A simple life

The Monk, The Ferrari, and The driving lessons

2012-02-04T08:38:00.002-05:00

“I begin with writing the first sentence——and trusting to almighty God for the second.”

–Laurence Sterne

Prologue

I was at the consulate, to get a few documents attested. The person at the counter glanced through my form twice, and then stared at me suspiciously.

“You don’t look like a senior citizen,” he said, pointing to the date on the form. I checked the date.

“That’s not my date of birth, my Father’s,” I said. (It was not really my fault. The form had asked Name, Father’s name and DOB sequentially. Obviously, I misinterpreted it.)

“Why would we be interested in your father’s date of birth?” asked the irritant person.

“I don’t know,” I said, “may be for the same reason you are interested in my date of birth.”

This set him off. “Only a fool would write father’s birth-date when the applicant’s information is requested.” Indirectly he said I a fool. I will leave it up to you, if you still want to continue reading.

Mom gets to decide again

Like most decisions of my life, Mother had decided that I should learn driving. This happened long back. Most boys of that age would have loved such a thing; not me, I am not really a driving-person; I would rather sit next to the chauffeur, looking out at the moving scenery: trees, farms, and houses. This incorrigible habit——in later life——has caused a few near fatal accidents.

Mother’s decision was influenced by my fast-falling grades; when her desperate schemes to improve my grades failed, she predicted the future of a rental taxi driver. In those days, I was not really bothered about academics. Education would not have any role in my future, for I was going to be in a band. I had all the essential qualities: long hair, dreamy looks, I-don’t-care-attitude, button-less shirts, and holed jeans. However——this I realized later——I lacked one main ingredient: Talent.

Not having talent is a terrible thing in life; worse still is the awareness of this lacking. Many talent-less people are unaware of their plainness——they are happy people. Blessed! I was not one of them. But like them, I was destined to be in the audience, clapping for other people.

After the idea of the band collapsed miserably, I had to look out for opportunities where academic brilliance wasn’t called for. I had some leads. In those days, I was curious about the central figure in the concerts, surrounded by artists with diverse musical instruments. The musicians played on their own; the man in the middle was supposed to wave the wand now and then. Somehow, this circus-ring-master commanded more respect. And the real players——the musicians——were insignificant: mere pawns. How much education is needed to do this job? I had wondered.

In the airports, on the runway, stands a man with 2 colorful TT racquets. The majestic plane silently obeys the commands of this puny racquet holder. It’s a great feeling maneuvering the giant man-made whale, hundreds of passengers in its belly, with colored TT racquets. Does this need any great qualifications?

These were all my fancies. But if I really had a choice, I must say, I had earnestly coveted the role of a strip-club bouncer. You enter a strip club; take the front seat——you don’t want to miss anything; the room is dim, with constant flickers of disco lights. On the stage, semi-naked girls perform acrobatics on steel poles. Eventually, a kind dancer jumps off the stage and dances alarmingly close by. You are all charged-up and want to grope her. Suddenly, there is a giant gorilla of a man in front of you. He has dark glasses and a mean look. He can crush you in seconds, if such is his desire. Somehow, you have failed to notice this dude before. In an emotionless tone the terminator says: “No touching Sir!” That’s a cool line. It demands respect. I have practiced that line hundreds of times in front of the mirror. I wanted to be that man.

Mother knew all these fantasies were castles in the air; hence the suggestion for driving, which of course didn’t require any accolades. But I had my reservations about driving. I was scared. I guess the mental block was because of one main thing: car-bombs. I had seen many innocent victims losing lives in Hollywood movies, while opening the doomed car-doors that triggered the bomb!

Finally, self-help books saved me. (I probably hold the record for reading the most number of self-help books. Strangers, after Smalltalk have concluded that I am either a HR person or a life insurance agent or a gay!) Over the period though, I have changed my opinion. I have painfully realized that the only people these self-help books really help are the ones who write them! I was a sucker for such books, in those days; the books sold me the cure for my mental block: The only way to conquer fear is by doing the very thing you fear. I fell for it. With this new found pseudo-enlightenment, I learned the very thing I feared: making car-bombs! It is easy, no rocket science. You can use mercury fuse or digital timer depending on your budget. The point is how you complete the circuit. [For security reasons, following few paragraphs have been omitted. Interested readers are advised to contact the author at their own discretion–Editor]

Indian License: enlightenment under the banyan tree

I have never driven a four wheeler in India, except for the short period when I took the driving classes. I have friends who learned driving in a week; such was their passion to master the art. They knew driving even before touching the wheel; they rote the theory since childhood. Only the minimum age bar restrained them. I didn’t have such passion; I was simply not cut out for such greatness.

Of course, I never drove on the Mangalore-Udupi express highway——that would have been a suicide mission; an impossible mission worthy of none other than our own Mr. Tom Cruise. My mother had strictly warned the instructor not to take me on the doomed highway. She knew I will run into something——it was not safe for other motorists! So I practiced on the local roads. Even after a month of training, there was not much progress in my driving; Eventually, my trainer came up with a full proof plan.

On the day of the road test, minutes before boarding the test-vehicle, he placed a single crisp 50 rupees note in my upper shirt pocket. The ancient test vehicle trudged slowly outside the city and finally at the outskirts stopped completely under a large banyan tree. The two of us, I and the examiner, sat in silence for a few seconds. Then he flourished his hand. I quietly removed the single 50 Rupee note and placed it on the open palm. The hand retracted as silently as it had protruded. That was the test. I cleared it without ever touching the wheel. Like in art-cinema, no dialogues were exchanged during this crucial transaction. The simplicity of this whole affair fascinated me. Outside, the giant banyan tree had witnessed the dirty-business silently. If it had a choice, it would have fallen on us, crushing the crooks. No such thing happened. Years ago, under a similar large tree, Lord Buddha had attained Nirvana. No such thing for me——I had to be content with a mere driving license.

Soon after, I got a job in Bahrain.

Bahrain: Arabs and the Hummers

Things were different in Bahrain——there were no banyan trees. There was a Tree of Life——a single 400 year old tree in the desert. I didn’t get an opportunity to see it. Certainly, there was no one to place a note in my pocket. Such things were unheard; the rules were strict. The whole business of driving on the wrong side of the road confused me.

I had a few Arab friends who had only one purpose in life: driving Hummers. This robust vehicle was originally designed for military purposes; hence it could glide on water smoothly and climb sand hills effortlessly in a precarious angle; In short, the vehicle had no business in Bahrain——mostly a flat land. Anyway, these friends drove with such great speed, whenever I was with them, I feared, that we would cross the gravitational threshold and leap into outer space.

