Summer with Daughter

Big surprise! This post has been selected for BlogAdda’s Tangy Tuesday Picks. Thank you, BlogAdda team.

I live in a place where it snows half of the year. The winter here is so cold it is like living in the refrigerator. In fact the fridge is warmer. Whenever the temperature drops sharply——I leave the fridge door open. Rest of the year, weather is unpredictable: Rain, blizzards, tornados, hailstones——sometimes all these in a single day. People bet on weather and lose——weather wins always.

Some nights it snows so much, I can’t locate my car in the morning. The snow mounds over the car, hiding it completely. Once I find it, I cannot open the frozen door or if I open it, the car won’t start; once started it skids and swerves all over the road. Life is rough.

Here, we have a short summer. Last year, after months of snow, we were all geared up for the sun, when it suddenly started next year’s snow. Summer had come and gone——just like that.

In Kinnigoli, the place where I have come from, everyday is a summer day. One or two times in the year, it rains for a week continuously, as if someone at the top had forgotten to turn off the tap——but once the flood is over it’s all summer.

In these harsh weathers, my daughter——18 months now——was forced to stay inside; being confined to the four walls, she was vulnerable to develop a frog-in-the-well vision of the world. To avoid this, this summer, I took her to as many outdoor places as possible. These outings would have continued, God knows how long, had I not met the 3 naked men. That incident kind of put a stop to my wild road trips. We have some time before we come to that incident.

Candies from heaven

On her first outing——a sky diving event——a diver was supposed to drop chocolates as he descended with a parachute. Many children were gathered. Babies, and kids too small to run around, were held by parents. I was one of them.

At the appointed time, the light-aircraft circled a couple of rounds above our heads. Eventually, a parachute was dropped, that swayed lazily from one end to other, making it difficult for the children to pinpoint the landing. Children ran all over the place for the promised candies——that were not dropped! Obviously the diver forgot. He had forgotten the whole purpose of the event. The kids were deeply disappointed by this negligence. Unaware, subconsciously, they learned the lesson: Life is not fair. For myself, having learned that lesson long back, I learned a new one this time: People when at Top, often, forget the people at bottom——the very ones who sent them up.

Once safely on the terra firma, the diver——wearing one of those shiny glasses where you could see yourself, comb hair if needed——waved at imaginary friends in the crowd. And then, a woman, with shortest possible skirt, ran to him, and melted in his arms. They kissed passionately.

She was probably a tennis player, or in her hurry to meet the friend from the skies, she must have mistakenly slid into her kid-sister’s skirt. In their passion the couple had forgotten the kids looking longingly at the heavens——for the promised candies. Some of the nearby children were shorter than the hem of the woman’s skirt; thus they were alarmingly close to a shocking-revelation unsuitable for their age.

Luckily, I had bought some candies at the gas station; though, I was not expecting this fiasco, I wanted to avoid competing with children for the falling candies. This foresight saved me. I gave a candy to my daughter. Instantly, her face brightened; she forgot everything else. In the end, it turned out to be a good day, after all.

One more time

All right guys, I am going to do this one more time. New writers start with memoirs, and gradually move on to fiction. All my past attempts at this transition have failed, miserably. As a result, my memoirs are turning into more and more fictitious.

The CIA, now, has a file on me. They are mystified about the person who has so many curious stories to tell. How can so many crazy things happen in one person’s life? They wonder. My reasoning: these are not my stories. These are your stories. Or at least these are as much your stories as they are mine. This statement sounds Kahlil Gibranish: mystic, confusing and makes no sense.

I have written so much about my personal life, not only I don’t have anything new to say, but also, in retrospect, whatever I had said in the past might not be entirely accurate. Now don’t get me wrong; the things I had said in the past are not lies, but facts have been craftily altered, events have been fabricated, truths have been diluted, literary license has been used generously. In short——you cannot sue me. Still, even after my open acceptance, readers prefer these pseudo memoirs over my short stories. I have never seen a writer doomed with such worse luck.

The good thing about memoirs is they don’t have to be real! I can talk to my readers, casually, as I am doing now; tell them irrelevant and unbelievable stories. Somewhere at the end of this article, I am going to tell you an unbelievable story of 3 naked men. It is funny, but nowhere related to this article!

Short story is a different animal. You can not crack jokes or narrate irrelevant anecdotes. Everything needs to be focused and related. Hence, they are boring. Even editors at Daiji are skeptic and reluctant: “Do we really have to publish this?” They wonder on receiving my story.

After considerable delay, when one such story finally gets published, I get around 20 hate mails. This one I received for my last story——I know, you haven’t read it——Monster: “Where is the ending of this story?”

On seeing this mail, I wondered, Is this a rhetoric question or a metaphysical one? Something like, what is the meaning of life? Why are we here? Where were we before birth and where do we go after death? Is this an infinite cycle of birth, death, and re-birth; and, in the same line of thoughts the ultimate question: where is the ending of this story?

After the last fiasco, I am back to my memoirs. But this is probably my last pseudo memoir. I need to seriously concentrate on fiction. After this article, I am going to write a short story: Bona and right after that I will write one-more short story: The right man. I am skeptic though. The names don’t carry much promise. I may have to write one more, final, last-last, I-swear-I-won’t-do-it-again, This Is It——memoir. We will see.

Identity crisis

Other time, I took my daughter to a kids’ party. We were given identical hand bands. This was to tag the kids to the right parents. “Don’t lose the band,” the girl at the counter had said. The warning made me so much conscious, I missed the fun, missed the party. While returning, to my horror, I noticed my daughter had lost the band.

“I need to call the manager,” said the girl at the exit.

“Wait a minute now,” I said, “No need to get panic. If you look at us, you will notice an uncanny resemblance.”

“That is not a proof that you’re the father.”

No matter how I begged, I couldn’t convince her. Later, two men with dark glasses took me too an adjacent small room. My identity was verified by drivers’ license. I had to provide my home address. Many questions were asked: Grandmother’s middle name; the street name where I was born; Formula to find the radius of a circle; my first girlfriend’s name (Here I gave my wife’s name); and, finally, my “real” first girlfriend’s name.

Things are lot different back in Kinnigoli. A few years ago, I went to the local bank to open an NRI account. I filled the form and gave it to the woman at the counter.

“Wait for few minutes,” she said, “I will give you the cheque book and documents.”

“Don’t you want to see my passport for identity proof?”

She gave me a mean look. “Are you not Mable’s son?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are. I know Mable. During her delivery, our Bijju was in the next room. Your father was not around——gone for a smoke. God! What a family! Guess, who took care of you in the initial hours?”

“You?” I said skeptically.

“That’s right! Do you know what you did?”

“No?”

