Category: Stories

“Oh dear! I have forgotten to soak the urad dal again! It’s going to be another day of instant idli for breakfast”, I knew that Idlis and Instagram did not mix and my constant obsession over Instagram had led to this not- so-minor household incident which would draw howls of protest from the spouse and the offspring. They hated the ‘instant’ bits which had crept into life. Instant breakfast and meal mixes, instant noodles and quick fixes, instant loans of all kinds and the instant gratification brought about by posting a picture of everyday food on the internet, cunningly styled with an old tea-towel and a sprig of flowers and termed ‘vintage, home-made and slow cooked’. More often than not, I strongly suspected that the food in question had been ordered from the restaurant at the corner and passed off as their own by the denizens who formed the ‘kitty and cooking club’ in our housing society.

Pompously named ‘Sundar Bharat’, the complex boasted four buildings named after the four metros, Delhi, Mumbai, Kolkata and Chennai. There were rumors that Ekta developers who had built the complex had recently bought the adjacent plot of land and Bharat would soon be home to Bangalore and Hyderabad as well. It was lucky that the residents were not sorted according to their home states. And many people were left rather confused when they stepped into the lift in Kolkata only to be greeted by several people arguing volubly in Gujarati. The complex lived up to its name though, most of the denizens got along well, all festivals were celebrated with gusto and a general spirit of bonhomie prevailed most of the times.

I normally thanked my stars ten times a day to be living in such a place. It could only be described as a haven by someone like me, who had migrated here from Mysore after marriage. My small- town sensibilities had been overwhelmed in the early days, but now after eighteen years, I liked to think that I was handling Mumbai life like a pro. From haggling with the fisher-woman to handling the raddiwala with his crooked teeth and even more crooked weighing scale to nipping on and off the local trains, bawling toddler in tow, I had done it all. But, old feelings, like old habits die hard. Whenever I was confronted with something new, I could not but help feel a little blue. Change did not come that well to me and I just HAD to put my foot in it a couple of times, before embracing it wholeheartedly. This was especially true when it came to any form of technology. We were oil and water, technology and I. We did not mix.

Technology was my Nemesis. A fact which was bandied about with much relish in the family. It brought a rueful shake of the head and a wry smile on the spouse’s lips. The offspring offered a deep eyeroll or the know-it-all smirk. In fact, the smirk which I saw on her lips when I had just finished a complex piece of copy-pasting and uploading after much sweating and swearing made me want to wipe it off with a well- placed smack on the head, but the fact that she was seventeen and much taller than me, made me think ten times before putting any silly plans into ill warranted action.

I was the queen of the email and the SMS. I handled WhatsApp and Facebook with the ease of an old pro, but alas, every time I finally conquered a bit of tech, the good folks of that far away haven, the inviting and infamous Silicon Valley made sure to come up with something touted to be even newer and faster and of course better. I felt like a mountaineer who had hoisted herself gasping and sweating up the sheer face of an impossibly tall peak hoping to find herself on at least the shoulder of the mountain, only to find herself nestled at its knee, with a long trudge looming ahead.

It did not help that my mother was better at technology than I was. She was much more comfortable chatting to my daughter about ‘pinging’ the necessary people, ‘DM’ing them (it took me a while to even learn the lingo. I thought DM meant Deputy Manager for ages), and bandying words like scanning documents and sending PDFs and JPEGs. Her status was updated regularly. Mine had been the same since the advent of WhatsApp.

The latest blots on my horizon were ‘Insta’ and ‘Snap’. They made me long to instantly snap at people, especially the ladies of my cooking club, who had formed a group on Instagram. ‘Sassy Serves’, they called it. In the good old days, we had gathered at each other’s houses once every two weeks and sampled the offering of whoever happened to be hosting. But the pandemic had put a spanner in our well-oiled works. Now, we were only allowed to virtually slurp at everything yummy from the safe confines of our homes. In the early days of the pandemic, it had been a WhatsApp group with a Zoom meeting to stay connected, but of late, Lata who just had to muscle her way into everything and become king or should we say queen-pin of the whole operation (and who was a tech-whiz, by the way) had discovered the joys of filters and open groups provided by Instagram. Needless to say, the whole group had ‘Instantly’ upgraded. My feeble protests about the lockdown being lifted so that we could now actually meet face-to-face had died an untimely death in the knell of the “Dahling! It’s the new normal!” which all the good ladies had trilled in unison. Sheer laziness I called it.

I jabbed a few buttons listlessly now and then, but to no avail. I only succeeded in ‘liking’ the offerings of others through the offspring’s account, a fact she was not amused by. “You will embarrass me! I have two hundred followers and now, thanks to you, they think I am a member of the ‘Aunty Cooking Club’. How uncool is that!”. I think it was this imminent threat of appearing ‘uncool’ that she took the time to start me off on my own Instagram journey, armed with an account which went by the ‘hip’ name of ‘Gourmet Goddess’. I cooked biryani for her immediately. That was how it was, quid pro quo. She had also thrown in a picture of my grandmother’s old brass spice holder in the starter kit of my first Instagram story. I could hardly believe the picture when I saw it. “In your face, Lata!” was how I described my day.

A couple of days passed in a happy haze. Since I had begun to follow the ‘Sassy Severs’, they followed me right back. As a group and as individuals. By the end of a few eventful days, I had garnered sixty followers, thanks to my spicy Granny or rather my Granny’s spice box. But euphoria was soon followed by gloom. I had an account no doubt, but was yet to master the art of clicking, filtering and posting the pictures of my culinary capers. The offspring had been very clear about  it in  the ‘post or get lost’ part of her lecture. “You have to post regularly if you want to be popular, or people will unfollow you quickly”, she had said ominously. But that had not been the end of it. “Keep it simple until you get the proper hang of it. Remember, a picture is worth a thousand words. DO NOT post anything which will make me regret letting you near Insta!”.

A couple of weeks passed in the happy haze of posting regular pictures. The crème brulee garnered quite a few likes as did the modaks and rabri. My salad bowl looked delectable as did the rava dosa and Mysore bondas.  Gourmet Goddess had been quick off the mark. But soon, I was chafing at my pedestrian postings, especially because Lata had upped the ante. She was posting collages of five course meals with quirky captions and head shots of herself. I was sure people drooled more over her perfectly coiffed hair and beautifully manicured nails as much as they did over her culinary offerings. I began to pester the offspring to teach me to make collages and she did, if only to get me off her back. “I think you have got the basics, but remember the golden rule, LOOK BEFORE YOU POST”, she said, before turning away firmly and shutting herself up with her books. Her exams were approaching.

It was this sudden frenzy of collage making which made me forget the urad dal soaking and the curd setting and several other things besides. The spouse and the offspring braced themselves for a spell of turbulent weather because they knew that I would not rest until I got the collage bug out of my system.

It was a wonderful morning. My recipe for oats dosa paired with a delectably hot red chili chutney had turned out perfectly. All that remained was the collage. I picked out a generic picture of pouty lips painted fire engine red and took a few quick pics of the blood-red chutney in a bone white ceramic bowl. A couple of red chilies alongside, the dosa on a matching plate, all arranged on a bamboo table mat and voila! I was done. The filter made everything look like the offerings from a Michelin starred restaurant. I wrote out a caption. “Red hot and spicy! Chili chutney and oats dosa. The Gourmet Goddess offers spice and health!”. I made what I thought was my best collage yet.

I was soaring high as I posted it. Putting the phone away, I made up my mind to be become a cleansed person, no longer seeking ‘instagratification’ on Instagram. And I resolved not to touch my phone until evening. The first inkling of disaster came when the offspring actually called in the middle of the day to ask if I had taken leave of my senses. Never a good sign. “Check your Instagram account, and delete it immediately”, she said in sepulchral tones.

With trembling fingers, I opened my page to admire my handiwork. My collage, my proud creation which I had posted instantly looked back at me. The edges of the caption and the most important picture of all of the food had been cropped off as the offspring had warned. It now read, “Red, Hot and Spicy! The Gourmet Goddess offers Spice”, accompanied by a pair of pouty lips painted fire engine red.

And thus ended the brief romance of the ignoramus with Instagram. Ignonimously!

PART ONE

The predawn was evident only to those who looked for it. ‘JhunjuMunju’ according to the locals. A gradual lightening of the darkness in the east. Stars still dotted the sky, like little children reluctant to leave the playground. The only sound breaking the expectant hush was the mournful whistle of a freight train, winding its lonely way to some far- off destination. Busy, but alone. Rama Bai smiled to herself. She listened for that whistle each day. They were kindred spirits, the train and she. Busy hauling loads which benefited others more than themselves. To her ears, the whistle always seemed to carry a note of sympathy. A constant companion in a chameleon world.

She tried to ease herself into the familiar comfort of her morning rituals, but her wandering mind refused to obey. One phone call from a foreign phone-number was all that it had taken to for the dormant seed of hope to begin its sprouting in her robustly tired heart. Perhaps to be met with crushing disappointment. How many times had she seen it happen with the seeds she sowed on her lands? The good red earth, tilled and ready, a drenching few days of rain, the sowing and the hope. And then, nothing but the interminable wait for the rest of the nourishing showers, empty eyes turned to the gradually emptying sky as the clouds were driven away by a wayward wind, bent on mischief. Accompanied by a gradual shriveling of the hardy seed, as it gave up its futile efforts with an inward gasping sigh. The human heart was no different.

Her blood, it seemed had not thinned as much as she would have liked despite the daily dose of aspirin, thanks to her little ‘heart episode’, she thought wryly. It still answered the call of its own. Hope always sprang eternal whenever she heard from Raghav’s family.Anand would be angry when he heard about it. But if she had no choice, neither did he. Raghav had never been meant for them. He was like the sun, too big to be contained in a lamp. Meant to light everything by his brilliance. Belonging to everybody and yet, nobody.

He had left for school at the district headquarters at the age of eight, the village school-master insisting that he knew more than the teachers who taught at the taluka high school. From then on, there had been no looking back. A scholarship to Bangalore and then one to Germany. It had been something of a relief when he had finally settled in Hamburg. It had become increasingly difficult for her to pronounce the names of the various places where he had lived, when questioned by pesky relatives. Various branches of the clan had turned pea green with envy at his success. Fueled by sugary cups of tea well laced with gossip, the glee with which they spoke of Helga, the ‘foren- gori’, whom Raghav had married,were a mirror of their narrow minds, long conditioned byprovincial living which was the hall mark of rural Indiain the 60s and 70s.

Raghav insisted on visiting her every year. Helga had initially visited every three years or so. One of the happiest times had been when they had first brought Gautami along as a four-month baby. However, with the passing of Achyut Rao, the patriarch, her husband, there had been a gradual drifting apart. Two sons and two daughters, thought Rama Bai, but now, it felt as if the village folk were more her family. The recent pandemic had not helped. Travel bans, lockdowns, isolation, her aging eyes looked at everything with an equanimity born of need, but nurtured by desperate resilience.

 With a start, she looked at the light creeping into her room. She seemed to be losing herself in her thoughts, more and more frequently.Now that dawn had broken, the garden which stretched behind the mansion, was a riot of pink and white, most of the rose bushes in full bloom. Her farmhands were already at work in the distant corner of the half acre garden, expertly plucking the roses with both hands, tossing them into baskets tied to their backs. They would be made into the Gulab Jal and Attar for which the tiny hamlet of Balewadi was famous. The scent of the attar had spread far and wide from her home to all over the district and then the state. She wished that it would mask the whiff of soured relations within the little world of her family.

PART TWO

Rama Bai’s life and soul now lay in her beloved garden and the thirty odd acres of farmland which lay just beyond. Red earth, clear streams and the deep blue of the sky. This had been her world for as long as she could remember. The Inamdars of Balewadi were an old family, having lived in this rural corner of Belagavi district of North Karnataka since the days of the Adil Shahi of Bijapur. Generations of them had farmed the land, the rich red of the earth perhaps leaching its color into their blood. They were one of the few families in the district whose lands had not dissipated due to dissolute generations. If anything, they had only added more acreage to it.

Rama Bai had been married into the family at sixteen.  Since arriving as a young bride, dressed in the traditional nine- yard Paithani sari, from the neighboring village of Rayankot, she had known no other home. Seven decades had flown past. And now, though she was in her mid-eighties, even the mere idea of moving to Belagavi, the district headquarters had not crossed her strong mind. When her time came, she wanted her ashes to mingle with soil of her fields. She had decided thatred and gray, a novel combination which had worked very well for theKasuti embroidery of the women’s co-operative which she had established and led, should work for her too.

Ramakka, as she was popularly known in the village was a force to be reckoned with. She was the de facto matriarch of not just her clan, but of the entire village. Dressed in her cotton nine- yard sari, with a long- sleeved blouse, shod in Kolhapuri Chappals, her steel gray hair tied in a bun, she had only recently taken to carrying a wooden stick to help her on her peregrinations into her lands and beyond. The sharp brown eyes which glinted through the steel rimmed glasses, gave a glimpse into a deep, thoughtful and tenacious mind. A mind which feared nothing, from calling a spade a spade in family tiffs, settling the petty quarrels among her perpetually squabbling farmhands, to dealing with the rambunctious local politicians who were the ‘new elite’ and learning to adapt seamlessly to a huge house which gradually went from overflowing with people to a lonely emptiness. Hers was a life sans expectation.