On weekends——which are weekdays for rest of the world——there were usually motorists from Saudi; rich visitors. These motorists didn’t care about the road signs——drove on the right side, which was the wrong side per the local traffic rules. So there was much confusion.

My Arab trainer was a patient man, but I once drove him to the verge, by jumping the signal, almost causing a three way accident. There was a weird rule for clearing the road tests. If failed 4 times in a row, one had to take a break for 6 months before repeating the test-cycle. This was in store for me, because I had failed thrice in a row. In fact, the first two times I failed within the test center compound itself; didn’t even go out onto the main road.

“Yalla Habibi, like this you can only drive ambulances or fire brigades” my trainer used to say. Since, the training dragged for months, we had become friends in later period. Before the 4^th test, he made me wait for 2 more months. “No one will fail you this month,” he said one day. “This is the holy month.” So in the month of Ramadan I cleared the test.

But soon after I got the US visa. I never really drove in Bahrain.

Uncle Sam: a dream

My first project in the US was in Hattiesburg; an unheard small town in Mississippi, smaller than Kinnigoli. Seeing some of my initial pictures, our neighbors back-home could not believe such small towns existed in the US. The question, Why did I travel thousands of miles to land in a place smaller than the one where I was born, mystified them. And, they concluded, only an artiste——with an E at the end——would undertake such a romantic (misguided?) adventure.

Hattiesburg was surrounded by thick forest: Often, vehicles had to stop for the deer to cross the road. Occasionally, there would be a fallen trunk, clogging the traffic. In those times, some of us would get down and help the road workers to move off the trunk and the foliage.

Small towns have their perks: I didn’t have to give the road test in Hattiesburg. I got the US license, based on the Indian license, which I had got, if you remember, not even touching the wheel!

In Hattiesburg commutation was poor, almost nonexistent. So the car was a must, not luxury. There was no getting away this time.

The car: Made for each other

My needs were frugal. “When I press the gas the car should move forward.” When I placed this requirement to the salesman, we were near the entrance of the dealership, where BMWs and Lexus were aligned for display.

“We are on the wrong spot,” said the salesman; and signaled me to follow him——to the right spot. We crossed Nissans, Toyotas and Hondas——at this time we had covered a substantial distance——we almost reached the exit. And there it was, my future car, hiding behind the dumpster. I was skeptic initially. But once I sat in it, I felt like Cinderella; the car fit me like Cinderella’s shoe. Pretty soon we (I and the Car) became WILLS: made for each other!

Never in my wildest dream, I had imagined owning a car: I am a poor man, even in my dreams. I wonder what Freud had to say about this? Over the time, I have developed a great affection for this car. In the early days, I used to park it right next to the luxury cars: Audis and Benzes——to give better alternatives for the potential car thieves. This attitude has changed, after one time I left the car-door open by mistake for a whole day and no one took my car. Not that we don’t have car thefts, but people who steal cars here have better cars.

When I bought it, it was already 10 years old. So in terms of a car’s life span, it was old. And over the period it had this or that ailments, which I haven’t really bothered to fix. It makes a squealing un-car like noise, which announces my arrival from miles ahead. This unearthly sound has scared the hell out of clueless strangers. My neighbor had politely requested not to come home in the nights: the children get scared of the car. The squealing sound reminds them of a Banshee——an Irish feminine spirit, a death announcer from the other world!

So I took the car to the dealer. After analyzing the symptom, he said, in his 35 years of career, he had never heard such a diabolic sound. The subsequent quote to fix the problem was astronomic: almost the price of the car itself! So I let it go. Now, if I am late, I park at the farthest corner and walk home the rest of the way.

Being old, it is lenient. Young cars, upon realizing passengers not wearing seat belts, raise alarm, start all sorts of tantrums; some even refuse to budge. But my car, the old gentle lady, beeps only once just to make sure my preference not to wear the belt is intentional.

Two years back, when my wife was pregnant, friends and neighbors almost convinced me to ditch the car. “It is supremely risky to ride the ancient giant,” they said. “You don’t want to take such a chance when the baby arrives.” This logic almost convinced me. During that time, one day, we were planning a visit to the near by town——an hour drive. In the early morning, when I cranked the car, it didn’t budge. No matter what I tried, it didn’t start. Frustrated, I kicked the tire, slammed the door, and cancelled the trip: promised wife to trash the old timer at the earliest. That day, a few hours later, we were hit by a worst snow storm. Sixteen wheelers were tossed off the road like toys. People stranded on roads for hours. Day-to-day life halted. Airports closed. Flights circled in the sky before returning to safer unintended destinations. One of my colleagues had volunteered to drop off another colleague, a young lady, to the airport. They could not make it: instead they were stuck somewhere midway, for hours in the cold, till cops rescued them. They didn’t have an option: they fell in love. Never realizing which hit them harder: storm or love.

Anyway, the next day the car started as if nothing had happened on the previous day. It saved a lot of hassle. The car had some kind of premonition. No more sacking the car: It stays, till it decides to kick the bucket.

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Note: This article was published at Daijiworld.com

Bona

2011-12-11T21:36:00.002-05:00

"The true paradises are those that we have lost."
-Marcel Proust

Part 1

Though years later, many colorful stories, some true and some not, that had floated around our small-town made Bona notorious, the very first incident that brought him to the limelight happened when he asked the doomed question in the moral science class.

Sister Grace, newly ordained, new to our town, was quite reluctant to accept her responsibilities of conducting the moral science class, for the 9^th standard boys. She was not quite comfortable in the company of boys in short-pants, about to become men. On the particular day, the boys were restless for the cricket game that was to follow after the class.

“Any questions boys?” She asked indifferently; she wasn’t expecting any, knowing the boys were eager for the game. When Bona raised a hand from the last bench, she got pleasantly surprised.

Though, in literal she said “any questions”——she meant a question related to her domain: religion. She was, in a sense, qualified enough for any questions on religion that a ninth standard boy could have come up with.

On the other hand, Bona misinterpreted her entirely. For him, any questions meant anything in the world——encyclopedic in scope.

“Yes, Bonaventure,” Sister Grace came down from the podium——to hear him clearly. She had collected her attendance book, chalks, and duster intending to leave the class from the backdoor after answering Bona’s question.

Bona stood up. He looked at the boys——who were clearly irritated by his intervention that would delay the game. Bona ignored them and boldly put forward his query: “Why do dogs lift hind legs, while peeing?”

Shocked, Sister Grace could not believe her ears.

“Pardon me?” she said nervously, placing the book and the duster on the nearby desk.

Bona repeated the question. The students, who had missed his query first time, heard it clearly this time. A cacophony, mingled with bench-thumping that could have brought down the roof, broke out. Sister Grace trembled in horror. For her, this wild group looked like an army of apes——ready to attack at the slightest disturbance.