“You wet my sari.” She continued, “Today you are a big shot. You fancy long hair like a woman of questionable character. Your half shirt is in and other half out. (I promptly tucked in). Standing here, with the air of the person who owns this bank-building, you have the nerve to show me a piece of paper for identity proof. I know your whole family. Your grandfather, a fine gentleman, in his younger days, I must say, was considerate about my feelings-”

I got alarmed: where is this leading to?

“Do we need to go into all that, now?” I said, cautiously.

“You started all this——wait a minute,” She seemed to recollect something, “Are you not the one who as arrested?”

“No. That was not me.”

“But the police did come to your home?”

“You can say that-”

“But they didn’t do an arrest?”

“It was all confusion,” I explained, “They came for something else at the neighbor’s. But one of them wanted to use the restroom. And, finally at the time of return they didn’t know the way back, so I jumped into the front seat of the police jeep; and you know people-”

“How nice——Looks like a cinema-story.”

This went on for sometime. But I got my work done. I am from a small town. You don’t need a document or id card; people know each other for generations.

A Nobel candidate

Another time, at a party, the music was so loud and the flashing lights created such a confusing atmosphere, it scared my daughter. She had not seen human beings in such exhilarated states. Eventually, the host noticed this and we were gently led to a small room.

In the room I met other Fathers tending children at various stages: sleeping, soon to wake up, indifferent, and some were hyper——they must have had one too many chocolates. The room looked like a concentration-camp and the occupants looked like aliens. Prior to my daughter, though I had a substantial share of wild parties, I had never noticed such a room.

I took a corner seat. The person next to me had two children: One was about to sleep. And, the other——sleeping——was showing signs of waking up. (No two siblings sleep at the same time! There must be some scientific explanation for this——but times are not ripe yet for that breakthrough.) Anyway, I was talking about the person next to me. He looked as if he had lost interest in the whole world. In him, I saw my future.

But soon I realized I was wrong: the guy was quite smart. He talked about energy, mass equivalence and some obscure scientific concepts; while talking these things, he seemed strangely possessed and became as excited and energetic as the people dancing outside. Of course, much of the mumbo-jumbo went over my head. “Exactly, what is your domain?” I asked him.

“Theoretical Physics,” he said, “I was writing a white paper to prove E is NOT equal to MC square.”

Oh my god! I don’t know much about Physics——abandoned that muck right after college——but I know this, the moment one disproves the energy mass equivalence, you will get a long-distance call from the Nobel committee. Apparently, this guy had not received such a call.

“Then what happened? Did you realize the falsity in your silly presumptions?” I must say there was a touch of sarcasm in my voice. (The same kind, my critics assume, while finding faults in my articles.)

“No No” he said, “I was very near to success.”

“Oh! Then?”

“My wife got pregnant…” he waited searching for words, “The twins take all the time——”

All my life I had wondered why my parents or grandparents——intelligent people——didn’t invent anything significant. My parents and grandparents share 19 children (As of the publishing of this article) and uncountable grandchildren. Every time, I make an effort to draw the family tree, somewhere down the line I need to start over again, because of the fresh branches! I don’t know how many cousins I have. As I write this, somebody is pregnant. And some of them I have met so seldom——I have seen Halley Comet more often.

Parents with single child are holy people. And, those with more than one child are saints. They deserve an award. Someone should distribute discount coupons or some such stuff to keep up the moral. Once you have children it becomes increasingly difficult (read impossible) to achieve your goals; unless you have goals like watching the sunrise, waving at school buses, enjoying the clouds, observing the growing grass, listening the birds and smelling roses. Considering the fact that we all die one day, these goals are not that bad; I might try them myself, someday.

A peek at heaven

My daughter babbles a few words now. The first word she said was——NO. (Not being mama had supremely upset her mother.) We didn’t teach her that word; she learned that on her own. Now she says NO to everything. To derive a positive response from her, I need to phrase my questions in double negatives: Do you NOT want to eat No mum-mum?

Seasoned writers avoid double negatives——they are confusing. The person who uses double negatives frequently is an amateur——or Shakespeare, who got away with almost everything. In the absence of a good dependable dictionary (or thesaurus), the bard had made up his own words; thus he contributed a sizable chunk of words to the English language. Who else could have come up with the line, ‘where art thou, Romeo?’ that didn’t really mean ‘where are you, Romeo?’

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I am amazed to discover, how washing machines, car rides and vacuum cleaners put babies to sleep. (In my school days, I always used to spell the word VACUUM incorrectly. Why two Us? I also used to spell the word incorrectly——incorrectly! That was because I was regularly-irregular to my classes. Ok, let’s stop this thing.) One would wonder——logically——babies would prefer silence over these noisy alternatives. But looks like these very alternatives soothe them with the warmth of mama’s tummy.

One time, police stopped my car at 2 AM in the morning. When they stop a car at that time, they are very cautious. They take a long time to check the license plate and verify your records. Meanwhile a backup car with lights turned off quietly makes a presence in the adjacent street.

“Have you been drinking?” asked the cop, finally made a presence.

“I am a teetotaler,” I said.

“A what?”

“Never mind. Being a writer, I sometime tend to be a bit articulate. In short, I don’t drink.”

“But your red-eyes tell a different story.”

“I am sleep deprived.” Then I pointed to my daughter in the child-seat. That cleared all the confusion. The cop had gone through that stage himself.

Other times, when she doesn’t sleep, I take her to Wal-Mart, which is open 24 hours. Usually, in the wee hours, it is empty——unless another parent is making rounds, like me. I have acquainted a few such parents; when we meet at these unholy hours we usually check notes and discus baby stuff: diaper rashes, milk bottles, baby food etc.

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My daughter is quite attached to me. She takes all my time. This whole article is written while she was sleeping. Whenever she sleeps, I run to my computer and type a few sentences.

Hiding behind the front door, she eagerly waits for my return from office. I need to practice utmost care while opening the door. (I can’t make sudden entries like Kramer). Once inside, I need to pick her up first thing——I can not remove shoes or do some other thing. I did that once, and she started a wailing and ruckus; she thought I was ignoring her and giving more importance to mundane things.

No one had shown so much attention to me, ever——not even when I was a baby. In fact people ignored me to such an extent, I used to scribble my ideas on paper and one fine day realized that there are kind people willing to publish whatever I write——I became a writer.

Having a child around is a great learning experience. You learn new things, everyday. For e.g. Baby soap, when applied to eyes doesn’t cause burning. Baby toothpaste can be actually swallowed——I use it as a cheese spread. I found many long-lost interesting things under the couches and dining tables——some of them are so tasty! Gripe Water has such low percentages of alcohol it is actually safe for adults. Many a nights, tired from office work, I consume a small peg (30 ml) of Gripe Water before drifting into sound sleep.

Young men from Texas

All these baby-outings stopped or at least reduced drastically after the last trip. We had covered all the neighboring locations and were driving aimlessly in an unexplored distant place. I stopped the car at the signal for 3 young men to cross the road; they stopped in the middle of the road and gave a dramatic bow. And then suddenly——God, why didn’t You warn me?——they dropped their pants. This is America: anything is possible here. The town being new to me, I thought, this could be some kind of local custom of welcoming-the-guests. Different places in the world have different and unique ways of receiving guests.