Hers were also the heart and hands which helped in cash and in kind. Hers was the household which completely non critical, bore no one any grudge, where many a destitute loitering around the back-door could hope for a simple meal and a spare piece of cloth. In her younger days, she had been known to work shoulder to shoulder with the village women. Panchayats, headmen and government regimes had all come and gone like the falling rain. But Ramakka had weathered them all. Despite the twin scandals of one of her sons’ wedding a ‘Mem’, and one of her sons-in-law being a notorious drunk,thus being the constant butt of ridicule and speculation.

Her ‘Wada’ as the ancestral house was called had been modernized of late, complete with ensuite bathrooms, aircon and a modern kitchen, but her ‘majghar’ as the reception room was called still hosted the Ganapati for one and a half days in the month of Bhadrapad. Times had changed in the world beyond, but Ramakka remained what she had always been, a safe harbor for human ships sailing in the storm- tossed seas of life, a living memory of a gentler era, a person who still lived by ‘the old code’.

PART THREE

Tamipushed back the blue fringe of hair from her eyes before settling her sunglasses on them. Boy, was she dying for a smoke! Blast these Indian airports, which changed the luggage carousels at the drop of a hat. She had just managed to leg it to Belt Ten from Belt Two at the other end of the arrival hall, and could feel the rivulets of sweat trickling down her neck to her back. The thin vest top was already clinging to her lithe form. She sensed, rather than saw people leering, something she was used to.

Five feet six inches of litheness, choppy deep auburn hair with a bright blue fringe, startlingly vibrant green eyes, milky skin with a dusting of freckles on the high cheek bones, dressed in a cream vest and teeny belted shorts, a denim jacket hanging carelessly off one shoulder, she tried to fight her way through the throng clustered around the carousel which had jerked to life and was disgorging bags with irregular clangs. With a single disgusted backward glance, she brought down the three- inch heel of her black knee -high boot on the foot attached to the same torso, whose large hammy hand had been trying to land on her shoulder or perhaps further down, causing a muffled yelp as the would-be molester staggered away as quickly as possible, giving her a convenient spot next to the carousel.

Smiling grimly, she started to scan the bags. She needed her green suitcase. The basic outline of her paper and the approval letter for a case study in the Indian rural community of Balewadi, which she had wrangled after interminable correspondence with the Indian Embassy in Germany, were tucked safely in her ruck sack.But the suitcase carried various other paraphernalia like her video recorder, translator and Dictaphone. The Gods must have been looking out for her,for her suitcase arrived in record time.

Heading out of the terminal, the muggy heat of the Mumbai night hit her like a physical force. Eyes scanning the chauffeurs clustering around the barriers, she lit her cigarette and inhaled deeply, allowing the smoke to pervade her lungs. With a wry twist to her mouth, she knew that she needed the smoke to keep her going in the humid stench of sweat which was making her gag. That was when she spotted him, a mouse of a man, bearing a tattered piece of cardboard with GotamiImnadar scrawled on it in black marker pen.

Tami gave an inward cheer at being vindicated. Talking to Dad about her aunt Mandakini’s mean mindedness had been like talking to a brick wall. Her aunt’s snide remarks about her dressing sense, her manners and her morals had almost made her flee home when shehad visited Hamburg three years ago, amid much fan-fare. She had been the only one of Dad’s family who had come to visit them. Well, thought Tami sardonically, if the rest of the clan were anything like her self- righteous aunt, they were better off staying in India. “Just look at the guy who has come to pick me up!”, she thought. “Looks like he needs help with the suitcase”.

What she did not know was that her aunt had sent her most trusted chauffeur to pick her niece up. She would have come herself, but having fallen in the bathroom a couple of days ago, she had suffered a severe sprain to her ankle and had been advised to rest the limb for at least ten days. Mandakini was a widow, and her twin daughters who were married, lived in Hyderabad and Bangalore. She was devoted to Raghav and wished that she had been more open minded when she visited Hamburg. But, being a conservative person, she was afraid that she had come across as a crochety, judgmental crone to her niece. She regretted looking at the girl, who, to all intents and purposes was German, through an Indian lens and a myopic one at that, and wanted to make amends.

As Manohar drove off smoothly with Tami safely in the back-seat after he had wrestled her giant bag into the boot with surprising ease, Tami leaned back and allowed herself to drift with the smoke rings from her cigarette. It had all been because of a bad grade in a single subject, Human Rights and Gender Studies,that had been her undoing and made her traipse all the way to India. Oh yes, her roots were half-Indian, but she could no longer relate to them. All that remained were half forgotten memories of childhood visits, and the weekly phone calls to her grand-mother which Dad had made her participate in until she left home for university. She had never really felt a sense of belonging or familiarity, though. While Dad’s tales of growing up in the village had initially carried a certain charm, they later seemed provincial, prejudiced and suffocating. Brought up in the now described as ‘woke’ environment, Tami had been gradually distancing herself from the Indian part of her legacy. Her shortened name was proof enough.

She had initially wanted to complete her graduate paper in one of the Scandi countries, Denmark being her first choice. But a bit too much of horsing around, with the pandemic following swiftly on its heels had put paid to her plans. Professor Hahn had none of the customary twinkle in her eyes when she addressed her brilliant but falling-behind-the-times student, with an alien sternness. Her paper HAD to be unusual and only then would she be allowed to keep her place in the current program. The unsaid ‘or else’ had a sinister undertone. It would mean dropping out of the master’s program indefinitely until another place became available. “So not an option”, thought Tami grimly. Dad would never say “I told you so”, he was much too gentlemanly and too fond of her for that, but she would fall short of her own expectations. And that mattered a lot. And thus, this trip.

What better place than India to study gender and social differences with its deeply entrenched caste system and rampant inequality? And given the current regime with its strange notions of nationality based on an ancient religion of all things, this paper would be a breeze. She knew she would return triumphant in a couple of months, with all the necessary images of inequality which kept the aspirational East in its place and championed the cause of freedom so beloved by the West, which was still hung over on colonialism.And then, Professor Hahn would send a recommendation to Cambridge. That was where she had wanted to be her entire life. Well, she would write the best paper she could on the murky underbelly of an aspirational society. What better setting than a village where her mother had been laughed at and called names for wearing pants?

As the car drove up to the surprisingly beautiful and lush environs of her aunt’s gated community, Tami decided to stub out the half-smoked cigarette which she had lit only minutes before. She hated groveling, but as of now, discretion was definitely the better part of valor. Her aunt was the only person whom she felt she knew vaguely. Her grand-mother was a hazy memory at worst and a disembodied voice at best. She needed someone who could show her the ropes as she tried to complete her paper in record time. She had no intention of staying in this god-forsaken country, especially in the back of beyond for even a single minute more than absolutely necessary.

As she travelled up in the lift which led to her aunt’s penthouse, she felt a little shiver of some unknown emotion. Too many gaps, generational, behavioral and cultural, separated her and her foreign upbringing from half her roots.

PART FOUR

Ramakka half- heartedly supervised the women who were soaking the rose petals in cold water. Normally, she would have picked random samples of flowers from the heaps scattered around, peered beadily at the sorted roses to make sure that no pests lurked anywhere and tested the temperature of the large vats of water in which the flowers were to be soaked. Ever since her perfumery had been granted the ‘Inamdar Attar’ trademark, she had gone great lengths to ensure that the perfumes of her making were always of the highest possible standards.

Before the advent of the pandemic, she had been toying with the idea of patenting her perfume-making and packaging process with Raghav’s help. He was a great one for innovations and would have ensured that her special techniques and the secret ingredient which she added to the vats before distillation were recognized far and wide. Well, if that was not to be, she would be satisfied with her trademark status. It was not of any particular importance to her, but helped the women whom she employed, as the ‘branded’ perfume fetched more revenue and made their lives that much easier. It meant the higher education of a child for one, a much -needed surgery on a husband for a second, and a way to repair the sagging house for yet some-one else.

But today, everyone could sense the tension in the atmosphere. A few of the women wondered about it. They had heard that GautamiAkka, the daughter of Raghav Anna and the ‘Mem’was coming to stay for a few weeks. Surely, it was a time to rejoice? Ramakka should have been in the kitchen, preparing her famous ‘holgi’ or ‘puran-poli’ (flat bread with a delectable Bengal-gram and jaggery stuffing) instead of pottering nervously among them. They sensed that their beloved matriarch was worried about something, but knew better than to ask.Ramakka might have been beloved by all, but she knew how to set boundaries, which seemingly non-existent to a novice at first glance were only too apparent to those who had worked with her for years.They decided to bide their time until the much- awaited visitor arrived.

Tami sat hunched in the front seat of the Nexon. The mid-morning flight from Mumbai had been brief and pleasant, but things had been going steadily downhill, ever since she landed at Sambra Airport, to be met by her Uncle Anand. If she thought her Aunt Mandakini to be a typical orthodox, provincial Indian, Uncle Anand took it to a whole different level. Clad in a loose Kurta and Pajama, he sported what looked like three horizontal lines of white ash on his forehead. Around his neck, hung several necklaces, made of something resembling shriveled brown seeds,as well as a long length of yarn, folded several times on itself. Hairy toes peeped out of thick brown sandals. To make up for his balding head, he sported a bushy mustache and a thick beard, both sprinkled liberally with gray. He gave off hostile vibes like other people did after-shave.

Grunting in response to her wary greeting, he led her to the parking lot and gestured her towards the car. As they slid out smoothly,Tami peered around her, partly in surprise and partly in disdain. Hitting a spot of bad traffic at the exit leading to the highway brought about what seemed like a fluent stream of cursing from her dour uncle. For once, the normally flippant and irreverent Tami was at a loss for words. Dad had certainly not been exaggerating when he had described his brother as ‘different’.

She had dressed rather conservatively today, a half -sleeved linen shirt in pale green, loose black linen pants and loafers. The blue fringe was the only reminder of the hip young thing who had arrived in Mumbai yesterday. Perhaps it was because she was meeting her grand-mother after a long time, perhaps because she had to win the co-operation of these people, or perhaps because she did not want to hurt her father’s still-Indian sensibilities.

Her good resolutions were severely put to the test during the drive to her grand-mother’s home. Her uncle offered nothing by way of conversation and her attempts had been rebuffed either by a frown, or the now familiar grunting. She sighed and closed her eyes. Two could play at this game, she decided. If her uncle could go without conversation for a couple of hours, she could easily go a couple of weeks. She could make him her first case study in Indian Misogyny. Thanking God that she wouldn’t have to suffer his company for long, she leant her long frame back in the seat and gave in to black thoughts.

Why did these people have to be so judgmental when it came to dress, habits and behavior?  What freedom existed in society if everyone was expected to follow strict norms? What would her grandmother have to say about her? Would she freak out if she ever heard of Michael with whom she had been in an on-off relationship since the last three years? And most importantly, how on earth was she going to smoke or down the occasional bottle of beer which kept her going on a hot summer evening? These few weeks at her grandmothers were going to test her resilience more than any of her beloved endurance hikes in the Alps ever had.

She opened her eyes with a start to the sound of tires screeching over gravel and the sudden slamming of brakes. They had drawn up in front of a two- story building with a small front garden comprising of a few rose and holy basil bushes, with a swing in a corner. Three stone steps led up to a heavy wooden door studded with menacing looking spikes. Built entirely of grayish-black stone, the front had tiny slits of windows. A balcony ran around the entire upper story,roofed with red tiles. Two tall May-flower trees stood like sentinels at either end.

But Tami’s attention was riveted on the small, squat figure clad in a traditional sari, who stood on the top step,her face a mixture of emotions: love, hope, joy and a bit of wariness. She had finally arrived. Where? She wondered cynically. Not home, definitely. But at least where she traced half of her ancestry to.

PART FIVE

Tami walked sullenly along the narrow path which led into the fields lying beyond the stream. A crude stone bridge was built across the thin trickle of muddy brown water which navigated the sandbanks with difficulty. She could sympathize, she thought, as she gazed at the sluggish rivulet moodily. Her struggles to get ahead seemed reflected by the water. A lot of effort, but not much headway.

Chucking a pebble into the rivulet, she reflected on the week ‘that hadn’t been’, to her liking at all. With almost no progress to show on her paper, she wondered whether her decision had been wrong after all. Her first and most important limitation, had of course been language. If her heavily accented English did not do much for her cause, the smattering of Marathi which she picked up from Dad and which she had desperately tried to polish, did even less. It was difficult to communicate with her grand-mother, let alone the other women.

‘Aaji’ as the old lady had insisted, she be called, could thankfully speak in English. It was the type of prim and proper English that was probably spoken in Victorian England, but that was how Ramakka had been taught by her Anglo-Indian governess, making her an object of curiosity inRayankot, the village where she was born. Ramakka’s progressive uncle, who had been a revolutionary of sorts had made sure that his niece was as well- educated as his sons, at least until she finished her ‘matriculation’, before Ramakka’smother put her foot down and insisted on matrimony. And thus, Ramakka was proficient in reading and writing English, if a tad old-fashioned and rusty while speaking it.