Bona got equally confused by the commotion; but realized immediately that Sister Grace needed to be rescued from this wild bunch.

“Sister Grace,” he said with great urgency, “It is fine if you don’t know the answer. One is not expected to know everything.”

This well-intended advice backfired. The resulted noise was so high that principal Sastri, who was conducting History classes on the third floor, came down running. On seeing him, noise seized at once. Sister Grace dashed out of the class. There, she talked to the principal, in low tones. Between the sobs, the whole event was narrated that didn’t make much sense to Sastri. However, he didn’t demand further clarification from the devastated God’s confidante. After this confession, Sister Grace went straight to the chapel, where she spent rest of the day in prayer. Sastri ordered the boys to leave for the day with a pin-drop-silence. The class obeyed, except Bona——who was summoned to the principal’s office.

In the office, Bona noticed the pictures of past principals hung on the wall. At the end of this long line of dignitaries was a picture of Jesus——who was never the principal, also not adequately dressed up for the portrait. Among these dignitaries, Jesus looked less qualified——an odd man out. Bona wanted to point out this inconsistency, but thought better of it. He had narrated the whole event with utmost sincerity to the principal, who had his own doubts about the ignorant sitting across: Is he really innocent or a Smart Aleck taking me for a ride? Sastri wondered.

“Why did you ask that question?” Sastri said eventually.

“Belcha wets our-”

“Who?”

“Belcha—our neighbor Silam’s dog wets our rose bushes, daily. I was curious-” For Sastri, who had seen more life and more eccentricity, this answer sounded reasonable. He didn’t poke further questions——for he feared such provocation would lead to unwanted confusion in the young mind.

After this incident Bona had to visit principal’s office now and then for various reasons. Sastri always heard Bona’s version before judging him. One time, in a Teacher’s meeting Bona’s subject came up. “Our academic system,” said Sastri, “is not ready for Bona.” Sister Grace, alerted on hearing Bona’s name, didn’t approve this reasoning, but decided to ignore the comment. However, she developed a life long fear for Bona and his unpredictable questions.

Years later, when he was working as a school bus-driver, Bona paid her a visit at the hospital——on hearing about her illness. She recognized him at once. “You are that evil boy with the ridiculous question!” She looked visibly shaken. “I wish,” she continued, between coughs, “someone could ask such a preposterous question to you. And then I want to see the color draining from your evil-face!” It seemed like some kind of a curse. No one had called Bona evil, twice in such a short span. He ran out of the hospital, never to return, till a strange incident——that occurred years later——caused a need for his hospitalization.

The dog-question though, made him quite famous. People talked about it for days. Later many such stories circulated in and around our small-town. At its peak, the rumors and counter-rumors had reached such mythological proportions that people at distant places doubted the very existence of such a personage. Such people were pleasantly surprised on meeting the man himself, accidentally, in one of their errands.

Dog’s death

The predictions made by Sastri——many years ago——had materialized. Either the academia was not ready for Bona or he was not ready for it. The fragile bond had broken. And, in a world where academic qualifications dictated the job industry, he had failed to get a decent job.

Eventually, his Mother begged Sastri, who made him school bus driver—with nothing else to offer. Sastri had felt sad for his odd-ball student. Neighbors were sorry for his failure in the real world. The only person, content and indifferent to the state of affairs, was Bona himself. The new job offered him a lot of flexibility. Between his shifts he worked at the Church. After the previous sexton passed away, the post was still vacant. On weekends, he was the captain of our junior cricket team. He was the senior most member; other players had played for the team during their time and moved on, not Bona——whose loyalty was unshakable.

His shift started early in the morning with washing and cleaning the bus; usually, there would be used chewing-gums stuck under the seats or semi-naked pictures on the last row. Bona would use the pictures to remove the gums. After the wash, the bus would majestically roam around the town collecting boys and safely deposit them at the school. Then he would walk to the near by church, where our vicar would have day’s chores ready for him. Sometimes Bona would accompany the old-vicar, on his ancient scooter, for distributing communion at the old-age-home. On the days of odd masses, usually offered for sudden deaths, Bona would stay back after the masses to close the doors and switch off the ceiling fans.

Early one day, while washing the bus, Bona noticed something under the tire. A dog was sleeping. His efforts to shoo it away failed; on a closer look he realized the dog was dead. It was Belcha——the dog had played a pivotal role in Bona’s life. He remembered the fateful question. After the class, Bona had cornered Silam, dog’s owner, threatening to cut off his sprinkler (dog’s), if measures were not taken to restrain the dog from showering the rose bushes.

Post Silam’s death, Belcha had become a stray. And, here it was dead and cold. There was no blood: it was not an accident. The dog had simply died——Heart attack, concluded Bona. He was getting late for the school. No one was around to help. Finally, by grabbing the tail, Bona dragged the dog out and placed it near the edge of the road.

The next day, Bona found the dog at the same place, unmoved. It had swollen a bit; its features were stiff. A strong smell was developing around it. After dropping the students at the school, Bona went to the Panchayat, where he was told that the person responsible for such cleanups had eloped with a younger member; a substantial amount of money collected for public toilets was missing too. “We have a bigger issue here,” said the ill-tempered Panchayat president.

At dusk, unobserved, Bona dug a hole, and buried the dog. That night, after the dinner the phone rang. Bona was politely asked for. “Ask your friends to call in the mornings,” said Mother, from the kitchen.

“Bonaventure Immanuel?”

“Yes.” Bona got surprised——no one had addressed him by his full name in a long time. “Sir,” continued the voice, “your kindness to the dead dog has not gone unnoticed; it is the mark of a noble citizen.”

Bona, at once sensed the news reporter tone. The language from the other side was articulate——not the village pidgin. His chest heaved with pride. He imagined seeing himself on the front page of The Daily Alarm our local newspaper——holding Model Citizen Trophy.

“What can I do for you?” Bona said politely, relishing every moment.

“Another opportunity has made itself available for your kind disposal, sir.” Said the voice.

“I didn’t understand-”

“A stray dog has met the same fate of Belcha. No one is taking the responsibility of giving it a decent burial. And you sir—the gentle soul—who’s expert in such delicate matters and having prior experience, remains the sole candidate, whose services are utmost needed in these dire times—”

At this point Bona heard giggles on the other side.

“Who is this?”

“Bona—come immediately. The dog has stunk up the whole place.” The voice at once had lost the finesse and a loud laughter was heard.

An uncontrollable fit seized Bona. “Just tell me your name, if you-” but the line went dead.