Only later, I realized that the show was for the convertible next to mine, full of teenage girls. The girls giggled. (Young men had mistakenly assumed that nudity arouses women. It will take them years to digest the myth. What women like is not naked men, but a man who is an un-intrusive listener, who derives no logical conclusions from her talk.)

Throwing a second and final side-glance at them, I had concluded, correctly, that these young men were from no other place but Texas. In my younger days, I would have totally approved their gesture——possibly joined the welcome party myself. But days have changed——I am no more the wild and adventurous person that I was once. I pitied these men. And, wholeheartedly wished that they realize the wrong path they were treading and prayed to God to give them enough sense to make a U-turn at the earliest.

In my heart of hearts, I am really scared. The world is becoming dumber every day. The things that were unheard a few years back are norms now. Where is this leading? I get terrified when I think about the children not yet born——what is in store for them?

Once again, I am drifting into one of my dark moods. Let’s not delay a bit; let’s jump to the end-part right away——before I screw up this whole article. (Thank you though, for hanging around till now. I am sure many have already left. I think I should stop this incurable habit of talking to my readers inside brackets.)

Another premature ending

I remember like yesterday, the day my daughter was born. Being inside the labor room, I was one of the firsts to welcome her to this world. In my anxiety, I had counted 19 fingers and toes; and the nurse had suggested for a re-count starting from one——instead of zero. When I saw her first time, I was surprised to notice that she didn’t look like my wife, but I knew she was looking like someone in the Family——from Father’s side. I had struggled and failed to recollect that person. Only, in the parking lot, when we were taking her home, I had seen myself in the rear-view mirror and suddenly it dawned on me that the baby looked like me. She is miniature me. It is like re-living my life: replay! This is super-cool. (I know, I just used a worst modifier; but please, let’s leave it like that for once.)

Epilogue

A few days back someone stopped my wife at the department store.

“Are you Lobo’s wife?” he asked.

“Well, yes. Do I know you?” she said.

“No you don’t,” the stranger said, “I saw the child. She looks like Lobo. And I thought——”

It’s a beautiful life.

*------------------*-----------------------*

Note: This article was earlier published on Daiji.

Monster

Late noon, I locked the cash-counter, informed the cook and left home for lunch. Our hotel serves lunch for many: field workers, day to day laborers and occasional visitors. I though, never take my lunch at the hotel. No matter how busy I am, I make a point to eat at home.

Everyday, I cross the railway-gate, before the mail-train arrives. Once the gate is closed, the junction gets crowded. The train is still new for us. Even now, whenever a train passes, children run to the tracks and wave. People stop their chores, to have a good look at the passing mammoth. Spoiled brats place coins on the rail and wait in hiding, for the train to flatten it.

After lunch, I take a nap on the charpoy, under the jack-fruit tree. Inside the home, heat is unbearable. In the evening, just before the customers come for refreshments, I reach the hotel.

As I started walking along the rails, I heard the honk. I stopped at a safe distance and waited for the train to pass. Then something I saw shook my soul. Laksmi was playing on the tracks——she was deaf by birth. Presently, I saw the train entering my vision.

In my younger days, I would have raced for rescue, but I am just a shadow of my youth. Then I saw another person, Mohan, between me and the child. That gave me a huge relief. I thanked all Gods and Goddesses, for sending the savior.

“Save the child,” I shouted.

Apparently, Mohan had not seen the child, for he waved at me to repeat whatever I was shouting.

“Save the child.”

Only then he saw the child, and a look of horror came on his face. The train was alarmingly close. He took a couple of quick steps. Then he stopped. He didn’t move, instead cupped his ears in both hands, and squatted on the ground. I started running towards the child——a futile run. The train didn’t stop. It dragged the lifeless body for miles. Later I came to know that our station-master had to call the next station to stop the train. Police found the body a few hours later.

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A large crowd had gathered, in the veranda of the victim’s house. I stood at a distance. Inside the house I saw my wife, Manju, consoling Laxmi’s parents. I didn’t have the courage to face them. The girl was their youngest. The elder one, a boy, has been sent to his grandparent’s house. I could not stand the wailing and mourning——I left the place after some time.

Being a witness, I was summoned to the police station. I preferred to go alone. But Manju wanted a dependable person to accompany me. Finally, I went with Sankara, my brother-in-law, who promised to take me on his bike. He owns the local gym; hence, he doesn’t have any time constraints.

At the station, I gave a detailed report of the event.

“When will you do the arrest?” I asked the inspector.

“What is your question again?” said the inspector. He was tall, dark and well built.

Not understanding the sarcasm, Sankara was about to repeat the question, when I gave a slight nudge.

“Nothing important, sir,” I said. I had never talked to this inspector, in the past; though, many a times, I had seen him racing on his bike, in front of the hotel. I had never been in a station; the unfriendly atmosphere made me uneasy.

From the station, we went to the hotel. The regulars were eagerly waiting for fresh news. Ignoring them, I went straight to the kitchen, to get updates from the cook. Our tea-boy had not returned from the vacation.

On my way out from the kitchen, I saw Mohan’s future father-in-law, retired Subba Rao, reading paper, at a corner table. Usually, he takes active participation in the debates over local politics. But today he was quiet and distant. I pulled out a chair and sank into it.

“Police will do an arrest soon,” I said. After a pause I continued, “If I were you, I won’t give my daughter to an animal.”

He let out a sigh, closed the newspaper neatly, paid the bill and went out——A sad man. But all this happened before the wedding, which is good for him.

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Customers at the hotel, talk only about the accident. I heard many versions of the incident: some farfetched, some creative, some so much far from truth——they were just lies. People forget that I was an eye witness. The local newspaper ran the same story for days; they didn’t have anything new to report. At last they had to change the headlines for the fear of losing circulation.

Traumatized by nightmares, I wake up at odd hours. On the fateful day, in the final moments, the child had looked straight into my eyes, or may be this is my imagination. I no more know what is real. For a couple of days, I didn’t go to the hotel. The cook took care of the business.

Constable Ranga informed me yesterday, that an arrest is no more an option. He gave me some legal jargon: Police can not arrest a person for failing his moral responsibility or some such preposterous thing. I know the police: they just want to wash their hands off this matter.

Ranga had spread the news. The regulars at the hotel——at least a few of them——were waiting like vultures to hear my reasoning about this new development. I had no convincing answer; I shouldn’t have lied to Subba Rao in the first place. This whole thing occupied my mind as I entered the hotel.

But, then I saw something that made me lose my control: Mohan was at a corner table having his breakfast. I dashed to his table and swiped away his plate.

“How dare you enter my hotel?”

The chattering of the regulars stopped. Even the sizzling dosa-making noise from the kitchen halted.

