stunned space that once held a thriving medical drug assembly line. Nobody had seen it coming.

Not only did the labor torch their own factory and facilities, some of the senior staff were manhandled by the workers of the Fortune 500 pharmaceutical company. One senior manager and several supervisors had gone up in flames with their offices, charred beyond recognition. Some rioters had been taken into judicial custody even as the Trade Minister mouthed platitudes about continued faith in the country’s ability to protect investments.

In all the hullabaloo of the aftermath, an open letter had surfaced. It was addressed to the General Manager, Human Resources.

Dear Sir Ji,

I hear there is a search warrant in my name but I will be on the train to somewhere as you read this.

It is presumptuous of me to write this note. You are a global businessman while I am only an old faithful wanting to make one last good gesture to the company that made me who I am.

For some time now, I had been trying to reach you about the change in the air around us. It was not just the lock down after eighteen hours of work that exhausted me. It was the looks of accusation from my subordinates that bothered me more. I had begun to avoid the sales staff, fearing the resentment in their eyes at overwork, bad pay, verbal slurs and sycophancy. I had come to feel unsafe in what had been home for twenty seven years. 

But nobody in the management was listening.

I know a thing or two about the good workers. They are so heavily invested in their productivity, they have very little negotiating space. It is the reason you must not push them over the edge. A tiny shift in the mental gears and one of them can go ping.

Please do not bring up labour reforms or the politicization of trade unions here. Human beings are fragile and a man can lose his will. I wouldn’t have known this of myself but here is how I acted on automaton the day of the fire.

I saw Ram Yadav on my way out of the factory. He was in a huddle with three police constables outside the boundary wall, right next to our guard room.  They were signalling furtively towards the service lane. Their body language frightened me and I skirted away. Once safely inside my car, I turned back for a look. A tight knot of torch bearers was hovering nervously at the far end of the lane. My hand went instinctively towards my phone to punch your number. But then, guess what. My limbs took on a life of their own. I reached for the ignition key and turned it, replacing the instrument on the dashboard. Who was I to get involved?!

You have to admit. This was a massive management failure. I don’t know if the board is every going to acknowledge or appreciate the ongoing personal and economic costs to those injured and bereaved.

Goodbye Sir Ji.  I will contact you next when my workplace tragedy support group is ready. Who would have thought?

No longer yours,

Deserter by design

Person (Micro Fiction)

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Keerat’s own osteoporosis or her daughter in law’s supposed ailment, it was hard to tell which nettled more.

The two storeys high “Sekhon Farm” with its five watchdogs and twenty Jersey cows had begun to ring hollow ever since her Ajaib Singh’s marriage to the Chief Justice’s daughter. “I feel I have lost my son,” it was a refrain Keerat’s septuagenarian husband liked to ignore. He was tempted more than once to suggest she take a leaf out of his own mother’s note book on freeing one’s son so he may bond better with his life partner but he was a wise man and kept his counsel.

The genteel couple had brought up their son with the time worn values of hard work, enterprise and discipline. It had taken blood and sweat to raise him to be a productive young man. “We did all the tough part and I am now supposed to just hand him over meekly to a strange girl he happens to be married to,” Keerat had turned acutely possessive of her son. “Well, that’s a new! It wasn’t all that while ago I remember you decrying his being insensitive, laid back, careless and forgetful. Now that his loyalties are divided, you hold him up as a shining symbol of his industrious and sterling lineage,” she resented her husband keeping her grounded in this manner. 

But they were one in their concern over this unexpected and bothersome new challenge in Ajaib’s life. His bride had taken ill with a rare and expensive disease. It bothered them no end to see their son bowed down with work and worry. Keerat’s reaction was tinted with annoyance at her daughter-in-law, “Are you sure she is sick? She looks just fine; I think she is just plain lazy. Her parents should have told us of her illness. I believe multiple sclerosis is hereditary.”

“It has been called the invisible disease Mother, the symptoms can disappear completely between attacks. And who is to say about the point of onset, she has been diagnosed with its progressive form, very hard to predict the direction her condition will take.”

Ajaib sat his mother down in front of his laptop, “It is important for us to understand what is happening to her. Multiple sclerosis affects the central nervous system and there is as yet, no cure available for this disease. The more you deny her suffering from it, the greater her stress and worse the MS symptoms.”

Keerat fell silent, struggling with her mixed emotions. “Not many of our friends and family know about it Mum because I was myself uncertain as to what we were dealing with. But we are approaching decision point soon. I am afraid she may be slipping into depression. Her epileptic seizure last week shook her up real bad.”

“A fit, did you say a fit?” Keerat’s voice went up an octave.

“She was alone at home. Everything was fine when I left her for the airport. Some two hours later, she just keeled over. I cannot risk it again.”

The mother broke out of her stunned trance, “How can I help?”

“She is more than my wife, your daughter-in-law or Sunny’s mother Mum. She is a person, a very proud, self-respecting and right now, a deeply grieving person. She is gradually losing her independence and that is very painful. We have a very tough time ahead. Help me to help her.”

“Look up a service dog on that computer of yours. We should consider getting her a pet soon, trained to assist her with the daily chores,” Ajainb’s father had come in quietly and had been listening in with increasing concern.

Keerat sat up with a new sense of purpose, “A pet that could fetch her cell phone, open the door, switch off the lights or keep her company at night when she is in pain. You are so right, she needs her own team on this.”

 “That and an unconditional love,” Ajaib’s voice grew softer.

Isolation (Micro Fiction)

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“Lime pickle or ginger powder for tea? Which of the two should I leave out?”

Despite Air India’s generous baggage allowance on the Tokyo flight Sarita had agonized over the two after dealing with winter clothing, homeopathic medicines and Vicco Vajradanti toothpaste.