The search

The next day, after the morning shift, Bona went to the telephone exchange. There he met the newly appointed trainee, Shanbag; only a few months back Shanbag was the vice captain of the junior cricket team, under Bona. Knowing his Vice captain well, Bona didn’t tell him about the mysterious phone call. He feared another colorful rumor. He just wanted the number from where the call was made.

“We don’t keep local call history,” said an irritated Shanbag at the unusual request. “Think about maintaining the log for all the afternoon housewives’ chatter-”

Bona ignored this remark. “You are saying, if someone threatens my life on the phone, you cannot provide a proof?”

“Who threatened you?” said Shanbag, alerted.

“I am giving you an example——”

“What could be the motive?”

“What motive?”

“Why would someone wants to kill you? Who would benefit from your death?”

“How should I know? I would be long dead and gone by that time——because of the inefficiency of the telephone people.”

Shanbag let this comment pass——there was no arguing with Bona. The whole thing is a nuisance, concluded Shanbag. He didn’t want any part in this farce while on probation. The current captain and the former vice captain reached a dead-end. A pregnant silence ensued.

“Are you interested in the Sunday tournament?” Bona shifted gears, lured the opponent. This hurt the feelings of ex-vice captain, “I am done with cricket,” said he, controlling his anger.

“Match is on Sunday,” said Bona, Ignoring the other completely. “You don’t work on weekends, do you?”

“Life is not cricket!” shouted Shanbag. He had the paperweight in his hand, firmly gripped. He had to control himself not to use it as a weapon. “You should leave,” Shanbag said eventually. Now that the moment had passed, he composed himself. “You should really forget this dog incident,” Shanbag consoled Bona.

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Alaram——twisted Colloquialization of The Daily Alarm——had published a reportage on the mysterious phone call. After which, Bona had paid a visit to the proprietor T. K. Parthasarathi, who was duly warned against spreading such rumors. The next few days Bona closely monitored Alarm. There were no more updates on the phone calls. However, there were page-long articles on violence in Mangalore. Something else had taken Partha’s fancy. Off late, Alarm had started sensationalizing irrelevant subjects. Bona stopped the vigil after a week.

Manhole

The mysterious call had disturbed him. He had heard the voice before, but could not put a face to it. His thoughts trailed off when he saw the Imam Sahib at the mosque. “What happened to the window?” The glass was broken.

“One of the sixers. Don’t worry about it,” said Imam sahib, “it was due for replacement anyway.”

Being the captain of the team, this concerned Bona. The team needs to be warned against such incidents. He found the junior cricket team at the old-abandoned road. The group was curiously observing something on the ground. Before he could warn them, someone asked: “Do you think this manhole lid falls inside?” For Bona this looked like a pointless question. Nevertheless, when the question was repeated, he said: “Impossible.”

“Gigu says it will fall inside.” Bona had kept Gigu out of the team in the last match, on account of his poor form.

“In theory,” started Bona, “the manhole lids are designed circular so that they don’t fall in-”

“Wrong,” countered Gigu.

“Why don’t you stand on it?” Someone challenged. Bona was not in the mood to counter challenge. He started walking away from the crowd.

“Are you afraid?”

Bona stopped. The whole world is against me, concluded Bona. He wanted to wring the challenger, right there. The team cheered for the captain. Reluctantly, he placed one leg on the manhole lid; the other leg was firmly secured on the ground bearing all his weight. The lid was firm and unmovable. The team cheered once again. Now that he had the upper hand, a demonstration was needed, a lesson required to be taught to the challenger. Bona gave a small bow to the team, his supporters. Then to further cement their approval he jumped on the lid with an I-Told-You-So smirk on the face.

On the third leap, the lid fell inside carrying Bona along. He fell like a jackfruit falling in a water pool——with a big splash. A sudden panic engulfed the whole group.

Postman Inas, who was watching this curious incident from a distance, came running for the rescue. Some of the boys, including Gigu, had vanished off the scene. The one remained were unmovable, frozen. A few years back, in a similar situation, a cow had stuck in the swamp and the desperate attempt led by Postman-Inas had failed. Inas was determined not to fail this time.

A rope, borrowed from the neighboring well, was let down in the manhole. The other end was securely circled the nearby mango tree. However, the team could not pull Bona up, the weight too much. Inas peeped inside, found Bona at halfway, holding the lid.

“Leave off the lid,” shouted Inas.

“The lid comes with me,” Bona’s voice came from the darkness, “Or I won’t come up.”

Inas didn’t argue with Bona—he knew it was a waste of time. “I don’t know why I get into this,” he cursed himself for volunteering this thankless job.

Eventually Bona was raised, from darkness. A bucket of water was poured on him that hardly removed the stench. Bona didn’t care. He went straight to Sagar Metal Works, to fix the defected lid.

That night the phone rang.

Mother said: “Tell your friends not to-”

“I know,” said Bona.

“Bonaventure Immanuel?”

Bona quietly waited. The Voice congratulated Bona for fixing the manhole lid. However he was warned against any future telephone-exchange visits. This strict warning——from the omniscient mystery man——shattered Bona. Made him speechless. When no response was heard from Bona, The Voice disconnected.

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There was a conspiracy brewing against me, concluded Bona. The strange events looked like a meticulous sabotage——well planned and organized. All this thinking was going on in his mind, while he was waiting for the evening trip.

Unknowingly, he touched a thick liquid like substance on the cement bench. He retrieved his hand in alert and noticed red color all over his palm. “Spoiled children of rich parents!” Bona cursed the brats who had spilled paint at his usual seat. He took a sniff. It was odorless.

“It’s blood,” Sastri had quietly made his presence. On hearing the word, Bona felt weak, suddenly everything around started spinning and he lost conscience.

Part 2

When communal outrage sprouted all over the country, our town was indifferent at first——like an island. It looked like a perfect little heaven. But these days didn’t last long.

Hell broke out with an unreasonable killing of an innocent. One of the morning walkers had found the dead body on the cement bench, in front of the school. Police was notified. It was just a way of keeping the score. In bigger cities, people forget these events the next day. But in our town, where days drag slowly, people talk about such things for months.

Bona had missed the whole event; he had gone on a school picnic. When Bona lost conscience, acknowledging the blood, Sastri supported him from falling down. Bona was rushed to the hospital, from where he had ran away years ago after the bitter encounter with Sister Grace. For months, he would eat with a spoon. He would wash hands frequently——the image of bloodied hand haunted him all the time.

These events brought new life in our town. Every other day there was some kind of demonstration or protest in the nearby Mangalore city. Bus rides were arranged from our town. Many participated just because the rides were free or for the refreshments distributed on these rides——it was a picnic for them.