“Get out from here,” I said.

Sankara came to me; he sensed the situation.

“Should I throw him out?” he asked. But Mohan was already on his way out.

“One of these days,” Sankara said, “I will teach him a thing or two.”

That worried me. In the past I had avoided my brother-in-law. He is impulsive. I don’t approve some of his actions during the past election. “I can handle this,” I said.

In the past I had never interacted much with Mohan. Except the few times I had gone to his home to pay my daughter’s tuition fee, there was not much interaction.

“Vasu, you are a little harsh on the lad,” said postman Inas.

“First pay the month long pending bill, then give me your preaching,” I said. That silenced him. The regulars turned away their faces.

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“Mohan’s marriage has been called off.” Manju informed me at dinner. I continued eating in silence.

“People say it was your suggestion.”

“I don’t care what people say. I said whatever I thought correct.”

“Why are you getting involved in unnecessary matters?”

“I am not getting involved in anything. In fact I don’t want anything from him. Stop Pammi’s tuitions. No need to have any contacts with the beast.”

“The poor fellow has a bedridden mother-”

“I don’t care. I don’t run a charity business.”

“Think about Pammi. Her marks are not good.”

“I will find a new teacher. Where is she?”

“In her room.”

“Did she eat?”

“No. She is there since evening. She didn’t do well in a subject. Principal has warned her of not promoting to the next class, if the marks in the finals were not good. He wants 100% results in SSLC. He has a lot of pressure from the English Medium School.”

I found Pammi in her room, typing on her mobile phone. I had gone there to console her; but seeing her wasting time on the cell phone irritated me.

“Day and night you type on the phone. If only you had written so much on the exam papers, you would stand number one in the class.”

She ignored my sarcasm.

“What do you plan to do, if you lose a year?”

No response.

“Say something. I am talking to you.”

She continued typing. “Probably you want to slap me now…” she murmured.

I was just about to do that. It took a supreme effort to control myself.

“If you are not interested in study, start working in the hotel kitchen from tomorrow-”

I banged the door and came out. Last few years, I have been worrying about the opportunities she would miss because of the lack of education. I worry she will end up like me——A village life with no future.

Years ago, in a similar situation, I had told Father that I rather prefer to work in the hotel than learning useless math theorems. Father had raised a hand, a sharp blow was on way, but I had blocked his hand in mid air. I held his hand and squeezed a bit that made him wince in pain. I was young and arrogant. I told him: “In future, I want you to think before raising a hand.”

The words just came out of my mouth, they were not planned. How I regret, every moment, if only I could go back in time and erase the past. Since then, Father never raised a hand. Soon after, I joined the hotel. He neither consented nor objected: He was just indifferent. That was his stand, till the end, for pretty much everything I did.

On the death bed, he was asked if he wanted to spend his final moments with his son. He desired a talk with Sastri——his dear friend.

Long back, before I was born, Father had not come back till late night from a swim at the river. People lost hope. He returned in the wee hours. Only Sastri was waiting for him, all night at the river, for he knew his friend would come back.

Presently, Sastri was summoned for the last time; the two friends chatted about an hour in private. I was outside the room, all the time. I didn’t hear what they said. Sastri never mentioned about it; he stopped coming to the hotel after Father’s death.

I see the same indifference in my daughter’s eyes. Sometimes I wish, if only she had hated me, instead of the unconcern.

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Yesterday, I saw Laxmi’s parents, at the riverbank. They had come out for fresh air, being inside the house for days. A few pedestrians stopped to exchange kind words. Life won’t be same for them. But people have already forgotten the past. I see Mohan now and then. He is free. In retrospect, there is no justice in the whole incident. Are we to keep quiet and turn a blind eye? If no one raises a voice, then how are we different from animals? My thoughts broke off, as I saw Sankara parking his bike. It was a little early for his visit.

“Pammi is still going for tuition,” he said. An uncontrollable fit seized me.

“Take me to his home.”

On the way, I didn’t say anything. My whole body shivered with rage. We parked in front of Mohan’s house.

“Stay here,” I told Sankara.

“Why don’t you let me handle it? I will solve this permanently.”

“I will ask your help when the situation goes out of my hand,” I told him.

I darted into the house and opened one of the doors——found his bedridden mother. “Is that you Vasu?” she said.

I didn’t answer. I found Mohan in the next room. There were no students. He stood up seeing me. I went straight to him.

“If I ever see my daughter in your home, I will break your legs.”

I didn’t wait for his response. While returning, Sankara threw many questions; I ignored him.

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The second day, I saw Pammi——school bag on the back——at a distance, coming to the hotel. She had gone to the tuition and had been promptly sent back. I could sense this from her manner.

“We can talk this at home,” I told her before she said anything. Sankara was next to me.

“So this is what you do,” She said, eyes red, chest heaving, “You enter people’s house without permission and threaten them of breaking their legs.”

“Elders know what is good-” started Sankara.

“I am not talking to you,” she cut him off and turned towards me, “you are no different from him.” Pammi had never liked her mama. I didn’t want to create a scene in front of the customers; some of them were already throwing curious glances at us. I waited for her to leave.

“Mohan is setting your daughter against you,” Said Sankara. He was right; At least the fool had gathered that much correctly.

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At dinner, an awkward silence prevailed. Pammi was sober now. The whole evening, I was brooding over whatever she said at the hotel.

“I don’t like my daughter lecturing me, at my own hotel, in the presence of customers,” I said, measuring every word. “When you run this house with your money, do whatever you like.”

She pushed away the plate and left the room.

“Pammi-” Manju called her.

“Let her go.”

I was awake till late night. Manju spent a long time in the kitchen, washing the plates; a couple of times, I heard loud noises of plates clanking——her way of showing disapproval. When she finally came to bed, she slept on the edge, farthest from me.

Since the moment Mohan entered my life, I had lost peace. Things were running out of my hand.

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Though, I don’t have permit for serving alcohol in my hotel, on special occasions——like after the local elections or yearly jatra——it is allowed in moderation. Indian cricket team had won an impossible victory. After the match, a large crowd had gathered at the hotel. Drinks were served in opaque glasses to regular customers.

“I can take anyone here,” Sankara was challenging someone in the crowd. I had seen him gulping a couple of large pegs, behind the kitchen counter. Though he was tipsy, his animal strength was well known.

“Anyone here,” Sankara shouted, “I will use only one hand.”

Outside, at the bus stop, I saw Mohan; a devilish thought came to my mind. “I know a person,” I said loudly to the crowd, no one in particular, “who can challenge Sankara. I am ready to bet any amount.” I pointed Mohan. The crowd got wild. They wanted blood. Someone rushed out and dragged Mohan inside the hotel. Bets were laid. I was the only one betting against Sankara.

I walked up to him. “You wanted to take over,” I told him in undertone, “this is your chance.”