Aaji had been only too happy to set up interviews with the women who worked with her in her small cottage industry of producing perfume or ‘attar’ from roses. She had even explained the complexities of the ‘village co-operative’ that she had formed, which helped the women supplement the otherwise meagre incomes which their families earned. Tami had been given chapter and verse on the finer nuances of ‘attar’ making and even been introduced to the art of ‘kasuti’, the famous embroidery of North Karnataka, which was another of her grandmother’s pet projects. This art fascinated Tami, the vibrant colors, the intricate designs and the dexterity of the women as their needles flashed in and out. It was more than art: it was a sort of meditation.

It was not the apparent lack of communication nor the cultural and generational gaps, thought Tami to herself. It was the element of surprise which had taken her unawares. She had expected a village of docile women, working quietly in the fields or on her grandmother’s lands, subservient to the men, victimized to a large extent. She had frankly expected to find a case of domestic violence here, some dowry harassment there, or a woman abandoned by a philandering husband at the very least, within the first few hours of her arrival.

What she had not expected was a thriving community in which the women ruled the roost and looked up to a matriarch, Ramakka. For the past few days, Tami had seen them walk in confidently in the morning, chattering about everything under the sun, clad in clothing which could be described as eclectic at best, from nine-yard sarees to salwar -kurtas and jeans! During the afternoon lunch breaks, the animated conversations became truly informative and entertaining, ranging from the popular movie of the week, coaching classes for children, the benefits of the new saving schemes introduced for the girl child, politics, and the best way to thwack a man backonto the teetotaler wagonif he showed any signs of falling off.

 The village had a male headman, a ‘Sarpanch’ as he was called, but ironically, he was often to be found sitting abjectly in Ramakka’s verandah, seeking advice for some issues in the village, wandering cattle, petty quarrels over the use of the water from the tank and the like. Tami had been taken aback by the sheer respect her grandmother commanded. A niggling doubt whether the status of women in rural India was really as unequal as was touted in the West began to gnaw at the back of her mind.When she had arrived, she was sure that she would quickly write on the rampant discrepancies existing in rural Indian communities, especially based on gender and caste. But now, she could no longer trust herself to do it. Professor Hahn had hinted that anything which highlighted human right infringement in the Indian setup would be lauded and a spot for a doctoral thesis at Cambridge would be hers for the taking.

What was it then which stood between her and ambition? Tami had tried for long to deny the unexpected kinship she strangely felt with the village in general and her grandmother in particular, which until now had prevented her from fudging any data or falsifying information. She also realized that Aaji held such sway over the hearts of her people, that she,Tami, would have been summarily chased from the village by the disgruntled villagers should they get even a whiff of her intentions to show their matriarch or her beloved village in bad light. AuntMandakini had warned her as much. Ergo, her irritability.

Perhaps, she needed to approach the problem from another angle. There was sure to be a discrepancy in the wages that the men and women were paid. This had been a norm since the Industrial Revolution and even women in the West had begun breaking the glass ceiling only recently. Surely, she could dig out some data there? Oh, and she had completely forgotten the caste issue, which would definitely surface in a small rural community. She would be sure to find a lower caste family who had had to settle at the fringes of the village and was perhaps ostracized by the upper castes. She could write about this and calm her disquiet. Eating her cake and having it too! Feeling more cheerful at this prospect, she walked on towards the sea of waving green fronds of millets which were the main crop growing in her grandmother’s lands.

She stopped short as she saw her grandmother standing still amid the waving crops. Was it her imagination or did she appear slightly stooped and more wizened than just a few days ago?  As Tami watched, she was shocked to see Ramakka’s shoulders heaving in what seemed unmistakably like sobs. She felt a creeping sense of shame for spying on what was probably a private moment for her grandmother and for what she was supposed to do. For a moment, she felt torn between wanting to rush forward and put a comforting arm around the shaking shoulders and staying quite still where she was, half-hidden in the greenery.

Almost as if sensing her presence, Ramakka squared her shoulders, turned imperiously and beckoned her forward. She pointed into the distance with her walking stick, “See all that land, right up to the small hill beyond? Well, it’s ours. Yours too, since you are a part of Raghav who is a part of all this, whether he likes it or not”. Tami nodded. Perhaps it was because she had just seen Ramakka at her most vulnerable, just a few moments ago that she added, “Dad misses you more than he cares to acknowledge. But you must understand, his work in physics is his life. He tries to bridge both his worlds, but it is not always easy. Mom and I don’t really understand your….I mean these ways, we are not used to it. It is not that we don’t mean to visit or keep in touch, but it is difficult. Dealing with a group of people who look at us as ‘different’, make us feel different.”

Ramakka listened without interruption. “Raghav probably felt like this too, you know,” she said quietly, making the blood rush to Tami’s cheeks. She suddenly realized that she had never asked Dad about whether he had felt out of place when he first arrived in Germany, or still did. She had just assumed that he had been happy to escape the third world, and had taken to a better country, like a fish to water. She remembered the wistfulness in his voice when he told her about his childhood and the hopeful look in his eyes whenever she spoke to her grandmother in her broken Marathi. She remembered the times when he sat in his study in the dark, listening to Indian folk songs and the way his eyes gleamed when they dined with Indian friends.

Ramakka reached up and patted the fair cheek tentatively, with her soft, wizened hand. Her brash, devil-may-care granddaughter had inherited a part of her sensitive Raghav, after all. “Allhumans under the skin, want the same thing, acceptance and cherishing,”she thought to herself. “We all have to follow our paths. Follow them sincerely, and we will definitely get to where we intend to go. And if you do meet a way-farer trudging along, make sure to lighten his load without any expectations,if you can. It is what I have always tried to do. It keeps you happy”, she said. As they walked down the path together, Tami felt a rise in her spirits after ages. Had they both begun to build bridges? She was amazed at the sudden feeling of kinship she felt with this woman who had been all but a stranger until a few days ago. She toyed with the idea of disclosing her real agenda of unearthing inequality and what she was supposed to say in her paper to her grandmother.

Deciding against it at the moment, she resolved to enjoy this newfound bond for another few days before disclosing the truth, which her grandmother was sure to find unpalatable. Had the slower pace and the simple life begun to affect her too? She did not feel the need to gulp down her daily dose of cigarettes anymore, and only smoked one on occasion. And as for guzzling beer, the large pot of purplish pink ‘sol-kadhi’ (a cooler of kokum fruit and coconut milk spiced up with zingy green chilis and a garlic pod) seemed like a much better idea. ‘Sol Kadhi’, indeed!  Well, the name was appropriate for it seemed to have made inroads into her soul.

As the two of them made their way home in companionable silence, Tami’s heart sank at the familiar sight of the white Nexon parked near the house. Uncle Anand was back.

PART SIX

Tami’s eyes popped open all by themselves. A glance at her cell-phone showed that it was only five thirty in the morning. Of late, she had been waking up earlier and earlier. When in India, do as the Indians do, she thought wryly. Back home, mid-March meant just a slight lessening in the chill winds blowing off the North Sea. As for waking up this early and throwing off the bed-clothes? Forget it! She would have been huddled safely under the heavy down comforter before hitting the snooze button a dozen times. She was amazed at how quickly this place had started to feel like home. The food, the people, the colors, how in the world had they wormed their way into her heart? It was as if her blood answered the call of its own, of the soil. Or was she as fickle as water? Ready to change course at the slightest obstruction?

Jumping out of bed which was curtained by a gossamer light mosquito curtain, another quaint addition which she loved, she walked to the tall narrow window and flung open the rest of the heavy wooden shutter before leaning out over the carved balustrade. She loved the extensive use of wood in this old house. It reminded her of the cozy cottage in the Alps where she had spent quite a few summer holidays with her parents.

A couple of strident voices cut across the morning calm, instantly shattering the tranquility. Uncle Anand again! She was vexed. The man was like a charging bull, strewing mayhem all around, wherever he happened to be. Aaji came into view, back ramrod straight, gesturing angrily with her walking stick. She seemed to be giving her son a piece of her strong mind and he was in no mood to back off. For the hundredth time, Tami wished she had paid more attention to Dad’s Marathi lessons. This was uncle Anand’s fourth visit since her arrival, and the most acrimonious yet.

Tami wished that her grandmother would confide in her. But she was not naïve. A rift of many years could not be healed in a few days. She really could not expect her grandmother to tell her everything, when she herself had been the true Teuton, off-putting and taciturn initially. Aajiwas as proud as they come, and as independent as a cat. Tami instinctively knew that she would not tell her the cause of the constant altercations, for she recognized the intensely private nature of her grandmother’s thoughts. They were a reflection of her own. She had observed a pattern with Uncle Anand, though. He generally arrived in the evening, went into a huddle with Aaji with some account books in the study after dinner, slept soundly till dawn and left after a lot of acrimony the following morning, having partaken of a huge breakfast.

Dad had told her that he lived in Belagavi, the district headquarters, with his wife who was the principal of a local school. His only child, a son, was a major in the Indian Army and was currently posted in Guwahati, a city in the north-eastern state of Assam. He managed the sales and marketing of all ofAaji’s agricultural initiatives and had made a tidy profit over the years. If the pictures in the drawing room were to be believed, his home was a mansion, with gleaming marble, floor- to-ceiling windows and an infinity pool which could have graced the rooftop of any five- star hotel. Why was he in a perpetual snit, though? Tami sighed. It was another of those unfathomable family mysteries.

Not that she had much time for all this, because it wasslowly and surely running out for her. Another couple of weeks and if her paper was not submitted, it would meanquitting the university. It was time to come clean to her grandmother, and if her theme was impossible here, it was time to up sticks and move on. There had been a vague email from Cambridge and she was still trying to fathom whether it was an offer or not. But she knew that this was certainly the end of a road. Even such vague offers may not be in the offing if she did not show willing and completed the paper exactly as they wanted it.

Perhaps she would never be able to establish the deep rapport she would have liked with Aaji, but her career was paramount. As she wandered aimlessly around the room, staring at the photos dotting the walls with unseeing eyes, her hand straying into her pocket for a cigarette to calm her frayed nerves, she was brought up short by a hand on her shoulder. Aajiagain! For a woman with such a commanding presence, the dear lady definitely had a way of creeping up and catching people unawares. It was time for breakfast.

The first thing mused Tami, as she took her seat, which had struck her about her grandmother was that everything about her was real, really, really real, without even a smidgen of artifice. The way she walked, talked, worked, dressed, even her admonishments were genuine and without guile or ulterior motive. She was a hard taskmaster, ruled everything with an iron fist and could be maddeningly pig-headed and dominant. But what you saw, was what you got. It was a welcome change for Tami, who dwelt mostly in a world of smoke and mirrors. Ever since she had moved to the University of Berlin, her life had changed beyond recognition. The constant exposure to overwhelming ambition, the unrelenting pace, the false facades everywhere and the need to get ahead at any cost, had begun to make a cynic of her. While meeting her grandmother had seemed like the last nail in the coffin of her woes at first, Aaji’s surprisingly liberal attitude and the way she had accepted her unquestioningly made Tami question the validity of thinking her judgmental, when she, Tami had been viewing everything with a prejudiced eye, conveniently covered up by the excuse of ‘a clash of cultures’.

Uncle Anand grumbled non-stop throughout what Tami thought was a rather trying meal and left soon after. Tami decided to go for one of her long walks to clear her head and decide whether today was the day to come clean to her grandmother.

PART SEVEN

Ramakka sat in her study, engrossed in her pile of mail. It was the usual stuff, things related to the perfumery, orders for the attar, seed and fertilizer catalogues, swatches of fabric for the Kasuti embroidery. One envelope however, stood out. It bore British stamps, was marked ‘Urgent’ and addressed to her. Who on earth could be writing to her from Great Britain of all places? she wondered as she deftly slit open the envelope with her ivory letter opener. She had swiftly scanned half of it, before realizing that the it was merely misaddressed and not meant for her after all. Hastily, she put it back, feeling guilty about getting a gist of the contents. She would give it to Tami as soon as she returned from her jaunt.

She glanced at the large framed photograph of her uncle on the study table. What would he feel if he knew that the freedom which had been his mission in life, and which he thought the country had won was being whittled away little by little? A wry smile played on her lips. Back in her youth, the struggle was clearly divided into white and black, literally. But now, though the players remained the same, the opponents had become experts at disambiguation. They now turned the children of India against their own. Well, this one, was more of a moral struggle, in which she could not participate. Her granddaughter would have to decide on her own.

Tami returned to the remarkable sight of a large SUV sporting a large red beacon on its roof, an Indian flag fluttering on the bonnet and official looking number-plates,as well as a jeep marked ‘Police’ parked in front of the house,with what looked like a couple of policemen on duty outside. What on earth was going on? Who was Aaji entertaining now? She crept in as quietly as possible, meaning to quickly check if all was well, before making herself scarce. She had finally succeeded in laying her devils to rest. Her ambition had triumphed and she decided to emphasize the woes of thefew disgruntled workers who claimed to get less wages, whom she had serendipitously managed to unearth, out of Aaji’s large workforce, that very morning.