New faces showed up in our town. They were found in front of Vasu’s hotel or in the bus stand. These people sat in those places for hours. They were waiting.

Bona

Till a few months back, there was some night life. In the bus-stand one would find people from the last bus from Mangalore or Autos waiting for the people who had missed the last bus. Nowadays, people shut the doors at sunset. A strange calmness lingers in the air.

Bona was late; he had met an old friend in the market. They sat at Vasu’s hotel remembering old days, unaware of the passing time, until it was time to close. On the mud-road to his home, he heard some disturbance in the thicket. Before he could do anything he was surrounded by a group of people. Their faces were covered with masks or cloth. In the dark Bona could not see their features clearly. Initially, Bona struggled, but soon realized it was of no use. He was immobile. A man with a mask with holes for eyes came forward. He observed Bona in the dancing flames of cigarette lighter.

“Are you a Hindu or a Muslim?”

Bona who had stupefied people with his eccentric questions, could not come up with an answer. Am I a Muslim or a Hindu? He asked himself. But the logical part of his brain had frozen.

“Why bother an answer? Just finish him.” Someone suggested.

One of the assailants had held him by the neck——which hurt him terribly. In this pain he remembered Sister Grace and her curse. Finally, someone had asked Bona an unanswerable question. Small beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His breathing hastened.

“If you-” bona coughed. “If you give me a moment, I will answer your question,” Bona said. He was relieved. Within moments Bona removed his shirt and before anyone could protest he removed the pant and every single bit of cloth off his body, and stood naked in front of his captors.

“I don’t know if I am a Hindu or a Muslim,” Bona said. “I am standing naked in front of you. If God had left any clues on my body, about my religion, it is up to you good people to find out.”

This sudden development confused the crowd; in a frenzy a sword was raised, which stopped in mid air when an outcry was heard at distance. A crowd with torches and poles led by Sastri came for the rescue. By that time the attackers had vanished.

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

After this incident, he went mute. Bona, who had puzzled people with his bizarre ideas, for once went silent. He cut down his outings. Inas filled the temporary bus driver post.

In the past, Bona would close the doors by sunset, only to be opened in the morning. Now, doors stood open all the time. He had started his night strolls. For hours he would sit on the fated cement bench. The blood stains were dried out. In the moonlight one could see his silhouette frozen in time.

One morning he went to the mosque; the window glass had been fixed. The new glass didn’t gel with the faded old glasses of adjacent windows. It was a temporary fix——just to serve the need of the hour. The cricket ground was next to the Mosque. Bona measured the distance between the window and the cricket pitch; even Tendulkar couldn’t have hit such long six. Things were slowly changing for months. Alarm had warned from the beginning. How could I not notice these things?

“Bona!” boys waved from the passing school bus. From the distance he could not identify individuals. In their uniform they looked alike, undistinguishable from one another.

When Sastri came to know about Bona’s silence, he went straight to his home. Old scooter was precariously parked at the gate. The vicar was inside, so were Inas, Vasu, and some other people. It was a small crowd. Sastri pulled a chair. Bona ignored the teacher, continued staring the floor.

“Bona we have to live with these new developments,” Sastri said, “They are integral part now. Like the weather and rain and sun.

More such incidents will follow in the future. This time no Messiah is going to come for the rescue. People who know this very well, will take advantage.

Some of us who approve these deeds are no different than the miscreants who have created these atrocities. Such people should ask themselves——Is any God important than neighbor’s blood? Does any religion demand innocent’s blood?

One should not lose hope in these times, for that would be the ultimate victory for the enemies.”

Sastri sat in silence. No improvement was seen in Bona. Booth Incha——he has a telephone booth——came forward, placed a piece of paper in Bona’s hand. Bona gave a questionable look.

“I keep a receipt of every call made from my booth, for my accounts.”

Bona checked the receipt. He saw the date and time. It was the date of the first call.

“I write the name of the caller on the backside. Some clients prefer a monthly settlement.”

Bona turned the receipt. There was the name, scribbled in long hand: Shanbag. Suddenly he could fit the face and the voice. Bona remembered Shanbag mentioning the dog. Though, Bona had not said anything about the incident. The vice-captain never rose to the position of captaincy; never got a chance to lead the junior team. Jealousy had taken over. Frustrated, he had devised a plan to take revenge. It all came to Bona. His whole body stared shivering. Blood rushed to his face turning it red.

“I am going to kill the son of——” Bona gulped the trailing words realizing Sastri’s presence; He composed himself, and then dashed out in search of his prey.

Sastri let out a deep sigh. A thin smile came on his face. There is still hope in this place, he thought.

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

Note: This story was published in Daijiworld.com

Summer with Daughter

2011-09-25T11:58:00.005-04:00

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?’

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

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.

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

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

2011-09-25T11:51:00.003-04:00

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

“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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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.

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

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

2011-09-25T11:25:00.004-04:00

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.

Parenthood and some other things…

2011-04-05T20:51:00.003-04:00

Prologue: an untold incident from the past

When I was studying engineering, one day, a classmate, climbed the high-wall of the ladies hostel. From there, he climbed up a water pipe to the third floor——to fetch the undergarments of one of the most beautiful ladies of that time. The stories of this incident spread like wild fire; they became more and more colorful as time passed by. When I heard this, I went berserk, pulled my hair out and, banged my head——for not doing this ingenious feat myself.

Later, in a secret auction, held in a remote corner of the boys’ hostel in the wee hours, the coveted possession was sold for an outrageous price.

This was long back. Years have passed. Much water has flowed under the bridges. Governments have fallen. Sometimes, in the evenings, I sit in the easy-chair on the porch, and remunerate the old-event. I wonder, why would someone risk his life to fetch something that had no use for him whatsoever? But if you think about it, it’s not a bizarre incident. Something like this should be expected from all men. Historically, you might have noticed, men have done notoriously foolish things——apparently for no particular gain.

I am a different person, now. Over the period my values have changed. Things that once took my fancy, no more fascinate me. May be I am becoming old before my time. I no more wear an ear-ring, no tattoo, no torn jeans, no piercing, and in the last few years I have skipped Mardi-Gras. Now, mostly I go for formals, prefer ties, avoid jeans, and wear long sleeves to hide needle marks. I am erasing my past, mainly because, now I have a year old daughter. God forbid, years from now, in her teens, she won’t come across a person like me.

The reality: Baby is here.