I didn’t care for money. I wanted to see the monster crushed: bloodied and begging for mercy.

Tables were pushed to the corner. The crowd made a circle leaving out the place for the contenders. Fresh liquor bottles were passed among the crowd——no more concealing the alcohol. Butler Bona noted the bets and explained the rules to the crowd: A bare fist fight, till one of the contenders fail to rise. Alarmingly composed, Mohan looked like a detached spectator——not the person whose fate was at stake.

“Do you understand the rules?” asked Bona.

“No rules,” shouted Sankara. “Mohan, I warn you. If you want to leave, do it now.” He had removed the shirt; his skin was oily; his muscles were shining in the amber light.

“Do you have any questions?” Bona asked the underdog, who remained silent. The crowd got restless; they didn’t like these formalities.

“Are you deaf?” Bona——self appointed umpire——pulled Mohan’s sleeves. On a regular day, Bona is a quiet person, but today he had had one too many pegs. “Do you have any questions deaf mother-f*#$er?” He pushed Mohan, who stood erect, not acknowledging the jostle. Mohan looked straight at me. For some reason the crowd had gone silent.

“Do you have any questions?” The question was asked the third time, impatiently.

“Can I kill him?” Mohan said, pointing Sankara.

I heard him very clearly. The words thundered in my ears. For years, sitting at the cash-counter, I have analyzed customers: Simple people, frustrated laborers, farmers waiting for rain, women no more young. I have seen all sorts of them. And now, in Mohan, I saw a man in desperation: A cornered man. On any given day, he was not a match for Sankara. But, I saw the fire in his eyes. I saw the determination. A determined man can achieve whatever he wants. I realized he would do what he said.

I went to Mohan. “Leave this place,” I said. He left without a word. The crowd booed. “Go home,” I told everyone and went inside the kitchen.

///////////////////////

Sankara was not in a position to ride his Bike. I took the front seat, while Sankara leant on me from the backseat. We rode along the river.

A small group of devotees were coming to the river. The rhythmic chants and musical instruments occupied air. I stopped the bike in the corner, to make way for the devotees. On the old, railing less, bridge I saw the silhouette of a person. The bridge has been abandoned, since drunkard Boja fell off it to his demise 3 years ago.

“It’s Mohan,” said Sankara. “He sits there all the time.”

“I wish someone would push him off that bridge to his end.”

“I was going to do the same thing, had you not backed out.”

I gave the fool a sharp look.

“Be thankful, I saved your life.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “Let’s go from here,” he said.

I found Manju at the gate. “Pammi has not returned from school; she is not picking the phone either. Her results were announced today.” I had forgotten about the results. I tried calling her in vain. Then, I went to our neighbor and called from Ramya’s cell phone.

“Pammi where are you?”

“I am at-” she recognized my voice.

“Talk louder; what is that noise in the background?”

“I am going to a place you cannot reach,” I heard that very clearly amidst the background noise. She disconnected.

“Where is she?” Manju had joined by then. Her eyes welled up.

I left Manju with her brother and raced the bike towards the river. I had heard the chants on the cell phone; she was near the old bridge.

At the foot of the old bridge, I dropped the bike and raced towards Pammi. She had already covered half-way on the bridge.

“Pammi,” I shouted. “Wait!”

She got surprised seeing me.

“Please,” I said, “don’t do it.”

She looked at the water below. It was high tide in the river. No boats were crossing, water had a mad rush.

“I failed in the exam.”

“Don’t worry about it; next time-”

“I can never live up to your expectations…wait!” she shouted, “If you take one step forward, I will jump.”

In that moment, I realized she won’t listen to me. I had failed her. Painfully, it dawned on me that these were the final moments. When she was a child, I used to spend so much time with her. She was very much attached to me. Somewhere the bond was broken and mundane things took precedence.

“Pammi, May I talk to you for a moment?” It was Mohan. He had approached her from the other side of the bridge. “Suicide is a permanent solution for a temporary problem,” he said.

“I don’t need your lecture.”

“Think about your mother,” he said.

“This is none of your business.”

“If you jump,” said Mohan, “I will jump too.”

She looked at him, wide eyed. “Can you swim?”

“No.”

“You didn’t save Lakshmi. How come you are so generous today?”

“I don’t have an option.”

“Don’t think you can talk me out of this-”

“I am not doing any such thing,” he said, “But if you jump, I will jump too. I will try my best to save you.”

“Why this sudden change?”

“I was scared.”

“What?”

“I was scared at the train. I thought I would die. I froze. That incident has haunted me every night. I can’t sleep anymore. I get scary dreams. I see the child in them. By placing you here, God has given me another opportunity. I cannot leave you to kill yourself. I cannot have two deaths on my conscience. Please don’t kill yourself. Let me help you. Save me. I am begging you.”

He squatted on the bridge; covering his face, he wept uncontrollably. When Pammi placed a hand on his shoulder, he clutched it like a drowning man grasping for the last straw. He wiped off the tears from the back of his hand. “Thank you,” he said, “for saving me.”

///////////////////////

I don’t know how long I sat on the riverbank. It was dark, when the sky broke and the rains started pouring. The water quenched the fire in me, and cleansed my soul. Mohan had not only saved my daughter, he saved me. The scales fell off my eyes. I saw things clearly: I was neither an avenger, nor a weapon of God. I am just a weak person.

The rain was not stopping; when I got up, drenched, I saw a person in all-white, standing at a distance. I don’t know how long Sastri was waiting in his umbrella. Certainly, he had been waiting for quite sometime. Not knowing what to say, I just stood in front of him. He came forward and took me under his umbrella. We walked home in silence.

///////////////////////

Note: This story was earlier published in Daiji.

The Victim

After my graduation, for about 8 months I was at home, with nothing much to do. They were wonderful days; for my future was secured——I was selected in a campus interview. My employer was generous about the joining date. Most of this time, I spent on the cricket ground.

“Why don’t you join a computer course?” Father pestered now and then. I ignored him; there was lot to learn once on the new job. All my student life, I had learnt math theorems by rote under the reading lamp. I had no practical use for them so far and, didn’t expect any in future as well. Finally, the dreaded student life was over.

As the weeks passed by, Father got more and more anxious. I consoled him——these delays were expected from big firms. They have a thousand and one things to worry about. Eventually, I got a letter from the company; I casually passed it on to Father, without opening it, after all he was more eager than me. I, though, knew the obvious content. He opened it in a great hurry as if the matter would change, if not opened on time. As he read the letter, his eyes shot red, hands shivered, and an uncontrollable fit ceased him. With great frustration, he made a ball of the letter and threw it at my face. I fetched the crumpled letter from the ground. The firm regretfully informed that they had overestimated the quota and, no more in need of my services.

Father made my life miserable by reminding me of the painful rejection at every possible opportunity. He concluded that my cricket outings were the sole reason for this fiasco.