Well, she had the basis for her paper. All that remained was to get the interviews and videos and write it up. She still felt torn, but strangely calm as well. Perhaps, she had gotten too emotionally involved in her roots. She had to grow, reach for the sky and if it meant transplanting herself and adapting to a new soil, so be it. This sojourn in India would remain what it was supposed to be, a happy memory of ‘living differently’. She really could not expect her grandmother, sixty-five years older than her, to become her best friend and understand her life.

The quiet murmuring from the drawing room suddenly escalated into loud voices, making her shudder. This, she reminded herself was the reason she needed to go back home. This kind of temperamental see-saw and in-your-face loudness on a daily basis, was too alien for her. Drawn to the fracas despite herself, she surreptitiously peeped in, to see a strange sight. A dark well-dressed woman, clutching her grandmother’s feet in a clear gesture of impassioned entreaty, while her grandmother attempted to soothe her and free herself at the same time. Alerted by her presence, the woman abruptly got to her feet.

Tami was astonished when she addressed her, “You must be Raghav’s daughter. All grown-up, I see. I am ShevantaDomban, the divisional commissioner of Belagavi division. The state government is launching a new training school for weavers at the taluka headquarters. We are all of the opinion that it will be a great privilege to have Ramakka inaugurate it. Can you manage to convince her? I have been trying for the past half an hour, but no amount of entreaty has worked so far. If you pull it off, we will be eternally grateful!” Tami stared in open-mouthed astonishment as the woman, who was clearly a powerful bureaucrat, touched her grandmother’s feet again before departing in a flurry of much saluting and bowing and scraping on the part of the policemen stationed outside the door.

The more she lived with her grandmother, the less she seemed to know her thought Tami. Who was her grandmother exactly? A reformist? A do-gooder? A humanitarian? Or an ordinary human, unnecessarily catapulted to a greatness which she did not deserve? Her thoughts were plagued by the image of the three laborers who had accosted her that morning, claiming that they had not been paid for the past two weeks because they belonged to lower castes. Should she ask her grandmother about them? Looking around, she saw that her grandmother had glided out of the room on silent feet, leaving her feeling more alone than before.

Ramakka had summoned Tami to her study. The girl had not set foot into this room ever since she had arrived. Not that Ramakka had expressly forbidden her to enter, but somehow, the occasion had never arisen. Ramakka had been quite preoccupied, first with the problem with a few of her laborers, then with Tami’s advent and then the situation with Anand, and Tami had never voluntarily sought to meet her there. All their interactions had been in the gardens and fields, in the kitchen and the perfumery, and in the drawing rooms and bedrooms. Never the study, which was still a private sanctuary for Ramakka.

When Tami entered, Ramakka noted that the sullen look which had gradually been fading was now back in Tami’s eyes. Heaving an inward sigh, she wondered what had gone wrong. She had been overjoyed with the gradual development of what seemed a genuine bond between her and this unknown, but well-loved granddaughter of hers. If there was a thing which Ramakka prided herself on, it was the bond she shared with her grandchildren, if not all her children. Tami had been the only one missing from the fold and when she had joined in, Ramakka had felt the satisfaction of a life well-lived.

But something had soured that morning. The arrival of the letter had made Ramakka muse about the futility of expecting Tami to accepther enough to confide in her. Wordlessly, she reached into her drawer and handed her the letter. “I opened it because it was wrongly addressed to me. My apologies”, if her formal tone surprised Tami, she did not let it show. It was the coveted letter from Cambridge, mentioning a place for a doctorate.So, Professor Hahn had sent the recommendation after all. But the condition which Professor Hahn had only mentioned, was put forth in rigid black-and-white. Nothing less than a paper on serious human rights infringement in India would suffice. It was signed by Dr. Ashok Sen, renowned the world over for championing the cause of the downtrodden in general, but those in India in particular. He was a much- touted professor of ‘Sociology in the Indian Culture’ and had written several papers on human rights infringement in India, many of which were controversial at best and suspect at worst.

Tami initially wilted under her grandmother’s steady unrelenting gaze. Aaji was no fool, and she must have understood why Tami had arrived here in the first place. Did she feel an overwhelming sense of betrayal? Or had she known from the start that Tami would never fully belong? That she must have had a sort of hidden agenda of her own? But really did it matter that much? Several Indians had done much worse. But if the true nature of Tami’s paper became public, what would happen to the Ramakka’s good name and the position she had built over all these years? As a social worker, as a person dedicated to the upliftment of her community, and as a patriotic Indian?

PART EIGHT

Tami stared back at her grandmother, unrepentantly. She knew what she had to do. Her grandmother could pose as much as she liked, but today Tami had discovered her feet of clay. Ramakka sighed. She had tried her best to keep Tami out of the politics which was now an integral part of any social upliftment program which was implemented in the village.

“If you want a position in Cambridge, you will have to meet their demands. You might wonder how I know so much about this, but I try to keep up with the latest in the field of education. Ever since Raghav went abroad, I have tried to know the latest and best fields to study and the best colleges too. Today, I am a successful businesswoman and agriculturist and able to try and help those who are less privileged because of my uncle’s vision.  If he would not have given me an education, I might have sold out after your grandfather’s passing and would have been just another senior citizen, whiling away her time, till time itself claimed her.”

“Do what you think is the best for your career. Write your paper. While I have tried to better the lot of my village, it may not be the case elsewhere. But I wish you would take into account that ours is a large, unwieldy nation which was in tatters for several years even after independence. That we have fought frank and proxy wars. That we are trying to correct the wrongs which exist in our society and that it is not an overnight process. I am sorry you feel like you don’t belong. I have tried to bridge the generation gap between you and me, but it is too wide for both of us, perhaps. Let this stay of yours remain a wonderful memory for the both of us. And, don’t feel guilty about choosing your path. I am glad we could knit at least a small gossamer thread of Kasuti between our hearts, if not more!” Ramakka stood up, indicating the conversation was over and swiftly left the room, leaving Tami more confused than ever.

Her wandering footsteps led her to the cooperative, where she knew the women would be at work with their Kasuti embroidery. The rhythm of their working and the repetitive action of the needle flashing in and out of the thread would probably soothe her. The finished design with its subtly elegant flamboyance, such a contrast! never ceased to amaze her.

When she went in however, she immediatelyfelt the lack of the usual camaraderie on the part of the women. Normally, they would try to crowd around, show her their designs and generally bask in ‘Akka’s’ approval. Today, they were dour and disapproving. Her arrival was met with nudges, surreptitious glances and frowns. With no one ready to address her, Tami wondered if they had somehow picked up on what she planned to write about their village, but quickly banished the thought. How could they know? Unless…Aaji had told them? Was she such an underhand person? Tami was surprised at the sudden swell of hurt within her.

As she turned to leave, she saw another figure lurking by the door.The bureaucrat was back again! Hadn’t she left ages ago? Why was she back? She was even more flummoxed when the lady addressed her, “Yes, I am back. Because, these women wanted to meet me. I am a daughter of this village too. Apparently, a few men abetted by a few unsavory elements have been trying to create trouble for the cooperative and for Ramakka. Threatening her with dire consequences if they are not paid more wages than their wives. I think these women saw them talking to you this morning. Kalappa, Doddanna and Kadir, am I right?”

Tami nodded. Shevanta continued, “Their wives Gauramma, Dakshayani and Sakina,” she paused to point out three women in the crowd, “believe that they are stirring up trouble. They accosted you about their pay, didn’t they?” without waiting for Tami’s reply, she barged on, “They are infamous for their notorious ways, drinking,womanizing and indulging in petty crime. That is why, Ramakka refuses to hand over their wages to them and gives them to their wives instead. Did you really think that she would discriminate on the basis of caste?”

Her harsh voice rang in Tami’s ears, but the woman was not done yet. “There is something else I have to tell you,”. Leading Tami outside, she continued, “My mother was a ‘Tamasgir’, a dancer of ill-repute in travelling shows, a glorified prostitute, if you will. I never knew my father. My mother died in this village, when the show was performing here for about a fortnight, when I was ten. I would have had no other option but to follow in my mother’s footsteps, if not for Ramakka. She found out about me through one of her servants, who frequented the show. I don’t know how she did it, but she brought me here, away from the hopeless life which I had resigned myself too. Her pretext was to hire me to work as a maid,but she enrolled me in and encouraged me to go to school.”

“When she realized that I was bright, she sent me to the high school at the taluka headquarters. I was in Anand’s class. Both of us appeared for the high school scholarship exam together. There was just the one spot for the whole taluka and I beat him by just one mark. But, because he was the son of a rich landowner, the headmaster thought of awarding it to him by fudging the marks and came to meet your grandparents. When Ramakka heard of what he wanted to do, she was livid. He tried to explain that I could apply under the backward caste category, but she would have none of it. I had won it fair and square and it was right fully mine, she said. Anand had to go without it.”

“Anand’s disappointment knew no bounds. He had boasted aboutwinning the scholarship much in advance. The ridicule he faced at school scarred him so much that he gradually lost interest in studying.  He never did as well as he could have. Having to settle with a mediocre degree from a mediocre college, he started to see this single episode as the beginning of his downfall. As it is, Raghav’s obvious brilliance meant that he was always second-best in his own family, in his own mind.” She smiled ruefully. “News travels quickly here. Nothing stays secret for long. I have heard that though he does all that he can for his mother, he still rakes up the lost scholarship on every visit and quarrels with her about it, even after all these years. You have probably witnessed it.”

She stepped forward and placed her hand on Tami’s shoulder. “I came to tell you all this, because you are clearly out of your depth. You have no experience in the politics of this village, making you an ideal pawn for certain disgruntled, unscrupulous people who want to get back at Ramakka through you, by swindling you for money with their sob-stories,or by provoking you into arguing with Ramakka on their behalf, causing unnecessary misunderstandings between you and her. It would push Ramakka deeper into her personal pool of loneliness, where she has lived for so many years now. And I don’t want that, because this is the first time in a long time, after Raghav’s departure, that I have seen her so happy, as if a void deep within her is being gradually filled”.

“A woman who can do so much for an unknown girl of doubtful lineage, who can stand the censure of society and her own family in her fight for justice cannot be the flagbearer of inequality and discrimination, can she?” A swift smile, and she left as quickly as she had come. Staring after her, Tami’s fickle, wavering mind finally knew what it had to do.

EPILOGUE

The good employees of Parfumerie Fragonard in Grasse, France were too polite to stare, but the pretty young twenty something in the chic gray shirt with the unusual red thread work, and the stately eighty something in Mon Dieu, was it a sari? were the most unusual visitors they had had in a long time. To his credit, the chief perfumer answered all their questions patiently. He was particularly taken by the old lady and the depth of her knowledge in the subject. Perhaps she distilled perfumes too?Their numerous questions satisfied at last, the duo stepped outside into the bracing autumn wind.

Rubbing her hands in unmistakable glee, Ramakka looked at Tami with a wicked glint in her eye, “Now that we have tackled the perfumery question, I wonder whether we should venture into the winery business too?”, she asked saucily, head cocked to one side. A wide grin lit up Tami’s face.

Later, as Tami gazed up at the star -lit sky from the little balcony of the hotel room which she shared with Aaji, she felt more content than she had felt in a long time. The decision of getting another degree in applied ecology and agriculture had been the best decision of her life. Life was too large and paradoxically too short to be hemmed in by narrow conventions and prejudices, she decided.

As she caressed the delicate kasuti embroidery of her tunic dress, she felt the weave grow strong under her finger-tips, weaving a bridge across generations and helping her straddle both her legacies. She felt a soft hand caressing her cheek in a now familiar gesture. As she met her Aaji’s eyes with a new understanding, she knew that they had both followed the road to each other’s hearts, the long road home….

---

As the convocation drew to a close, the candidates and their families began to make their way to the bucolic garden situated right next to the ceremonial hall, where tea and light refreshments had been laid out. Small throngs began to form, with much congratulating as light- hearted banter took the place of the rather staid speeches, which had marked the joyous though somewhat solemn occasion.

For many, it was a dream come true. The air was filled with a sense of accomplishment. Successfully completing a college degree was a redoubtable achievement. With many candidates from underprivileged backgrounds, it did not matter whether they had graduated, cleared post-graduation or surmounted the pinnacle, with a doctorate. With subjects ranging from medicine to mathematics and law to literature all under one roof, the babble of voices too was suitably diverse. The subtle gaiety in the air was perfectly reflected in the mellow winter evening, brightened by a low hanging crescent moon and soothed by the verdant surroundings which made it easy to forget that the university was situated in the very heart of a city and not in some sylvan haven.

Several people were looking forward to a change for the better in their circumstances. A degree meant newer, better paid jobs, a leg up in the world. It marked the end of an era and the ringing in of the new. A bird’s eye view of the university campus showed hope running rampant on careless feet that evening in these hallowed halls, normally known for their decorum.
*

Ira hurried home from the supermarket, a spring in her step. Anil had promised to come home early today. The past week had been absolutely frenetic for him, what with the officials from the head-office visiting, coupled with the looming deadline for an important corporate banking project. Life as senior analyst in Deutsche Bank was no walk in the park, but Anil seemed to thrive on it. The tighter the deadline, the bigger the project, the happier he was. A smile tugged at the corner of Ira’s mouth as she imagined him in the trademark crisp striped Van Heusen which she had got him as an anniversary gift knowing his partiality for the brand, a slight frown creasing his broad brow as he looked at something on his mobile.