Her son was on a sponsored study course at the University of Tokyo. This trip had come up unexpectedly.  The family was to attend his graduation nearly six months away but they had received an official email from the Japanese government mentioning a cardio vascular affliction. “I will need more time to get clearances for international travel. You better go alone,” her husband had urged her. He had seen her off at the Indira Gandhi International Airport with words of encouragement and reassurance.

Sarita was not fooled. Her sixth sense was telling her to prepare herself but she calmed her restless mind during the flight with a looping recitation of the Gayatri Mantra. At the Narita airport, she scrutinized her son keenly as he busied himself with her baggage and the cab.

“Did you bring the gift for Sensei?” were his first words as he turned towards her in the car. She nodded briskly, her eyes drinking him in. The voice stuck in her throat, choked at the memory of her own panic attacks back home at the thought of him alone in a foreign land. She fought down an insane urge to run her hands over his limbs just to make sure he was whole. “I got an inlaid bangle box, thought your teacher would appreciate something traditional” she was finally able to put his mind at rest.

He was pleased, “Can we have her home for a meal soon? Her conversation classes have been a great help.” She patted his knee, swelling up with pride at his ease in this vending machine capital of the world while he pointed out the landmarks along the drive to his university. They were soon enough, removing their shoes at the door to his dorm.

The sun rose sharper in Tokyo. “Mum, be careful with the garbage, all right. Two separate canters come for the cans and the organic.” He had been full of stories about Sensei “I will walk Sayuri Sensei to the dorm from the Ebisu station, she is not familiar with this ward”, he had announced over the kitchen clatter during breakfast.

Sarita saw him off to school and busied herself with organizing his mini residence, “My poor baby does not get time to clean and cook.” And there was the happy anticipation of meeting someone mellow who had clearly been an anchor to her son.

Tokyo’s street lamps had come alive when the front door lock clicked open from outside with a key. Sarita watched curiously as an elongated young Japanese beauty undulated in, ahead of her blushing son. Several times during the polite evening, insecurity stabbed at her as she watched Sayuri’s serene melancholy fend off his smitten looks. He had clearly drawn great strength from her.  “Your son is a brave man. It can get very lonely here if you do not know the language,” Sayuri smiled at the mother, admiring the bangle box closely. “Yes, we got an official communication about his health,” Sarita’s voice was tentative.

There was the slightest hesitation before Sensei dived into her neat handbag to pull out a tightly folded sheet of paper. “I took him to a private clinic here before the school got wise to his condition” she held it out for Sarita.

Indeed, it was a medical prescription in her son’s name drawn up by one Dr. Tsuneo Takagi, Researcher and Social Isolation Expert, Roppongi Hills Clinic.

The words pierced her clouded vision as Sarita struggled to reconcile cardio vascular trouble with medical notes on social pain, expatriate loneliness, interaction therapy and depression.

A voice yawned in her head. It was her mother, “Don’t be so ambitious! Keep your children with you as long as you can, you are sending them too far away from home.” 

Horsepower (Micro Fiction)

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His habit of eating eraser in class was a cry for help.  It had taken Deborah months of work with the school counsellor to trace it back and resolve somewhat. Her heart sank at the thought of the nine year old out in the cold again; the school session was ending and he was graduating to a new and an unfamiliar teacher. She knew from experience that no amount of inter-class briefing could transfer the affectionate trust a teacher builds over time with a student.

An avid horsewoman, Debbie began her day with an invigorating ride astride ‘Touchwood’ her favourite horse in the school stables. And it was on these windy gallops that her students came to mind, challenging her to think of ways to help them best. She stood in the stirrups now, reining the horse in as the chestnut took the tree stump smoothly. The Ooty downs were poignant in their sleety silhouette at daybreak, her usual riding hour in the countryside. “Yash Gautam needed to open his heart to trust again; he needed a fresh line of communication” she followed the little child in her train of thought, guiding her horse over slippery slopes.

The Ooty Hunt Club was out at this hour, a moist earth having swallowed the sound of some eighty pairs of hooves. Debbie steered away from the Master of the Hunt, her gloved hands chafing at the straining reins and eyes stinging with images and the strong wind. There was Yash wringing his hands during assessment debriefs, “Papa talks to me only if I get A2 and above.” She lowered herself gently back into the saddle, rueful at the memory of him bouncing back from free play in the school grounds, “I am happy alone. Nobody likes me! I don’t like the games my friends play.”

Deborah had been proactive during the recent parent session. Her exchange with Yash’s parents nagged at her memory now. “I can’t help with his school work, no way. There is no time. And we cannot afford a maid. Yash sweeps, swabs, helps with the baby and massages my legs when I am tired,” his mother had disclosed in a soft voice. There had also been a mention of the father who equated parenting with a ‘no TV and three hour daily study’ rule.

Yash clearly needed help far beyond her own capacity as a busy teacher and coordinator. Who could heal and teach Yash respect, forgiveness, confidence, fair play? The child needed unconditional acceptance and the opportunity to lead. Debi slowed down as the stables came into view. Touchwood’s appreciative neigh at the thought perhaps of the customary carrot and jaggery treat brought a smile to the teacher’s pensive face. She patted the horse’s neck gently before dismounting with a strong toss of her dark hair at the stables driveway. She led her horse into the stall, gazing into his unafraid brown eyes and marvelling at his proud carriage. Her mind was made up!

Bright and early on the Investiture Day, it was an impatient wait for the Gautams. Barely giving them time to settle into their chairs, she resolutely pushed the Indemnity Bond made mandatory by the Horse Riding Club towards the father along with Yash’s scholar badge, “Sign this! I just found your son a lifelong role model and a teacher!”