In the dog-eat-dog world, the competition was fierce; people were ready to work for less than my pocket money. Once the interviews started, I realized the difficulty in cracking them in the outside world, compared to campus. Interviews made me nervous. Just before the interview, my mind would go blank and right after it I would know all the answers. This way, I was doomed to fail every interview. Often, interviewers promised a return call, in the coming weeks, for they were still short-listing candidates. I got fooled initially——later realized that a promised call was a clue for rejection.

However, unlike others, Yukon Solutions called for a face-to-face interview. There were other finalists, though. Seeing them, all my enthusiasm drained——there was no way I could outwit all of them.

One by one, candidates went inside the interview room and came out with uncertain looks. I was sure they were all promised a return call.

Finally two candidates were left.

“Are you nervous?” asked the remaining one.

I nodded.

“One trick is to act as if the job is not at all important to you.”

I knew these tips——read them in interview-cracking books——they didn’t work with me.

“Sometimes,” he continued, “To create diversion I discus irrelevant things. Mind if I ask you a question?”

“What question?”

“Just say the first thing that comes to mind.”

“Okay,” I said. World is full of queer people.

“Supposing you have 100 text files, what is the easiest way to concatenate them?”

I didn’t want to stress my brain just before the interview.

“I don’t know,” I said, “some sort of a script-”

“No. You can easily do that in a batch file.”

He taught me how to do that. It seemed quite easy, once you knew the answer. He asked about 10-15 similar questions, none of them I could answer correctly. Then the interviewer called my name; I had to leave. I thanked the candidate, for he had succeeded in diverting my mind.

Once inside the room, everything went blank. Beads of sweat formed on my forehead. Across the table sat two interviewers: a young man and a woman. She looked relaxed——talked about the position and the company. I sensed, correctly, that she was from the HR; hence, not the primary decision maker. That left the young one, who was supposed to ask technical questions. I had to convince this person.

He asked the first question: “Supposing you have 100 text files, what is the easiest way to concatenate them?”

I thought, I saw a twinkle in his eyes, or may be it was my imagination. He asked only 10 questions. I answered all correctly, for they were the exact ones the candidate outside had asked. At the end of the interview I was asked to expect a call in the coming weeks, for they were still short-listing the candidates. This time though, I knew, I would get a call.

Outside, the waiting room was empty. The last candidate was gone.

//////////////////////////

On the first day, in spite of my relentless begging, Father accompanied to the office. I suggested taking the office bus. He disagreed. He wanted me to reach the office before time. None of the auto drivers were ready for the ride——the company was situated in the outskirts; a return fare demanded a long uncertain wait. Finally, we had to promise one-and-half fare to convince one of the drivers.

En route, Father did most of the talking.

“Ram, don’t spoil this opportunity,” he said. I was expecting this lecture. That’s why I wanted to go alone. On my silence, the lecture continued. Once again cricketing days were illogically connected to past rejection. I was reminded, again, how things were different in the gone by generation.

“I will go from here,” I suggested a few blocks form the office. He ignored my suggestion. Only when the auto was directly at the gate, he signaled the driver to stop.

Before the auto fully came to rest, I jumped out and ran inside the gate. Lest, I feared, a fresh sermon would start. I spied him through the one-way reception glass-door. Father waited for some time at the gate, but sensing no sign of me, he took the same auto to home.

//////////////////////////

I was informed in the appointment letter that my manager would receive me at the reception. No one turned up. Finally, I rang my manager from the visitor’s phone.

“May I speak to Mr. Balaswamy Murugan?”

“This is he.”

“Sorry?”

“This is Bala. What do you want?”

“My name is Ram. I am joining today.”

A pause ensued.

“Oh. I will be right there.”

He came after an hour. The moment I saw him, I knew he was the manager. His clothes were crisp and sharp. He was lean, tall with not an ounce of extra fat; a regular gym attendee, I observed.

“——pulled into a last minute meeting.” He squeezed my hand.

I followed him through the aisles. After passing several cubicles, we entered his room.

“Sit.” He pointed a chair. “Give me a couple of minutes. I have to finish something.”

He started typing on the laptop. In a short while, he got engrossed so much, he completely forgot my presence. I stared at the neatly piled management books. They looked new, unread.

Then, when I was least expecting, he caught me off guard by an unexpected question: “Do you have any relatives in this office?”

“No,” I said.

“Any friends?” He could type and talk at the same time.

“No.”

He stopped typing, stared into my eyes, “so you know no one at all here?” He gave a narrow look.

“Why do you ask?”

“Emergencies.” He seemed unsettled by my question. “In case we need to reach someone. Never mind. Do me a favor; I gave a print out; if you don’t mind, could you get that for me?” He told me where to find the printer.

The printer was in the far end; on return, I got lost in the maize of cubicles. I had to ask for directions.

“Thank you,” said Bala. He gave a passing look at the document. “Oh gosh! There is a typo.” He looked alarmed. He pulled the laptop, and quickly corrected the mistake.

“Do you mind?”

“Sorry?”

“Could you get the printout?”

What disturbed me was not this repeat request, but when I got up, I noticed that, from the one-way glass of his window, waiting area at the reception was clearly visible.

On my return, I found a new person with Bala.

“Ram, this is Neha; she will work with you.”

We shook hands.

“She will do the KT.”

“KT?”

“Knowledge Transfer. Don’t worry dude. You will learn the lingo soon.”

She showed my desk, which was diagonally opposite to hers——we shared a cubicle. In the presence of Bala, I had ignored her. But now, in the privacy of the cubicle, I noticed how perfect she was, and how everything on her matched and complemented her beauty.

“You look lost.”

“Sorry,” I said, “This is my first job.”

“I am new too. I miss college.” She sighed, “Let’s do KT in the afternoon.”

She took me to the cafeteria, where she gave a few insider tips.

“Is there anything I should absolutely avoid?” I asked.

“Yes. Never miss the 5 o’clock office bus.” she laughed. The innocent laugh——I knew, even then­——would haunt me for years.

In the evening, I made a round to the floor. The hall was large and spacious. It housed many small cubicles, separated by narrow aisles, with a few pillars here and there for support. I searched for the person who took my interview. I didn’t find him.

///////////////////////////////

The next 2 days, I didn’t see Bala. He was busy in meetings. On the fourth day, around four, he called me on the desk phone.

“I will mail you a defective script. Could you have a look?”

“Sure,” I said

The mail didn’t come. At about 5, the rush for the office bus started.

“Let’s go.” Neha said. She had shutdown the computer sometime back, and was waiting for the clock to strike 5. I was about to shutdown when I saw a mail in the in-box. It was from Bala.

‘I have attached the script. Make sure you fix it before you leave; send me a mail once you are done.’

I asked Neha, not to wait for me.

It was a small script, took me about 10 minutes to fix it. I felt proud for solving the issue in such a short time. After mailing the corrections to Bala, I ran to catch the bus. The bus-stop was deserted.