Come to think of it, he had been far too busy of late. However, Ira usually enjoyed their quiet dinners together, paying scant heed to the late hour, reveling in the few precious moments of time when he was hers, all hers. With a pang she realized, that he no longer partook of the dinners with the same enthusiasm that he had earlier. The compliments, which had always been few and far between, seemed to have dried up completely of late. But she never let it show. The little time of his day that she could share meant too much to her, to be wasted on bickering and squabbling.

For a dreamer like her, his doctorate in statistics from the ISI (Indian Statistical Institute) seemed like the epitome of intelligence. She, who had neatly fitted the bill of ‘homely but educated’, as the matrimonial ad had specified. She had been overwhelmed when he had chosen her over ‘several other suitable girls who had been falling over themselves to marry my Anil’, if her mother-in-law Radha Ji, was to be believed. Though married to him only for a couple of years, he had become the center of her small world. No task was too onerous, no errand too difficult, no favor too large, if it meant a smile from him.

She honestly believed that her only purpose in life was to fit seamlessly into her new family, and gain their acceptance even if it meant bending backward to the point of breaking. And so, she did it all with a smile on her face, the endless chores of cooking, cleaning, shopping, organizing, driving. You name it, and ‘all-rounder Ira’ was there doing it, without a second thought. Her parents-in-law had already transformed into travelers, gallivanting on holidays leaving the home in her capable hands. A firm believer in the ‘a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach’, she tried her hand at and mastered all sorts of cuisines, so that an invitation to a dinner party at the Sinha home was a much coveted one in the offices of Deutsche Bank.

There had once been an Ira who was a passionate student of Hindi literature, who had gone on to do an M.A in the same. An Ira who was an ardent devotee of Goswami Tulsidas’s literature. An Ira who knew several dohas of the ‘Ramcharitmanas’ verbatim. An Ira who was influenced by the thought of the transformation of the householder ‘Ram-bola’ to a renowned poet-philosopher. An Ira, who had topped her college in Kanpur, an Ira whose thoughtful essay ‘Ratna-Mala’ had won the first prize at the state level in the ‘Hindi-Diwas’ competition. And an Ira, who deep down in her heart wanted to meet someone whose love could transform her.

But all that was in the past. She had no regrets because she believed that Anil had transformed her. Whenever she looked at herself in the mirror these days, all that she saw was the sindoor in the parting of her hair and the mangalsutra dangling from her neck. They were her identity now, an identity that she found satisfying and which she had embraced wholeheartedly. Yes, Ira of the present day reveled in being ‘Mrs. Ira Sinha’, secure in being the loving wife of Dr. Anil Sinha.

Humming to herself, she pushed open the front door. The drawing-room was just so, the orchids which she had ordered having arrived just before she left so that she was able to quickly arrange them in the Venetian vase to prevent them from wilting. The tuberoses arranged in another corner were already filling the air with their heady scent. Satisfied with what she saw, she made her way to her domain, the spacious kitchen with its black granite counter, breakfast island, Moroccan tiles and units and all types of shiny gadgets. Mentally working out the menu for the night, comprising of laal maas, jeera rice and home- made naan, she carefully opened the fridge to see if the Panna Cotta which she had made for dessert had set. A couple of hours later, satisfied with her culinary experiments, she adjourned to her bedroom.

Today’s dinner was both elaborate and precious as it was an impromptu celebration for their second wedding anniversary, which got lost in the storm of Anil’s work commitments of the past week. It was Friday. The week end was here and Ira meant to enjoy every minute. Sitting down in the rocking chair on her balcony, she rocked to and fro for a while. On a sudden whim, she made for her bedroom, to change the sheets for the new ones she had bought just the week before. It was while pulling them out of the linen cupboard that she came across her old black diary. It sat at the back of the shelf, neglected and forlorn, abandoned for the newer interests in her life.

Something about the diary beckoned and about half an hour later, Ira was re-reading the precious first draft of her prize- winning essay, ‘Ratna-Mala’. Although it seemed a lifetime ago, something tugged at her heart. Like a shy little kitten begging to be let indoors. Had she really changed so much that she could no longer put pen to paper even for a couple of hours every week? Surely, she could contribute to some publications? With these thoughts running through her mind, she looked at the clock and with a start realized that it was almost ten o clock. Why wasn’t Anil back yet? Would today be another broken promise too?

On an impulse, she called his mobile, something that she normally never did for fear of disturbing him in the middle of a meeting, preferring to message instead. He answered after a couple of rings. “I have an important con-call, which I can’t make from home”, he said rather abruptly. “You go ahead with dinner. I may eat something here, or will let you know when I get home. I will take another couple of hours at least. The call begins in half an hour”. Ira put the phone down, her face a picture of misery. Couldn’t he have called earlier and let her know at least?

Normally, her pillow would have been the mute recipient of her tears. But re-reading her diary had done something to her. Though the con-call was half an hour away, the office just ten minutes from home. Abruptly, she rushed into the kitchen and feverishly began to pack the food. She would surprise him at the office today. She would be like Goswami Tulsidas, who rowed across the Yamuna, swollen by the rains using a dead body as a float, just to meet his wife.

Before she could be beset by second thoughts, Ira got into the car and drove off. The night watchman on duty knew her because she had attended a couple of parties with Anil before. Before she knew it, she was standing in front of Anil’s office, trembling slightly in trepidation wondering at the kind of reception she would get. The tale of Tulsidas and his wife Ratnavali which had seemed so easy to follow while zooming off into the night, now seemed to carry sinister undertones thanks to the way it ended. How had she forgotten the pathos in it? She had never been this impulsive before.

She swung the door open without knocking so that she did not lose her nerve. The sight which greeted her would be emblazoned in her memory for years to come. Anil and his associate Kavya were locked in an embrace which did not leave much to the imagination. The basket of food fell from her suddenly nerveless fingers with a crash. It was a strange tableau, an abashed Anil, a truculent Kavya and a devastated Ira.

Slowly, silently, she shut the door and walked away, deaf to Anil calling her name, keen to put as much distance as possible between herself and him. The hallmark of her character, the quiet dignified way in which she conducted herself in any and all circumstances now stood her in good stead. Clutching its tattered shreds to herself, she walked out of Anil’s life forever without a single backward glance. The road was long and the wind was cold, but like the old and infirm minstrel, she walked on doggedly, until she was swallowed by the shadows.

**
“May I congratulate you on your brilliant thesis on the early life of Goswami Tulsidas, Ratnavali ji?”, Professor Varma of the Atal Bihar Vajpayee Hindi Vishwavidyalaya, Bhopal hurried up to the reclusive figure standing by herself on the fringes of the hubbub at the high tea following the convocation. “What a novel interpretation of his wife’s thoughts and words which caused such a transformation in him! And what a coincidence that you are called Ratnavali Bharadwaj, just like his wife whose name as you of course know was Ratnavali and whose gotra was Bharadwaj! Fact is stranger than fiction! Ha, ha, ha”, the professor was clearly amused at his own joke. “May I also add that I look forward to welcoming you as an esteemed colleague next month? It goes without saying that our department, not to speak of our students will benefit greatly due to your ideas!”

Dr. Ratnavali Bharadwaj who had just been awarded her doctorate looked up at the clear sky. It was for her thesis on the transformation of Goswami Tulsidas. Her own was now complete. She could see the sea change all around her, best exemplified by the new moon of yesterday transforming to the crescent of today.

Yes, this transformation had not been easy, but like in the story, if Ram-bola, the besotted householder could become Goswami Tulsidas the ascetic, because of the chiding words of his wife, it was only fitting that Ira Sinha, the author of the essay ‘Ratna-Mala’ which talked about the great poet-philosopher and his wife, should become Dr. Ratnavali Bharadwaj, his modern- day female counterpart because of the actions of her husband.
The chrysalis had broken open and the caterpillar soared out as a butterfly. A difficult transformation had been rewarded by bliss, like the saint before her.

Nisha woke with a start and turned off the alarm before its shrill trill could shatter the peace of the dawn. The eastern sky was already a palette of smudged mauves, pale pinks and orange. The morning star twinkled and winked tantalizingly on the horizon. The air carried just the hint of a chill. Dawn came earlier these days as the bone chilling cold of winter gradually gave way to spring. Pulling her hair into a knot, she quietly got out of bed, careful not to disturb Riya, who lay curled up, hugging her soft- toy giraffe with her thin little arms. A stray curl lay on her smooth forehead, her small face a picture of peace seen only in the deep sleep of childhood.
Nisha stepped out on to the tiny balcony and breathed in deep. This was the only time when the air felt light and airy as it was meant to be. Once the morning traffic took hold, the air seemed like everything else, dull and heavy and oppressive. Yesterday had been one of Riya’s better nights, when she had slept the whole night through, without waking up terrified and choking as she had regularly during the cold winter, when the asthma took hold.

The various specialists whom she had visited had all said the same. Something about genetic traits and an emotional trauma. She recalled Prithvi saying that he had often suffered from bronchitis as a child but had outgrown it in his teens. She could not relate much to the scientific part of it. She had never been good at any of the sciences, ‘hopeless’ as Prithvi, her husband put it, with a slight shake of his head, a sly smile on his lips, expertly ducking his head to avoid her well- aimed cushion. She also vaguely remembered the article on circadian rhythm which she had read a long time ago, at the behest of her colleague Anand, the biology teacher. Something about the lung function being at its lowest at this time of day.
She stepped towards the tiny kitchen, determined not to linger either on her balcony or in the past. Life waited for none. It went on, with little eddies and swirls, flowing at its own pace. Mornings were a whirlwind of activity, the usual rush of readying Riya and herself and getting to school, where Riya studied in class 1 and she was the music teacher. Although the Maharani Ahilyadevi Holkar High School was a private institution, the principal, the formidable Mrs. Vani Sundaram was a forward- thinking person, who cared deeply about her staff and students. It was at her insistence that a creche had been set up on the school premises for the children of the staff about ten years ago. Under Mrs. Sundaram’s expert stewardship, the school was now one of the most sought- after schools in a city famed to be the ‘educational hub’ of Maharashtra.

This foresight had stood Nisha in good stead because she could work peacefully in the knowledge that her daughter was in safe hands. The well- equipped sanatorium meant that Riya’s health was well monitored and all her medications administered carefully. With the advent of warmer days, Nisha hoped that Riya would take a turn for the better. Perhaps, she would then begin her formal training in music for the child showed an ability, humming along with her mother and carrying a tune with ease ever since she was three years old. “I hope she takes after me when it comes to mathematical ability,” Prithvi’s deep baritone had just the hint of a chuckle down the telephone. “I won’t be able to handle two temperamental musical geniuses who are useless when it comes to practical matters like accounting and simple mechanics” and he roared with laughter. She could see him now, ducking his head to avoid her imaginary cushion in the tiny room of the barracks from where he had called, on that faraway morning, while she, breathless with delight expounded on Riya’s musical abilities.

As the mother and daughter duo made their way to the school, Nisha wondered what Prithvi would think if he saw her now, weaving expertly in and out of the Pune traffic in her small Maruti Alto. As they stopped at a traffic signal, she was struck by the number of red roses on display and sale. “It’s Valensine Day today, Mamma”, Riya’s little voice piped up. “Tanvi is giving me a rose today because she is my bestest friend. Can I buy a rose Mamma? I want to give her one too!” Nisha couldn’t refuse. Riya was such a quiet prepossessed child, who hardly ever asked her mother for anything that Nisha felt a little twinge of pleasure at this childish demand. “You can buy two roses, sweetheart. One for you to give Tanvi and one from Mamma to you!” She was rewarded by a smile as warm and bright as the sunshine. When the car drove on, Riya was proudly clutching two pink rose buds wrapped in green cellophane and raffia.
When they alighted in the school car park, Nisha checked her daughter’s bag. “Do you have your tiffin? And your inhaler? What about the art kit?” “Relax Mamma! I packed the kit yesterday. And I neeeverrrrrrrrrr go anywhere without my insaler, you know that!”. Nisha smiled at the way she deliberately mispronounced words sometimes. “There are Preeti Miss and Julie Miss!” Riya pointed to two teachers making their way into the school. “Preeti Miss is my drawing Miss”, she added importantly, conveniently forgetting that her mother shared the staff room with Preeti Miss and was good friends with her. “Look at her bouquet of roses Mamma! Why don’t you have one?” Nisha looked away for a moment. “I don’t need one, darling. I have the best little flower angel in the world. She is called Riya!”. But Riya had already picked one pink rose from its cellophane wrapping. “This is for you Mamma! Maybe Papa didn’t find the time to send you some. Flowers take time to reach!” Nisha was momentarily rendered speechless at this blend of innocence and sagacity in her daughter. She held her close and breathed in the smell of innocence. “Run along now! You will be late. And don’t you want to give Tanvi her rose?” She watched as her daughter dashed away and was soon lost in the melee.