In my case, parenting was an accident. We planned everything meticulously, nothing worked, and finally when we lost hope, God gave us a baby. Hence, a beautiful surprise. It was opposite in my parents’ case. They opted for family-planning, failed miserably, and I was born. Hence, a terrible nightmare! I was born almost immediately after my parents’ wedding; some skeptics concluded, perhaps I was the reason for their hurried nuptials! This is not true: highly preposterous. Where do people get such ideas? My parents are just regular folks, very religious. They wouldn’t dream such a thing or——wait a minute, now that I think about it——Oh my God! Did I just stumble on a family secret? A secret buried for more than 30 years. The world is going to the dogs! Nowadays, you can’t even trust your parents!

My wife and I took some time to digest the fact that we were parents. After delivery, from the hospital, we went straight home, and placed the baby on the bed. My wife looked at me. I looked at her. We looked at each other. (Did you notice I just used 3 sentences, instead of one, to convey a single fact? I guess, I will always remain an amateur.)

“Oh my God,” I said, “This baby is real. And it is going to stay for times to come.”

Then it hit me that I have become a parent. Some days, I was woken up in the early hours by baby-cries, shouted obscenities at the neighbors, only to realize that it was my baby. Life won’t be same anymore. Many things were going to change: no more movie theatres, no more quiet candle-light dinners, and no more late night parties.

Transitioning to parenthood

My parents had three children. To me, they always looked composed. They glided through parenting, smoothly. I have one child, and so far, at least 3 times, I have thought of running away from home!

When my wife was pregnant, we begged God——for twins. When we realized, that there won’t be twins, I felt dejected. “God!” I said, “One simple thing I asked you in so many years. But you won’t oblige me.”

Now, after having a baby for a year, I told God, “Thank you God, for not listening to my prayer!” From this I have learned that God’s plans are better than ours——he is a better Project Manager!

Baby taught us many things: Importance of sleep. The value of this simple pleasure——that I had taken for granted——I realized only when I was deprived of it.

Either I or my wife needs to sleep whenever the baby sleeps, because when she wakes up, someone should hold her. She sleeps clutching my hand, tightly. This gives her a comfort feeling; however, I can not sleep, if someone holds my hand. This reverse requirement has cost me many sleepless nights. Life has become baby-centric (In the past it was Mom-centric, wife-centric, and boss-centric. I was never the center of my own life.)

A few weeks ago, I found myself eating food in the wee hours.

“What time is it?” I asked my wife.

“2 in the morning.”

“Which year?”

“What?”

The room was revolving with a great speed. The fan was stable.

“Which year?” I repeated.

“Does it really matter?”

“It is fine if you don’t know the answer,” I said, “I guess, one is not expected to answer all the questions.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Does it really matter?”

“What are you saying?”

“Why am I eating at this hour?” I asked.

“…we slept with the baby; she is up now.”

“Baby? What baby?”

I guess I was losing my mind.

In spite of several warnings from friends and dear ones, we used to hold the baby all the time. Now she is used to it, can’t put her down, even for seconds. Right now, I am typing with one hand. In the other hand I have the baby——I have become ambidextrous. I can type with right or left hand depending on where the baby is. I am going to demonstrate this on YouTube soon. You will believe me then.

Before the baby, I had so much free time; I was contemplating on writing a novel. I had a great plot. A young man, frustrated by family and relatives migrates to a distant country. There he meets a girl and marries her. Time flies. But this man has an immense desire to tell his story to the world. He wants to write a book. He is all set, but then the baby arrives and the dream is shattered! Intelligent readers would notice that this is my own story!

I can only write what happens in my life. My luck! (In this regard I am like Maugham.)I cannot write true fiction. I tried though. I wrote a few short stories (I know you haven’t read them); a few kind readers, who read my stories, were traumatized. My stories build-up tension till the end, but once you are there, nothing happens. They just end abruptly. This has caused frustration among many readers. Several readers have warned Daiji to stop publishing my stories, or they will go somewhere else. One person has committed suicide. His last note said: “Though, in my heart, I knew this is a mediocre world, I had some hope. But after reading Mr. Lobo’s short stories…”

Did you notice the abrupt ending? The victim didn’t even bother to complete the sentence! Such is the effect of my stories!

The India trip

Being born in the US, my daughter is a citizen. She can visit about 150 countries without a Visa: except, India! Just my luck.

On the other hand, being an Indian citizen, without a visa I get to visit only one country in the whole word: Nepal. Which is not bad—— Nepal is a beautiful country. If the chaos in Mangalore increases, I might just go to Nepal and settle down there. End of the day, I am more interested in leading a peaceful life than to find out which one of our Gods are stronger! Expecting a peaceful life has become a luxury!

At Mangalore airport, the moment I got off the plane, my phone rang. Only one person could have called me precisely at that time: Mother. All mothers have this instinct about their children. They can sense their child in the vicinity. This is a motherly thing. I can’t really explain it. God being “God”, with his tight schedule, created mothers——to delegate some of his responsibilities.

I was meeting Mom after 2 years; so many emotions; so many stories to tell. My eyes welled up; lips quivered.

“Hello Mom”

“Sir!” said the voice, “ICICI welcomes you to Mangalore.”

Apparently it was my NRI bank. They had some “ingenious” scheme, created having only myself in mind——so kind of them.

“I just landed,” I said.

“What better time than Now sir? Gandhiji had said——”

“Let’s not drag Gandhiji into this——”

[During the course of my vacation, I got several calls from the same person——for they had created several schemes, keeping only me in mind. My vacation almost got screwed. I am so tempted to mention the name of the person.]

When my mother saw me at the gate, she was surprised.

“I thought you were coming tomorrow.” So much for the motherly instinct!

“Even the bank people have my correct itinerary,” I said.

The dog at the gate started barking. My daughter cried in alarm. She had never seen a barking dog. In America dogs don’t bark. Their mere purpose: aesthetic.

I had not seen the dog before.

“Why do you entertain stranger’s dog on our property?”

“It is not a stray dog.” Mom said.

“Then?”

“It is our dog.”

“Why it is barking at me?”

“It thinks you are a stranger!”

The dog was stupid, because it was barking at me——its owner! Though I said, I am the owner, eventually my younger brother will get everything——he being the favorite. I will get Grandpa’s ancient book-shelf. One time, in a literary fervor, I had announced that the shelf is the most important thing in my life——Mom took that literally.

In Mangalore, I became busier. Sometimes I attended three weddings in a day. And sometimes, the schedule was so tight, I attended one wedding, my wife attended another and the baby third one. Everyone wants to marry in December and wages a life long grudge if you miss the wedding. Thankfully, I didn’t have to visit any friends——all my friends are on FaceBook. I have about 27000 friends. Most of them don’t even know me. Many don’t have a clue, whether I am a man or a woman or an android. They don’t care if I am 16, 46 or 256. But they want to do farming with me. They send Farmville requests. I would rather go to our fields and do some real ground work.