“The bus just left,” said the watchman.

“Do I get an auto here?”

“Rarely. Wait for the next trip.”

“When is that?”

“8 o’clock.”

The office was empty. I looked at the script again. The more I looked at it, the less proud I became. The defect looked obvious, intentional. Being a novice, I had corrected the code in 10 minutes; It surprised me that Bala could not figure it out himself——unless he wanted me to miss the bus.

///////////////////////////

Whenever I had some free time, I looked out for the person who took my interview. He had vanished.

On Friday, Bala called a quick meeting at his desk for me and Neha.

“Sorry guys,” he said, “I don’t find time to spend with you. Meetings all the time.”

We waited for him.

“Any big plans for the weekend?” he asked.

I didn’t have anything. Neha said something.

“Could you both come to office tomorrow? Since I am busy during the week, I can spend quality time to give an overview of the project?”

We agreed reluctantly. The next day I reached on time. Neither Bala nor Neha came to office. At noon, I got Bala’s number from the security.

“Did I not tell you?” said Bala.

“Tell me what?”

“That I cancelled today’s meeting.”

“No,” I said.

“I clearly remember. First I called Neha. Told her about the cancellation. Then I called you-”

“You didn’t-”

“oops! What am I smoking?” I heard a nervous laugh, “Sorry dude. Go home. Enjoy the weekend.”

I waited another couple of hours, before I got a ride from a passing truck.

///////////////////////////

On Monday, in the cafeteria I met Rama Devi, the HR lady, who took my interview.

“How is the job?” she asked.

“Very good. Ma’am”

“This must be a child’s play for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You answered every interview question; never seen that before.”

“Oh!” I sighed, “The person who took my interview was smart too.”

“Yes. He is very good.”

“Where is he? I didn’t see him around?”

“He quit.”

“When?”

“You look surprised. Don’t you know?”

“No.”

“You are his replacement. When he resigned I asked him to find a strong candidate. And he selected you.”

I didn’t want to raise any suspicion by further questions. I didn’t know where to look for him. And, no one knew about the person who briefed me the questions in the waiting room.

///////////////////////////

When I joined the team, there was no proper orientation. And no documentation of what had happened in the past. Everything took time. I learned things by mistakes. Neha had a light approach towards the project and life. “I am not in the rat race,” she used to say. “I want to live a happy life. Is that too much to ask?” I wished, I could say that.

In between, Yukon Solutions got short listed for a government project. We were to do a proof of concept. If liked by the client, we would get the project. The proposed team, to do the work, got busy with something else. Eventually the task landed on Bala’s plate, who passed it on to me.

“I am overloaded,” I said.

“You need to prioritize the work,” he said.

There was no use arguing with him. Once he made up his mind on something, there was no going back. He was quite strong technically as well as in his soft skills. He always maintained the right attitude; always replied emails with the right words. He was a perfect project manager. He handled multiple projects. People avoided him, kept him happy when possible, he was a formidable foe. I didn’t have any option but to oblige him.

///////////////////////////

I joined a few technical news groups, posted queries on technical forums. Staying late became a routine. Often, I was the only person on the 8 o’clock bus. I had a tired look on my face all the time. Many a time, I was so exhausted, I was deep asleep, when the bus reached home. The old bus-driver would come from his seat and pat gently on my shoulder to wake me up.

Sometimes, when I had worked late on the previous night, I missed the morning office bus. At such times, I took an auto to the office. One day, late for office, I noticed a yellow post-it stuck on the monitor.

Swing by my desk.

-Bala

I met him in his office room.

“You are not punctual these days,” he said.

“I sit late everyday.”

“That’s not the answer to my question.”

“I have completed all my assignments on time.”

“That’s not the answer either.”

“What do you want?”

“I want you in the office on time.”

“I put more than 8 hours, everyday.”

“I don’t care how much work you do or how late you sit. I want you on time every morning.”

“Why do you do this?”

He was not expecting this. I had said that without thinking. But I decided to stick to my stand. “Why do you harass me?”

“Dude,” he said at length, his voice quivering, “no one harasses you. As long as you do your work, nothing else matters. If you don’t like your job, you are welcome to leave.”

In a way, he suggested the solution for my problems.

Late that evening, I got an email from him. It was CC’d to our Group Head and Rama Devi.

Ram,

It has come to my attention that you are not punctual to work. This causes delays on dependencies that need your presence. Also, affects the team morale.

Please be diligent. Not adhering to regulations might result in unpleasant consequences.

Regards

Bala

No one so far, had hated me so much——that too for no reason. I was not cut out for the corporate world. I missed college days, terribly. In the campus, things were different. Students had differences, sometimes clashes happened, some went a bit too far, but by the end of the day we were all friends.

/////////////////////

During this miserable period, Neha’s presence made life tolerable. I had a small convex mirror on my desk, to check anyone spying over my shoulder; I used it to steal a glance at her, every now and then.

“Show me what you are working on?” she said, one day.

That’s a lame reason to chat with me. I knew her by now.

“How come you are interested in my work today?”

“Just want to learn a few tricks from the master,” she said coyly.

I showed her the application. She asked many questions. She was genuinely interested in my work; even Bala had not shown so much interest. However, I had to break off our session abruptly-Rama Devi called.

////////////////////////////////

Though, our paths had crossed many times, Rama Devi had never called me for an official meeting. When I met her, she was not in her best mood.

“Every year, we lay off 2 percentages of the least performing employees,” she said. “This is our way of maintaining competency and a minimum bar. Once a year, we ask the project managers to identify the least performing candidates. Such candidates would be given 3 months to improve their performance. Usually, no one improves. This is just a heads-up for the candidate to look for other opportunities. There is an official name for the list; but, everyone calls it Sack List. Because, once on the Sack List, the fate of the candidate is sealed. There is no coming back. ”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

She waited. “…because Bala has put you in the Sack List!”

A cold shiver passed through my spine. I had never imagined he would do such a cold-blooded thing.

“Other than not being punctual, the report here says,” she started reading from a file, “The candidate’s incompetence causes him to sit late everyday to complete his assignments. bla bla bla. Doesn’t show respect for seniors. Bla bla bla,” she closed the file. “…and your inefficiency is taking a toll on the team. Neha has to solely work on the new project-”

“That is not true. In fact, I am the only one working on project-”

She waved me off. “Tomorrow there is a client demo. If you are the only one working on the project, how come Neha is giving the demo?”

That was a bolt from the blue. Of all the things, it pained me the most. There was no more hope. Nothing to look forward. I remembered her innocent request to see my work. I had so easily fallen for it.

When I came to my cubicle, her chair was vacant. She had taken a half-day off. I could not concentrate on my work; By habit, I glanced at the mirror. Finally, I dashed it into the trash bin.

////////////////////////////////

“How is the job?” Father asked at dinner. “You are late everyday; must be working hard.” He had softened towards me.