On slow leaden steps Nisha made her way to the music room. This was a yearly saga. Valentine’s Day caught her unawares every time. Prithvi was a great prankster and had sent her unusual things every year. A potted fern, a bouquet of sunflowers, some braid which had come undone from his uniform, a ticket for a Kaushiki Chakraborty concert and a framed photograph of himself. She gave herself a mental shake. There was no time to brood. She had a lesson to prepare. 7 D would be filing in for their lesson. She planned to teach them ‘Ai watan ai watan humko teri kasam’ today. It would be a befitting finale for the annual music fest which the school put up on the day the results were announced. Lavanya, a gifted child was part of the class. Nisha made a mental note to meet her mother at the next Parent-Teacher meeting. Lavanya had a very unusual voice and would benefit from special training. She hoped her mother would agree.
Outside the music room, a stunned Madhu stood in the shadows, the pass in her hand to meet her daughter’s music teacher falling to the floor in a flutter. Though the class resounded to forty voices lifted in song, Madhu was far away, in a different time and place. As the music died away, several kids crowded around Nisha Miss. “Miss, how many roses did you get today?” “Did your husband give you a big bouquet like my dad gave Mom?” “Miss, are you going out for dinner today?” Madhu was taken aback at what she thought was their impertinence. “These kids!”, she thought to herself. “How can they ask their teacher such questions! They really are too big for their boots!”. Nisha smiled at the students. In this day and age, with the internet at their fingertips, students had a forthright way about them and such questions did not faze her. She merely smiled enigmatically and gently chided them with “Get along to your next class or there will be a complaint from your math teacher. And then who knows? Our rehearsals may be curtailed!”

As the students went on their boisterous way, Madhu stepped into an alcove to avoid being seen by her daughter. When Nisha and Riya returned home in the evening, Mrs. Karve, their neighbor stood guard over a huge bouquet of roses in all colors of the rainbow which stood proudly on the doorstep. “I was waiting to make sure no one took your flowers away. Someone left them just as I returned from the market”, she said by way of explanation. “Look Mamma, Papa sent the flowers after all!” Riya jumped up and down with excitement. “I knew all along that Papa’s posting was not so far away that he wouldn’t send flowers. You told me he would always look upon us didn’t you?”. As Nisha peered along the lane, she could spot no one. The person who had delivered the flowers was long gone.

Hidden behind the tinted glasses of her car parked on the other side of the lane four houses away, Madhu watched with satisfaction. Life had finally come full circle. Nisha Singh Shekhawat’s face was emblazoned on her soul the day she saw her on television, receiving the Mahavir Chakra awarded posthumously to Captain Prithvi Singh Shekhawat for saving eight civilians from a terrorist attack in Gulmarg, the tears running down her face, for she and her husband had been two of them. Flowers she knew were inadequate. In fact, everything was inadequate. For how did one repay the debt of life?

She saw Nisha unfold the attached card, in which was written, “But for the sacrifices of people like you, we would never be able to celebrate with our loved ones. You always rose to the challenge. It’s time we rose in gratitude too. It was signed “the people of India” and carried more than a hundred signatures.

Nisha imagined Prithvi smiling. He had pulled off his biggest prank yet and managed to send her flowers from where none could be sent.

As a little girl, Sharada had been very fond of reading the dictionary. It surprised everyone, friends, family and teachers alike. When most children were fathoms deep in Enid Blyton, Nancy Drew, ‘Tell-Me-why’ and the like, Sharada could be found tucked into a nook, muttering strange words under her breath.
Perhaps it was because she lived in a large, chaotic joint family in an even larger house which always looked as if a whirlwind had blown through it. She was a lover of order, a neat freak, and the dictionary was her escape to an orderly world where ‘there was a place for everything and everything was in its place’. As she grew older, she started looking for natural order and finding nothing more interesting than the perfectly co- ordinated functioning of the human body, chose to become a physician so that it could be her life-long job to restore order to disorder. She thrived on it and how!

Marriage and family did not deter her from her calling and now while she ran a perfectly neat home, she occasionally got down her well-thumbed copy of Miriam Webster, for old time’s sake. It had been a sort of yearly ritual, two letters a month so that the dictionary could be finished in a year. Now-a-days, she found it difficult to stick to her dictionary schedule though, and hence picked the letters randomly.
The past year had been one which her order-loving soul had loathed, thanks to the pandemic which had blown life so off course, that it was getting increasingly difficult to find the way back to safe harbors for many. Sharada had been a “front-line worker” and though the welts on her cheeks caused by the respirator had faded, she knew that the welts left on her soul by the heavy loss of life would always remain. Now that the vaccination drive was in full swing, she hoped for a breather, and a break which she sorely needed.

She called the past year the ‘Year of the D’, a dragon like disease, dedication, and increasing desperation being the chief words coming to her mind. There had been a dearth of medicines and oxygen, hope drying up with each new death. Dire straits, dreadful times and a demonic virus. The tide thankfully seemed to be turning now. Perhaps normalcy would return.
But a phone call proved that this was still a distant dream. Suman ji, Sharada’s mother -in-law who had been a diabetic for quite a few years now had suddenly taken a turn for the worse. Sushil ji, her father-in-law although a GP himself was aging and found it next to impossible to manage his wife’s illness. In addition to her kidneys being affected, Suman ji had suffered an injury to her foot and it had rapidly morphed into gangrene, necessitating an amputation of the fourth and fifth toes of the right foot. Since Sanjeev, her son and Sharada’s husband, was a surgeon, it was only right that he performed the surgery himself, in Mumbai, where he lived. Besides, Sharada’s expertise as a physician would be put to good use.
If Suman ji had a fault, it was that she was a foodie in the real sense of the word. Since she was a good cook, it naturally followed that she should love sampling her own offerings. Her home-town of Indore was renowned throughout the country for its delectable cuisine, especially the night market of Sarafa Bazar which came into its own on long, leisurely evenings, offering delectable treats to tickle the most finicky of tastebuds.

A life-time of home making had left Suman ji lonely when her chicks flew the nest. With dwindling visits from sundry other relatives grown too old to travel, came an all- pervading loneliness which found an outlet in binge eating, gradually becoming a habit. Before she knew it, her diet had become a demon bent on consuming her as she fell prey to diabetes, which grew so rapidly and to such unprecedented levels that it brought doom in that she had to leave her home town. But even worse, she had to leave her beloved daughter, Rewa.

Suman ji was a woman who lived her life by the ‘old code’. Thus, her obstinate outlook that her daughter was the best at whatever she did. Of course, it helped that both of them shared a similar love for titivating, occasional gossip, kitty parties, one upmanship and most importantly, food. Rewa would never be content with running a home like her mom and was an up-and-coming architect. To have a house designed by her firm ‘GenXLive’ was the ‘in thing’ in Indore and she was fighting off several of the well-heeled thronging her office. Her children, Arnav and Priya had been cared for by their ‘Nani’ in infancy and early childhood so that she could pursue her career unhindered. Not that any of them had much time for Nani now, deeply immersed as they were in their busy lives. While this feeling of being made redundant perhaps hurt Suman ji, she would never ever utter anything against her daughter. Instead, she thanked her stars that she got to see them occasionally at least and hence, the move to Mumbai hit her harder than imagined. It did not help that Sharada was her complete antithesis in most things.

Quiet, disciplined and serious, Sharada was mentally described as dour, dry and distant by her mother-in-law. She found her bookish tendencies rather ‘show-offy’ and unladylike. The still waters which ran deep in Sharada’s case left Suman ji truly out of her depth and she hated floundering. Added to this, was the fact that Sharada was extremely determined and exacting where her patients were concerned and now that her mother-in -law was one of them, she was given neither deference nor quarter for her position or seniority. She knew that the strict diet that she had enforced did not go down well with Suman ji, but her hands were tied. If her mother-in-law was to limp back on the long road to recovery, she would have to follow Sharada’s exacting routine complete with a draconian diet which comprehensively excluded all things sweet, deep-fried or seasoned with excessive salt.

Suman ji hated Sharada hovering over her at meal times. She hated the bland food dished up with unfailing regularity four times a day, hated Sharada’s barely concealed impatience at repeatedly having to cajole her to eat, but most of all she hated that Sharada was not Rewa and never would be. No frippery, no embellishment of words or face and no overflowing emotions. The almost machine-like efficiency with which Sharada accomplished her tasks set Suman ji’s teeth on edge. How she longed to return, to her hearth and home and most of all her beloved daughter!
**

Rewa preened as she adjusted the pleats of her peacock blue Maheshwari saree. Today was the day she had been working towards all year. Her interview on ‘Madhya Pradesh Aaj’ was scheduled for 6pm. She thrummed with excitement and energy. The success of ‘GenXLive’ artfully combined with a few well-placed contacts in the right places translated into a prime-time slot on the flagship show ‘Bulandi’ which was aired live on the last Saturday of every month. ‘Indore Daily’ was planning to carry a feature on a few of her latest architectural designs in the New Year. A few nominations for the up- and- coming Indore Annual awards were also in the bag. The sky was hers for the taking.
“Credible, capable and creative”, was how she had been described for as long as she could remember, the image first fostered by family and later by friends and clients. While there was no question about her creativity and capability, what she had always excelled at was stealing the lime-light, being blessed with credible looks and a confidence bordering on brashness. The greatest champion she had was of course, Suman ji who credited her with extraordinary management skills, intelligence and all the qualities necessary for a complete woman. Today’s interview would be for want of a better phrase, her ‘crowning glory’.
Suman ji had wept unabashedly at the sight of her daughter on TV and her joy knew no bounds when Rewa graciously acknowledged Suman ji’s role in her success. The phone had been ringing off the hook with congratulatory calls from relatives and friends. In fact, a couple of weeks later, Suman ji was crediting Rewa for her recovery as well, thanks to a famous physician friend of hers, who often called and advised Sharada about the regimen she was following with her mother-in-law. If Sharada found this galling, she kept her thoughts to herself as there was hardly anything she could do about it.
And thus, Diwali drew to a close and the diyas and decorations were put away. Darkness came earlier and earlier on stealthy paws these days. Sharada looked at her mother-in-law’s reports and then at the letter on her desk. The decision she had been dreading could not be put off any further. Opening up her laptop, she began to type “I sincerely regret that I am unable to take up your kind offer of a travelling fellowship to the Joslin Diabetes Center for the current year. I sincerely hope that I may be considered eligible in the near future”. She pressed send without reading the letter through and left the study with a sense of finality.
It was time for Suman ji’s medications. In Sharada’s dictionary, ‘D’ meant many things, but the first word which came to her mind was ‘duty’ and duty alone.

FOREWORD

Perhaps historical narratives are destined to bear the cross of ambiguity because of the frailty of the human mind and memory. But, as beings who have sprung from the pages of yesterday, it is our duty to make sure that the unvarnished past melds into the present so that the future is brightened.
One-sided narrative while not new to these annals have taken a dangerous turn in recent times, giving a whole other meaning to the word ‘white-wash’. And, thus dear readers, it was with the intention of narrating a different version of the story that I began to write “The Slaughtering of Saffron”, hoping to bring a voice to those voices drowned in the cacophony of popular narrative seen in more widespread media.
While I entirely believe that we are all equal in the eyes of the law, whether earthly or heavenly, it is also my belief that there should be no ‘first among equals’. Personal beliefs and the law in a country as richly diverse as ours make for a partnership based on mistrust. If any attempt to ensure equality among all citizens as guaranteed by the constitution is to be made, it MUST cut across various castes, creeds and beliefs. An egalitarian society can only exist in the absence of the spurious ‘first’ among equals.
It remains the duty of governance to provide for all, and to see that the minorities face no injustice. However, it will never do to turn the proverbial blind eye and ensure that they never face the long arm of justice if necessary.
And thus, my attempt to talk about a gentle state once heaven on earth, now scarred beyond recognition. Where the fate of and the blood of thousands will be on our hands if we selectively choose to look the other way and refuse to call out fanaticism for what it is, a blot on all of humanity….