Accidentally, I met my ex-girlfriend at Citi-Center. We carefully avoided the past, and discussed unrelated things: New York Stock Exchange rates, rainfall in Peru, alchemism, and global warming.

“I have made many mistakes in life,” she said, eventually.

I gasped. Time froze. For a moment birds stopped in mid air; everything went black and white——someone mistakenly had turned the color knob to minimum; barking dogs lost their voices; American radars monitoring North Korean borders malfunctioned for a few seconds.

My heart——that ticks 72 times per minute——skipped a few precious beats. Oh! God! Am I going to be another Humbert Humbert? Vronsky? Mellors?

“I have made many mistakes,” she continued, “but rejecting you is the only right thing I did in my life!”

Birds continued their flight; dogs found their voices; color got restored; Heart beat resumed steadily. All is well.

Tips for future parents

Now, whenever we go out with the baby, we take a big bag with baby stuff. The first time when we went to the hospital, we just took the baby. We had just changed the diapers and the hospital was near by, so we decided against taking the extra luggage, for a half hour outing.

In the hospital, there was this big million-dollar ultra-sensitive machine to check the baby weight.

I was about to place the baby on the machine, the nurse said: “No! No! No! Remove her clothes first.”

So I placed the baby, only with the diaper.

“Remove the diaper too”

“This may not be a good idea!” I said.

“Just do it!”

“I have a better solution.”

“What is it?”

“Weigh the baby with the diaper. Then weigh a fresh diaper. Subtract the weights. Take an absolute. The resultant is the point-in-time weight of the baby!”

“Are you an engineer?”

Shocked! “How did you guess?”

“Because you just gave me a perfect solution that is totally useless to me!”

With that she snatched the baby, removed her diapers and placed her on the machine. And the baby did what was forecasted. My point: Never hold a baby without a diaper, especially in public places. Don’t try it, however confident you are.

At this point of my article, I am supposed to give some tips, for future parents. Parenting is great——but marry first! (One of these days, I am going to be in deep trouble for my liberal thoughts! You know, how touchy we Mangaloreans are about Culture and Heritage!)

New parents are suckers for tips; they would go to any length to get the tiniest bit of information. The best thing about being a parent is that now you can give advice to future parents.

Remember there are no bad children, only bad parents. (I hope, someone would tell this thing to my parents.) The things you have been postponing to do after the baby, do them now. After the baby you won’t find time.

If you are pregnant right now, you should not read this article. I would highly encourage you to read better literature. You don’t want a child with mediocre literary taste. When pregnant, eat to your heart’s content; people will think the extra weight is because of the baby. With higher buoyancy, this is the right time to learn swimming. Watch movies, read books, take prenatals, no weight lifting, avoid flights, avoid seafood, exercise, walk, sleep, paint your tummy, talk to the baby, no smoking, no alcohol, no caffeine, and no sex——oops! All right, once a week!

There will be people ready to obey orders, exploit them. Once you are in the last trimester, don’t stray far from the hospital. Visit the delivery room in advance, don’t look for it at the last moment. Go for epidural, it’s worth it! Don’t worry about the back pain——it’s a myth.

Like all mammals (including platypus and echidna) nursing is the best thing for newborns! Go for it! No second thoughts! You can count on me on this one. Apparently some of you want to become Models. Nothing wrong with that. Or may be, it is better to be models for your children than to do a ramp walk for strangers! Oh my god! Did I just say something taboo? I have an eerie feeling that I just lost some of my fairer fans. I have dug my grave.

The great expectations

My parents are simple people; Father used to be 10^th in the class, Mother stood 15^th——there were 15 students in her class! These two seemingly simple folks expected me to be number one in virtually everything!

As a child, I started talking quite late; one could see my lips moving, framing sentences in my mind, before actually uttering them. Einstein had the same problem. My parents misinterpreted these signs. Thought the successor to Einstein was born in their house——nothing is more preposterous! Einstein was working on The Unified Theory at the end of his life, which he could not prove. My parents thought, I would resume his work. Such was their expectation.

I begged them. “Com’on guys, please be practical,” I said, “How can I become a super-achiever when the two of you are just plain?”

Mom said: “Einstein’s parents were not scientists!”

I replied: “Einstein’s children were not scientists either!”

That caused more confusion.

With all these expectations, I used to manage a second rank in the class. The first rank holder was a divinely gifted genius: A Tendulkar. Where as I was a look alike: A Sehwag. I had some shining but I was nowhere near number one. My mom was immensely sad about my second rank.

She couldn’t have been sadder, had I been the last rank holder in the class. Secretly she coveted a son like the first rank holder. But the Gods had cheated her, and blessed her with a son destined to be number 2 in everything he tried! A second rater! A fake!

All my life, I had been second to someone superior. I am the person whom the photographers push aside, to get a clear picture of someone prominent. Being second is a fate worse than losing. How many people know the second highest mountain in the world? or the second fastest man on the planet? or the second longest river? How many people know Buzz Aldrin? No one remembers a second position.

With these experiences, I don’t have any expectations from my daughter. I hope, she realizes the uselessness of the rat-races early in life. I have either become a mystic or set my goals too low——probably, the latter one.

On retrospection, I feel, I haven’t done that bad. In fact I am doing better than some of the number one people of my student life. On the other hand a few last benchers have become millionaires. Not being number one (in anything!) doesn’t bother me much, now. I guess, some people are chosen only to clap hands. We all have roles to play. Probably this is what Milton meant in his quote: “They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Epilogue: A Happy man

I was holding my daughter so far; just now I placed her on my desk. I can see her from the corner of my eyes. In a few days she will babble her first words. She is making the efforts. I can see her lips moving, She is formulating the words in her mind. Like me, she is a trifle slow in her responses. Her unruly hair, permanently disheveled, gives her the look of a scientist. Oh! My God! Are these some kinds of signs?

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

Note: This article was previously published at daiji.

A Favor

2011-04-05T20:44:00.004-04:00

Part 1

The Revolver

I have found the revolver, yesterday. It was in the attic, at the bottom of the old almirah; God knows how long it was lying there. Back of my mind, I knew, it was somewhere in the house. But I never thought much about it till the need arose.

It belonged to my grandfather; he was a veteran. I remember, in my childhood, he used to make me sit on his lap while cleaning this revolver, and narrate war stories. One time, at the border, he had come face to face with the enemy. In a do-or-die situation, he had pulled the trigger, at the blink of an eye, thus saving himself to narrate the near death experience——to anyone interested in listening. I had heard this story several times. Over the period it had changed many versions. Eventually it became so colorful I started doubting any trace of truth in the base version itself.