“I am resigning tomorrow.”

My mother looked at me, eyes welled up.

“What is this now?” she said.

“My manager harasses me.”

“Why?” Father asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he less competent than you?”

“No.”

“Are you a threat for his future at office?”

“No.”

“Then why?”

“I don’t know.”

For some time an annoying silence prevailed.

“Please-” Father stopped abruptly. For he had sensed, he was talking to his son and, such kind words were not necessary.

“We don’t ask much,” He said at length. He was quite shaken. His voice was not confident. In life, he had struggled for every single thing. Now, in his retirement, he had one final battle to win, with a formidable foe: his son. Finally, when he resumed, he found it difficult to look at me.

“I and your Mother will probably manage without your support,” he said. “But we have some expectations. Your friends are in good jobs. Some are in the US. I am not saying you should go there. I am not expecting the moon. I want you to stand up on your own legs. The money you gave me from your first salary, I haven’t used it. It is in the almirah, safely in the same envelop. When I see it, and I do that often, I feel proud. For once, I think, I misjudged you. I am not ashamed a bit to say that-”

He stopped; mother had placed a hand on his arm. Some where in the last months, she had sensed the widening gulf between the Father and Son; and she was afraid that one of these talks would cause a permanent crack.

///////////////////////////////

After the dinner, I sneaked out of home, and loitered in the City-Mall. From the third floor, I observed the cheerful crowd. The weekend had started. A weird thought of jumping down, into the crowd, to end this misery came to my mind. It was a brief, low moment. Then, I saw someone in the crowd——recognized the person even from such a height: My interviewer. I raced down to the ground floor on the moving escalator, pushing aside the shoppers, causing much annoyance.

I stopped the person. “Pleas…wait…” I gasped. “Do you remember me?”

He got startled by the strange question by a stranger.

“Am I supposed to know you?”

He had a baby in hand. A woman, his wife probably, was curiously watching me.

“You took my interview at Yukon Solutions-”

“I don’t know what you are saying.”

“I answered all the questions. You selected me.”

“I think you are mistaken-”

“Please,” I begged. He seemed uneasy.

“Go ahead,” he told his wife, “I will join you soon.”

She snatched the baby.

“People always pop up to meet you,” she said. “No sense of family time. You have become a celebrity.”

“Please ma’am,” I said, “This is very important.”

She ignored, and moved on.

We sat at a table in the cafeteria. I briefly explained my situation.

“I was working for Bala, too,” he said, “By now you know him well. I had to resign; he had become intolerable. He wanted his brother-in-law for my replacement. He would have finalized the candidate without an interview. But Rama Devi wanted me to be in the interview panel. I didn’t want another monster in the company. I asked swami-”

“Who?”

“The one who briefed you the answers-”

“Where is he now?”

“He is in the US. He went on an assignment before you joined.”

That was the reason behind all this torture. Bala had sensed foul play behind my selection. But he didn’t know the involved players. On the first day he had asked for my friends or relatives in the office.

“Do you know how much pain you have caused me?”

“Think about it this way,” he said, “I gave you a job, in a tough market. Learn as much as possible and leave.”

He left. Finally, I learned the truth. But that didn’t change anything.

////////////////////////////

Bala and Neha were in the main conference room with the client, since morning. In fact the demo was an eye-wash. Bala had his ways with customers. He would take them to dinners and oblige them with gifts. He was a smooth player.

I typed my resignation, and took a printout. My plan was to handover the hard-copy as soon as I met him after the demo; and to leave quietly without creating any scenes.

Rama devi found me in the cafeteria.

“Searched you everywhere. Leave the coffee. Follow me.”

On the elevator she briefed me.

“Demo is a flop. The bimbo——what’s her name?”

“Neha.”

“Yes, Neha. She is not in a position to handle the client.”

Neha was outside the room. She was wearing a short skirt and a top that had a low v-cut, quite unusual for her. Eyes red, she could not look at me. “Please forgive me,” she choked, and a tear stole down her cheek.

“This is not the time,” said Rama Devi and dragged me inside the conference room.

I met the guests: a surprisingly young team. No doubt they were difficult to impress. We discussed the project in detail for an hour. While answering queries, I realized how much more I knew than I had thought. I had worked on this project day and night. Finally, all late night stays, all that hard work, paid off.

////////////////////////////

After the demo, Rama Devi called a conference in Bala’s room. “I don’t know what is your game,” she addressed Bala, “apparently, instead of using the person who developed the code, you used your superior intellect, to do the contrary.”

“Ma’am, we didn’t expect a client visit-”

“It is their money. They will visit whenever they want-”

“This is too early for the——”

“Shut your f#$&ing trap.” She said in such coldness, alien to her nature, that I wouldn’t have believed it, had I not heard it first hand. It made a visible effect on Bala. I had never seen this side of his.

“Let me put it this way,” she said, “If the project goes south. So do you. Is this clear enough?”

“Yes. Ma’am.”

“You might want to edit your Sack List?”

“But-”

“Bala, we don’t fire indispensable candidates.”

She came to me. “I don’t know much about technical things,” she said, “You saved the show, today. You did a fine job. I spoke to the client after the demo. They were pretty impressed by you. And, they are confidant that you will successfully handle this project.”

No one had said such kind words in a long time. How I had coveted such praise. In that moment I felt light, and all my tiredness vanished.

After she left, I and Bala remained.

“Stupid bitch,” he was still shaking, “Everyone knows how she has come this far.”

He continued: “I had my reasons to choose Neha for the demo; I was intending to tell you; Anyway. Sit. We have to do a report of the meeting.”

I gave my inputs and started to leave.

“Ram? Wait a minute.” He called when I was at the threshold. “I just gave a printout,” He said. “Run along and get it fast. I am already running late.”

Just a few minutes back I had saved him and his project. I looked at him. I didn’t see the strong ever-right person. But found a week man, struggling to retain his power over subordinates.

How long I could avoid Bala’s of this world? Even if I resign and join a new company, there would be some other Bala waiting for me. Somewhere in life, a man needs to draw the line.

I looked straight in his eyes.

“Why do you stare like that? Get the printouts, dude.” He said with a raised voice.

“Do it yourself!” I said confidently.

He jumped from his chair, shivering with anger, and covered the distance between us in record time. I stopped him.

My father had no hope for me. In spite of my hard work, I was put in the Sack List. Neha betrayed when I needed her the most.

“Bala,” I said, measuring every word, “I have hit the bottom. I don’t have anything else to lose.”

The desperation of a man on the edge possessed me. In that bleak moment I was ready for anything and everything. A nervous silence lingered. Then he went back to his seat, continued typing——never looked up.

I came out, closing the door behind. The resignation letter was still in my pocket. I tore it into pieces, and trashed it into the dustbin. Outside, employees were rushing for the evening bus. I joined the crowd.

*--------------*------------*

Note: This story was earlier published on Daiji.