He has heard that the valley used to be a rich tapestry. Greens and pinks, blues and yellows, saffrons and purples all found a place in it. Rich and vibrant. Scintillating and soothing, tempestuous and tantalizing. Warp and weft. Woven into the rich rugs and carpets for which the valley is famous.
The luster has faded over the past three decades. Now, only a few colors remain. Spreading unchecked over the entire land and tainting it. They are red and green, red always following where green leads.
“Colors are God’s gift to us”, drones the teacher. The children in high school name primary and secondary colors and paint them in their books. “But black and white teach us life”, this teacher is clearly a philosopher. “White is the most selfless, reflecting all, giving everything to the world. That is why it is associated with purity. Black swallows everything. That is why it is the most selfish”, the children listen, most of them half asleep. One student decides to impart this valuable nugget of information to his know-it-all, thinker of a younger brother and score one over him when the chance arises.
In the younger class where the thinker studies, another teacher is explaining the importance of the three predominant colors of the national flag. Saffron for sacrifice, white for peace and green for prosperity. Then what does blue stand for? wonders the thinker who sits by the window, eyes on the distant peaks, until the chalk thrown by the exasperated teacher catches him square on the forehead.
The thinker thinks he knows better. Pretending to be asleep, huddled under his blanket in the bitter cold of the night, he listens to the family elders talking around the fire whose dull saffron glow brings warmth and comfort, the air redolent with the smoky smell of walnut and deodar. Not that many elders remain, but those who do often talk with a strange wistfulness. He has heard them ascribe the colors of the flag to the people in the village, saffron for the ‘tika’ bearers, green for the skull-cap wearers and white for the strangers who wear a small cross. But he has always fallen asleep before he hears about the blue. Maybe it is the stragglers who live at the edge of the village, embraced by none and shunned by all.
Huddled under his blanket, he has heard stories with strange words in them which he does not understand, “Ralive, Tsalive ya Galiv”(convert, leave or perish), “violated”, which is what happened to his grandmother and aunt and “tortured” which happened to his grandfather and uncles. But he knows better than to ask their meaning, for his father’s face will cloud over and his mother will make her displeasure known with that click of her tongue at his impertinence at raking up old memories, like picking on a festering scab.
His father who escaped by the skin of his teeth has only recently wended his painful way back to a house in ruins and back-breaking labor. His mother walks twelve miles along the Vitasta every day to work in a silk-mill in the big town. She hums to herself along the way. She is a font of optimism, his mother, just like his older brother who takes life as it comes. They are simple folk. Truth be told, they think of him as rather strange, with his ponderings and musings and asking strange questions. But his father understands. And pats him on the head, telling him that he takes after his uncle. “He was a great one for questions,” he says. “Used to go to college in the big town.”
Those days are long past. A hazy memory, like a water color which has been wiped over by a soaking-wet sponge. But, the sponge in this case was wet with blood, not water.
The green of the valley now flutters from houses and places of prayer with onion shaped domes. And the olive-green fatigues of the protectors who march past in thick-soled boots, belts of bullets at their waists and guns over their shoulders. The protectors and the protected are wary of each other. And the skull-cap wearing protected take to pelting stones at them, every chance they get. ‘Thud, Thud, Thud’ sounding like the clothes which his mother beats clean on the flat stones on the banks of the Vitasta.
Red instead of being comfortingly warm causes him to break out into a cold sweat, because it is the color of blood, which flows from the protectors, from the tika bearers and sometimes from the perpetrators whom his father calls ‘terrorists’ in a hushed tone and who are hailed as the ‘liberators’ by most of the boys in his school. He has asked his father the meaning of this strange new word, drawing a deep frown of concern and a lesson in geography and history about how his land, his slice of heaven on earth was torn asunder because of a weak king, ruthless mercenaries and a political blunder by ‘Uncle’ in a far- off city. A series of such successively weak uncles and strange laws, his father says, have made refugees of them in their own home.

It is the age- old story of industry versus lethargy, the haves versus the have-nots, further tainted with the brush of religion. Some, who have launched a ‘holy war’ against anyone who does not fall in line with their philosophy. “But isn’t killing wrong?” he asks, his innocence and youth peeping through the thin veneer of grown-up sophistication, “I have seen the same red flow from all the bodies”. “Not everyone thinks like you” his father replies with a sad shake of his head. “And they hate us for not believing in the One true God. For being the haves in the old days. In their book, we are the infidels, not worthy of being equals” This makes him ponder more, is he hated for not believing or having? Not that he has anything now. And what is equal?
The few colors which make him feel at peace is the purple of the crocuses which grow for miles around from September to November, and the red-gold of their picked stamens which is what his father does, hours of back-breaking labor to pick this precious spice by hand before sorting it for packaging and exporting which is declared with great fanfare as the ‘back-bone of the economy’.
“We had a shop here once, dealt in the best saffron”, his father declares one day, voice full of pride at this golden remnant of the past. And so, the thinker learns to take comfort in saffron, the color of the top third of the flag, the color of his father’s pride and toil.

*******************

Today his teacher is talking about the rights guaranteed in ‘The Constitution’. “We are all equal in the eyes of the law”, he declares with a conviction that the thinker does not feel. And he wonders if he should repeat what his father told him a few days ago, but decides against it.
Though the adults do not realize, he can read well and tries to understand for himself. He finds it strange that some are treated better than others in this land of equality. And he craves to know the fundamental reason why. But he dares not ask his teacher for fear of being targeted with the chalk or worse. His teacher sneers at him, ridicules him for being a ‘Tika Bearer’ often enough. And this is fodder for most of the boys in his class to abuse him too. Thus, he keeps to himself, unlike his older brother who is better liked for his ability to take the abuse more unquestioningly.
Life in the saffron bowl of the country is indeed a difficult place to swear your allegiance to the color which gives it name and fame.
He wakes up terrified one night, the heavy front door under assault, the thud of sticks and stones against it making him wonder if he is the next target for a hailstorm of stones. His father leads them out of the back door and hurries them along a small path with the Vitasta, swollen after the rains roaring along the left. The light cast by the half moon is dim and fitful. The wind cold and menacing. He is not allowed respite. Doggedly his father makes them all put one foot in front of the other. Shivering under his pheran, he does his father’s bidding. Their lives depend on it. They make it to a small protector camp on the outskirts of the big town and stay there for a few days.
News trickles through. A soft-spoken school teacher’s son has been killed by the protectors. Thousands attend his funeral. The protectors themselves require protection. A young protector whom he befriends looks at him with sad eyes, “Don’t always believe the written word. It could have been scratched out in the mud by vultures”, he says. “This teacher’s son wielded a large gun. He killed many, even some of his own brethren. Never believe all that the vultures say”. He nods. He has seen this school teacher’s son in his village at night sometimes, carrying a large gun over his shoulder, accepting the adulation of some fawning villagers.
For days, newspapers carry the picture of this schoolteacher’s son, each eulogy vying with the next for length picturing him as a blameless innocent, innately peaceful, driven to violence by the injustice to the color of his choosing and the ‘system’. He thinks of his older brother, only a couple of years younger than the dead man, toiling with his father in the purple saffron fields and wonders whether the injustice which has been their cross to bear since birth will make a merchant of death of him too.
He fears it might and after many sleepless nights, plucks up the courage to ask his father one day. “No”, says his father. “If we wanted to pick up guns and grenades, we would have done it when we were driven from our land many years ago”. He wants to be reassured by his father’s words, but does not know in whom to repose his beliefs anymore.
A few years pass. His brother works in the big town now. He has replaced his brother in the saffron fields. He helps pick the swathes of purple flowers before sorting the stamens by hand. It is a strangely calming repetitive exercise. The fields themselves are repetitive to nature’s rhythm, flowering year after year with a soothing regularity. They are the constant in his everchanging world.

**************

The new ‘Uncle’ who has taken over in the distant big city is now trying to keep his promises of bringing changes to the valley. The thudding of the protectors strong soled shoes seems surer now, while that of the stones have lost their regularity and their vigor. Crowds do turn up, but they seem cowed. The old belligerence is gone. He wonders if he should allow himself a hint of an occasional smile.
Uncle in the meantime it seems practices wicked yoga moves, drives away poor starving succor seeking refugees in droves, has banned ‘keema everything’ and has sweet-talked carrot goons into killing the skull cap wearing true loves of girls in black bindis for not wearing an orange bandana in place of their skull caps. The skull-cap wearer’s killing makes it to the headlines and stays there for days.
He is reminded of his friend from the neighboring village, slaughtered for wearing a saffron bandana. He wonders why nothing is said about this and puts it down to the new definition of equality. A warped world where crimes can be condoned on the whims of those who control narrative and where outrage is selective. He feels sad that even Uncle does little about this.
He thinks that the saffron fields appear happier. Their yield certainly seems to have increased. He finds himself humming like his mother on occasion, especially while harvesting the crocuses. An old picture which he has seen hanging in a big shop in the big town often comes to his mind. It shows people at work in the saffron fields and is rather unimaginatively titled ‘The Gathering of Saffron’. He hopes he resembles one of the chubby, fair, happy looking workers in the picture.
Uncle in the meantime has many other tricks up his crafty sleeve. He wakes up one morning to find a strange silence abounding everywhere. The radio which warbles continuously till his mother leaves for work is mute. His brother shakes his head because his mobile has suddenly called it a day.
The protectors are outnumbering the protected. A hushed conversation between his parents reveals that the special status given to his land has been revoked. The strange laws have been replaced by even stranger ones which ensure that anyone can settle in their valley. More of their kith and kin might return. His parents are hopeful but he is afraid.
They forget that he is the thinker. They try to reassure him while he tries to warn them of repercussions. They have not faced the cruelty of boys everyday as he has. They have not been hounded with chalk and pebbles. No one has torn the pages of their precious few books or defaced them as his have been. These everyday disasters loom large in his tiny life. They have faced more, but he bleeds from a thousand cuts every day.
For a few months, his fears seem unfounded. The valley is shrouded in secrecy and silence ‘to keep the peace’. On the surface, it appears that the flag is again divided into equal thirds in real life. Celebrations abound among those who live far away, those who have never lived in the menacing shadow of the green in the valley. For them it is a victory which needs raucous celebration.

But he knows that the green is merely biding its time and licking its wounds. It is not the type to concede defeat so easily. It is devious, shape-shifting, subtle, united and will stop at nothing to get what it wants. Most importantly, it has an access to an everlasting source of money. Under the guise of being ‘othered’ it wants as always to be the first among equals, stretching the fabric of society so taut that a rent is bound to appear.
Amid the blooming of the saffron that year, there are tales of people slowly picking up the threads of their life and moving on. The big town seems a slightly better place. Life in the school also seems to improve. He meets his brother’s philosopher teacher who tells him about the white and black too, just like his brother before him. Unlike his brother though, he has a question about the black, whether it is selfishness which makes it swallow those who don it, especially women, for they disappear into the black shroud, like light into a black hole, never to be seen again. Prudence makes him decide against it, though. Even if the times are changing, the dust is not fully settled. The ground still remains shaky.
A new day dawns, turning the eastern sky saffron as usual. He picks up his basket and girds himself, ready for another day of saffron gathering and sorting. Perhaps, he was right in feeling comforted by saffron he decides. Something good will come of the laws if they manage to return the peace of his parents’ younger days and allow him to follow in his uncle’s footsteps to college in the big town.
Walking to the fields through his village, he thinks and ponders and thinks some more. He still finds the peace unsettling. As he passes his school, he is surprised to see the gates open, for today is a holiday. An impish impulse makes him want to make the most of this opportunity. Perhaps he can sneak into the sparse library and sneak out with a book!
On stealthy foot-steps he walks towards the low building which is home to the principal’s office as well. Loud expletives suddenly sound in the morning stillness, leaving the air heavy and foul like a blanket sodden with refuse. Instinct makes him duck out of sight beneath the open window.
From the voices it is clear that his principal and the philosopher teacher have been cornered. Gentle, scholarly looking men with guns are explaining the need to punish them, in the softest of tones, which makes it all the more menacing. The two teachers continue to stand there, eyes distant, faces resigned in a dignified acceptance of their fate.
His legs tremble. He knows the outcome of this. His gut feeling of the green gathering force has been right all along. The philosopher teacher touches the tika on his forehead one last time before the floor is stained red, with an impure stain which will haunt the building for years to come.
One of the men casually dips his fingers in the blood, staining them as if he has been working in the saffron fields. All the men then turn towards the blessed city in the west and drop to their knees in a prayer of thanksgiving for their spot in heaven has just been assured.
The thinker now tries to stop his pondering. But, his thoughts flap in his mind like crows, black and selfish, choking the very breath in his throat. He finds himself in his beloved saffron fields, not sure how he got there, bereft and alone. His hands twist the crocuses with a fury he has never felt before, seeking redemption. He stares at his fingers, stained red gold by the mangled stamens. Wretchedly thinking that he has the blood of his teachers on his hands. He tosses them into his basket, leaving a stumbling trail over the field. Unheeding of his father’s warning shouts, until his father grabs him by the shoulders and takes his basket away.
They stare at each other. The ravaged purple field, the saffron kissed sky and his fingers stained with the red-gold of the stamens, ready to snatch away his dreams. For the first time he feels a stirring of a sleeping hatred within. The saffron sun maybe at its zenith, but their personal eclipse is never ending. He is incongruously reminded of the picture,‘The Gathering of Saffron’. As his glassy eyes take in his beloved field now awash with crushed petals and saffron stamens, his desolate thoughts and impotent rage cannot help renaming the painting ‘The Slaughtering of Saffron’…..

Gopal knew himself to be luckier than most. When he alighted from the Gorakhpur Express which had ferried him from his tiny village in Uttar Pradesh all the way to the city of his dreams, Mumbai, he had been one of the thousands of urchins who found their way to this glittery megapolis like moths drawn to a flame. An impoverished childhood had lit a fire in his belly, a fire which he decided would not be quenched until he had earned a place in the megapolis to call his own.

He remembered his initial days only too well, the constant jostling for survival in a city which was famed for embracing all, high or low, rich or poor, old or young. He had however discovered that the embrace embraced class differences. The haves were embraced by the warm hug of acceptance while the have-nots were engulfed in a bone-crushing vice meant to crush their will-power to powder. But his was a survival story, based on sheer grit and determination. Aided of course by the kind offices of Ramu, a fellow urchin who had befriended him while he was wandering the streets, two days after his arrival, driven half out of his mind by an empty belly and loneliness.

Ramu had made sure that he had a spot on the pavement outside Charni Road station to sleep in, and that he did not starve, even though there was never enough to eat. He sourced some extra pieces of tarpaulin and plastic when it rained and built a makeshift shelter over both their young heads when the skies opened, from a bountiful God for some and a malevolent one for others. But by dint of perseverance and diligence in equal measure, Gopal had made good. Initially joining Ramu in washing cars in the housing societies nearby, he had managed to enroll himself in night school, thanks to the good offices of a kind social worker who occasionally visited Charni Road station. With more than just a rudimentary knowledge of reading and writing, he proved his worth by working odd jobs during the day, studying at night and on graduating from class 12, enrolled himself in driving school. With a driver’s license tucked under his belt, he had hit pay dirt when he was hired by Seth Chote Lal, a builder in the city, more feared than respected for his alleged connections to the underworld which had fueled his meteoric rise to become a force to contend with in what were the murky waters of the construction business in Mumbai.

Seth Chote Lal was a thick-set, pot-bellied swarthy figure who had a perpetual aura of menace surrounding him, even when he was at his most benevolent. Living in ‘Pawan-Sindhu’, one of the best high-rises on Worli sea face had not done much to refine his slightly boorish air, a vestige of his rags to riches story. For it was said that he had been a dweller of the same pavements which he now trod with the swagger of a man who owned them. That he was quite happy to cross the fine line between legal and illegal was common knowledge, though his vast network of contacts kept him safely out of the reach of the law. Gopal had often ferried him to the seedier underbelly of the city for what probably were nefarious activities, though he had never been privy to what these might be, hoping that his censorious gaze would keep his employer from sinking too low. All that he knew that ‘Dada’ as he called Seth Chote Lal preferred to be driven around in the BMW X5 when he was shuttling between his various projects spread throughout the city and his office in Gwalior House in Fort, while using his Hyundai Alcazar when he wanted to travel in relative anonymity.

Dada preferred to have all of his five cars in tip-top condition and his fleet boasted besides the BMW and Alcazar, a Range Rover, a Porsche and a Merc. They always had to be kept spotlessly clean and woe betide any pigeon who dared to make them fair game for their unsolicited offerings. Even the vendors at various traffic signals in the city preferred to keep a safe distance when he rolled down the window and gave them one of his piercing stares. For he was a man who exuded an awe- inspiring fear which was all pervading. Gopal who had witnessed his rages, felt often enough that though he had hit the mother lode as far as salary went, he was living dangerously, only a step ahead of the law given the criminal nature of the activities his boss often indulged in. Extortion, land grabbing, coercion, grievous hurt, Dada, it was said had been there and done them all. Gopal knew that there was a grain of truth behind all the rumors which abounded. But what Gopal often wondered about the most was the secret behind the fanatic, almost otherworldly drive which Dada possessed. That and the fact that he was ready to go any lengths to build towers not less than eighteen stories high. Right from ‘Grand Galaxy Towers’ his first project in far-away Ghatkopar, each of his projects was taller than the next. He was ready to go to cast all caution to the winds or plunge to any depths and flout all rules if it meant getting permission for a skyscraper more than eighteen stories high.

The other strange ritual which Dada meticulously followed was the ceremony which he held upon the completion of each of his projects. This entailed lots and lots of helium balloons, which were tied to the very top of each skyscraper. Dada would find his way to the top, and set them free, to fly away into the unknown. Gopal had been at the receiving end of his ire on one momentous occasion when an oversight on his part had led to the absence of the balloons. He had come within inches of being hurled from the skyscraper himself, by an incandescent Dada. After this, he had been meticulous in ensuring that the balloons were where and when they were needed, but had never dared ask Dada the reason behind their requirement.

But, today was different. Gopal had behind the wheel of the Merc which was inching its way towards Haji Ali in bumper- to- bumper traffic, when they had to halt at a traffic signal. A small boy dressed in the usual raggedy clothes which were the trade mark of beggars or small-time hawkers at signals approached and began to try to ply a dirty cloth over the spotlessly clean car. No amount of threatening on Gopal’s part seemed to deter him from his task, so that he could beg a couple of rupees from the Seth on the back-seat. Not even a menacing look from Dada had the necessary effect. Dada abruptly opened the door and stepped out, grabbing the boy by the scruff of his neck, motioning to Gopal to halt the car a little way ahead so that the little miscreant could be firmly dealt with. Gopal was fearing the worst, when the rear door abruptly opened and the urchin was shoved inside unceremoniously followed by Dada.

“Ghoorta kya hai be? Gadi chala”, Gopal had no choice but to step on it in response to Dada’s ominous tone. They soon drew up at 1, The Residences, Dad’s latest and best project at Warden Road, the completion ceremony of which was taking place today. Several dignitaries including politicians, eminent businessmen and actors had invested in this project which boasted all amenities which were the privilege of those with deep pockets including membership at the pre-eminent Turf Club, a concierge service from ‘Her Majesty’, the best butler training institute in Britain and even admission in Swiss schools should the kids desire it!

Dada hustled the urchin into the lift with Gopal trailing behind miserably, keen to do his bit to save the child’s life, thinking that in doing so he might have to imperil his own. But, on reaching the top floor, Dada gently led the quaking child to where the balloons were tied and let him set them free. Gopal watched in disbelief as the hardened thug-like builder and the little boy capered together as the balloons lifted off. It seemed that a weight had been lifted from Dada’s soul as he told Gopal to drop the urchin off at the same signal where he had been picked up, with a generous gift of cash and three extra balloons.

When a mystified Gopal left, Seth Chote Lal stared at the sky, in a different time and place, when he was Chotu, just another child trying to scrape a living at a traffic signal, working odd-jobs at the restaurant opposite, trying to save money to buy what he craved the most …a silver helium balloon. He clearly remembered the day of Sonu’s, the restaurant owner’s son’s birthday party, when he had slaved from dawn to dusk in the hope of getting just one of the balloons being distributed as party favors and how all the children had laughed at him, stepped inside their gated complex of buildings eighteen stories high and released the balloons from the terrace, just to spite him.

And thus, had begun his fascination with traffic signals (unbeknownst to Gopal, most of Dada’s help had lived at a signal at some point in their lives), the height of his skyscrapers and helium balloons. But, the joy of releasing them had paled after a couple of times and had only increased his emptiness, until today, when he had again met his childhood self in the zealous boy who was ready to brave his wrath all to earn some money to buy a balloon, not just for himself, but for his brother too.

After years of struggle and getting on the wrong side of the law, Dada was finally content at a job well done, because one of his skyscrapers having woven the thread of hope at different traffic signals across the city had finally managed to snag THE balloon of his childhood, the one which flew away…

Ramgarh station slumbered under the sultry afternoon sun. The dusty platform seemed emptier than usual, with even Moti, the stray whom the porter Deva fed religiously having called it a day in the hazy heat and taken refuge in the tiny waiting room. Little did it know that a flurry of activity was to descend on it no sooner did the Ranthambore Express arrive from Jaipur.

 Lakhanpal Singhji rose from his perch on the ubiquitous bench on the platform on spotting the diesel locomotive in the distance.  He was a man of few words. Unfortunately witnessing his father gradually losing his mental balance in pursuit of justice to keep some of his ancestral land for the welfare of the local peasants following the integration of the princely state of Ramgarh into the union of India of which he had been the Raja had made him realize both the ways of fickle fate and the frailty of the human mind. Always dressed in clean clothes, his favorite attire on home turf was a black bandgala, white jodhpurs and a traditional pugree which looked somewhat out of place with his shock of greying hair and round glasses.

No one in the tiny hamlet of Ramgarh knew exactly what he did when he was away, except that he was their “Hukum” as the people still referred to their erstwhile Raja. However, the number of the grey haired in the village, who addressed him thus was dwindling steadily and the younger generation thought of him as a slightly eccentric but rather harmless fogey, offering unsolicited help to tired travelers. Whenever he was in town, he made it a point to walk to the station in time for the two express trains which halted there and helped out anyone who alighted from them in any which way he could. Calling the porter, fetching water or even lending a hand with the luggage on occasion was all part of the service for any traveler who trusted him. And his wise, rather grand-fatherly demeanor and frank open face made the number who trusted him far outnumber those who did not.

 Today, the door of AC2 was flung open with a crash. The first person to alight of course was Jaikishan Sisodia, resplendent in a natty double breasted deep blue blazer with a maroon tie. He strode down the platform, peremptorily beckoning Lakhanpal Singh, who had been standing quietly to one side.

“Arre, idhar aao bhai! Itni door khade rahoge to saaman kaun uthayega?”

Justice Jaikishan Sisodia of the Rajasthan High Court or JJ as he was popularly known in legal circles, took himself and his exalted position very seriously. While there was no doubt that he had worked his socks off to reach where he was, he expected to be lauded for this feat by all and sundry. A stickler for rules, puffed up with self- importance, woe betide anyone who dared to thwart his wishes and interrupt his soliloquies!

The passing of a first cousin had mandated this condolence visit and was the reason for his unofficial visit to this far-flung corner of Rajasthan without his usual entourage in attendance. But he was determined to make his presence felt irrespective of his visit being official or otherwise. He had chosen to look down his aquiline nose at all things Ramgarh no sooner he alighted on the platform and the sight of the doddering old fogey who seemed to double as porter had only irritated him further at this visit to the back of beyond. It went without saying that he liked to keep himself in the rarefied atmosphere and exalted circles which were par for the course due to his position in the legal world.

Lakhanpalji stepped up smartly, ready to help as always, when his attention was drawn to a young woman alighting from the general compartment, a large hold all balanced precariously on her head, a shabby suitcase in one hand and a toddler balanced on one hip. Her stark white attire, devoid of any ornamentation, frail form and face etched with deep lines of sorrow proclaimed that life had dealt her a difficult hand.

Without a qualm, Lakhanpalji turned his solicitous attention to the woman, ignoring Jaikishan completely. Unused to such temerity, Jaikishan turned puce in the face and raised his voice “Maine tumko pahile bulaya na? Sun nahi sakte? Jante bhi ho main kaun hoon?” Lakhanpalji turned back with a smile. “Sahib, aapke paas ek chota sa bag hai. Aap khud utha sakte hain. Bahar rickshaw mil jayegi. Bitiya rani ke paas saman bhi jyada hai aur munna bhi saath hai. Aap ruko. Use bithwa kar main vaapas aata hoon.”

Jaikishan had long lost the habit of being kept waiting for anything and was quivering with self-righteous outrage at this temerity by a lackey, who seemed to be lavishing attention on a down at heel, good for nothing young woman. Trembling with rage, he picked up his small overnight bag and stalked off, but couldn’t resist throwing a few choice remarks over his shoulder about lecherous old men who couldn’t resist a pretty face. What he failed to notice was the sudden stiffening in Lakhanpalji`s stance as he got the drift of what was being said. With a single scornful glance at Jaikishan, Lakhanpalji walked away with the young woman, a local, a war widow who was returning to her ancestral home, having lost her husband at the border, barely a week before.

Burning with what he thought to be righteous indignation, Jaikishan spent the two days he was in Ramgarh in a high temper, hoping that he would be able to make the doddering old man regret his actions to his dying day. Although the trip ended uneventfully, the incident remained etched in his mind. A few months later, Jaikishan Sisodia was invited as a guest speaker at a legal convention in Delhi. On the day of the convention, he reached the venue in grand style, in time for the inauguration. With the rest of the legal luminaries, he awaited the arrival of the chief guest who happened to be the newly appointed Chief Justice of the Supreme court, a man notorious for his low profile and whom Jaikishan had never seen, even in photographs.

No sooner did the car drive up, he rushed to open the door for the CJI and was rewarded by the sight of the doddering porter from Ramgarh stepping out of the car. “What is this boor doing here?”, he wondered to himself peering into the car in the hope of spotting the CJI. On finding the back seat empty, he turned, only to be greeted by the sight of all the legal luminaries present paying obeisance to the figure with the shock of greying hair and round glasses dressed in trade mark black bandgala and white jodhpurs, who was now the CJI. Justice Sharma, his colleague and good friend at whose behest he had come to the convention put a friendly arm around his shoulders before leading him up to Lakhanpal Singhji. “Your honor, let me introduce you to my colleague and good friend, Justice Jaikishan Sisodia of the Rajasthan High Court.”

As Lakhanpal Singhji brought his hands together in a namaste, Jaikishan Singhania tried to avoid looking into those wise eyes, fearing the scorn he was sure he would find in them. However, all he  saw was compassion and heard was a gentle voice saying “I am truly sorry for not helping you in Ramgarh that day, but I am sure you will agree that the war widow deserved to be helped first.”

Jaikishan could only hang his head as he remembered his misplaced eloquence of that day. He realized that the clamor in his head was nothing but the clanging of the empty vessel that was his mind, yet to be filled with wisdom.