To tell you the truth, these very stories put me off. Dying at the border, for questionable ideals, didn’t make much sense. Though my father never told me, it is possible these were his thoughts too; for he had traded army life with the life of a school teacher. This is the only time he went against grandfather——who was crestfallen by Father’s decision. But once I was born, he bounced back with great determination to make me an army man. Initially, I was excited about the whole idea, but over the period, as I reflected more on it, I lost interest in a future demanding sacrifice and hard life. When the time came, I informed grandfather about my unshakable stand.

“What?” he said in a shock, “what could be greater than sacrificing ones life to his country?”

A hundred better things came to my mind, and I was about to mention a couple of them; but the painful look on my Mother’s face stopped me. My silence, and later unshakable conviction, greatly hurt the old man. He lost the motive to live.

On his death bed, the old crone made one last attempt. I was summoned. “Don’t hurt him,” Mother said at the door-threshold. I went inside. From the death-bed he gave such a passionate lecture even Yama——the death God——himself, could not intervene.

He (Grandfather, not Yama) snatched my hand.

“Promise me,” he said.

I didn’t want to lie to a dying man. But my mother had placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. I could not tell the truth. I promised. Grandfather died peacefully. For years, never once I thought of grandfather, or my promise to him, or his revolver.

Then something happened that changed my life, made me search for the very revolver desperately. It all started with Dude’s visit to our village.

Dude

When I first met Dude——strangely I don’t recollect his real name——I distinctly remember, I thought he was an alien. Sitting on the outside bench of the nameless-hotel, I was reading the newspaper, while sipping morning-tea. When for some reason I looked up, I gave a start, for I had never seen a stranger person. He wore large sunglasses, a dangling camera at the neck, yellow thick chain and a shining ring on the left ear. At the front of his head a tuft stood erect, defying gravity, like that of a porcupine.

“Dude, do you have a Gym here?” he asked.

No one before had asked me this strange question: A question worthy of an alien. Many in our village are physical workers, and a few——who travel to nearby Mangalore city for work——are so busy with the city-life, there is no real need for any artificial exercise equipment.

“Dude, I asked you a question,” the stranger said.

I must tell you——with some embarrassment——that I misinterpreted, Dude being his name. Later village-elders blamed me for naming him Dude, but I distinctly remember, our postman, Inas, is the one who named him Dude.

I informed the curious stranger that ours being a small village we don’t have any such fancy establishment. That greatly hurt him——being a lover of physical fitness. He started a lecture on the immediate need of a Gym for the village of our size. The lecture broke abruptly when he saw my breakfast plate.

“What are you eating, Dude?” He feigned mock horror.

“Golibaje,” I said.

“What? Never mind. Whatever you villagers eat here.” Then he picked one from the plate, as if a lab technician carefully picking a potential specimen, “Dude,” he said, “if you eat this oily stuff, you will die before forty. I warn you!”

His concern amused me. “Have one,” I said.

He flatly denied, rambled some more on calories, and fat rich food; but, eventually succumbed to the temptation. From his school bag——that seemed like having million small pouches, each carefully designed to hold specific item——produced a perfumed paper napkin, placed a singular Golibaje on it, carefully squeezed the oil out of it and took a delicate bite.

I waited for his verdict.

“Divine!” he exclaimed, reaching for the second one, “makes worthy dying before forty. What’s it called again?”

I told him the name.

“No such thing in Mumbai. Everybody eats junk at the railway station. Did you ever visit Mumbai?”

I denied. A small synopsis on Life-in-Mumbai followed. He had come down from Mumbai on summer holidays, and was staying at the biggest bungalow in our village. The house in concern was empty, except for the old woman——Dude’s grandmother. I had seen her sitting near the window for hours.

I would have continued chatting with this stranger, had I not seen Suma walking towards the library. I excused myself, “Something important has come to my mind,” I said and took leave.

Suma

When did I first meet Suma? I don’t know——long back——may be in a past life. She was there as long back as my memory goes.

Presently, I followed her from a distance. I will only have a few minutes in the library, before she was off for her course.

She was doing a vacation course in Mangalore——on Effective Communication. Prior to the course, like the endless TV soaps, she used to write lengthy letters. I used to spend hours, reading these letters, searching for subtleties. Once she joined the course, the long letters stopped, and extremely short to-the-point letters started. In this regard, the course was effective. I would recommend it to anyone interested.

She had joined the course against her Father’s wish——who thought it was a waste of time. But she knew education was her ticket to the outside world.

I used to meet her after the class. Sometimes, we met at the beach for quiet moments. Later we would take separate buses to our village. No one knew about us, except Inas. You cannot hide anything from him. He passed my letters to Suma, and carried her replies, being our village postman it was safe. Also, I was not required to paste stamps on my letters. In return I had paid off his outstanding bills at the toddy shop. It was a convenient arrangement.

In the library, among the aisles, we acted like searching for books.

“I don’t have much time,” she said, opening a book, “How is your work?”

“Going on,” I said.

“Did they pay you?”

“No. I am still on training.”

“Why don’t you find a new job?”

“It is not easy.”

She sighed.

“Some day, I want to run away from this place.”

That was her favorite line. She would say that whenever she was desperate and helpless. She asked: “Who was with you at the hotel?”

“Some visitor from Mumbai.”

“Looks like a joker.”

“I take that as a complement,” said Dude. He had followed me to the library. His presence put us in an awkward position.

“I am sorry, that’s not what I meant…” she searched for words.

Dude ignored her and asked me, suggestively, “Is this your important business?”

I gave a nervous smile and took the opportunity to introduce them. We had a small talk. In truth, Dude talked and we listened. I noticed his arms were permanently akimbo——result of excessive exercise.

Suma had to leave. She had already looked at the library wall-clock, a couple of time. Unaware of this, Dude was praising the exotic oily stuff he had tasted at the hotel. “I keep forgetting the name, but it is too cool,” he said.

“I need to go,” she said, else she would have missed her bus.

“Where?” Dude asked bluntly; such a question, to a person starting on a journey, would have been considered inappropriate in our village. But being from Mumbai——where everything is allowed——Dude was unaware of such customs.

“City. I have a class to attend,” she said.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

She wanted to say no, but could not. She agreed reluctantly. And they were off.

At the door, the librarian said: “You come here so often, at least borrow a book every now and then.” He smiled. Our village is full of such antiques.

I used to meet Suma at the remote places, away from the curious villagers. Dude discovered us occasionally—since he was roaming all about with his camera.

“I want to open a gallery,” he said one time. And, for some time he had been collecting money to materialize his dream.

Then without any warning he clicked Suma’s picture.

“I wanted a natural pose,” he continued, “In Mumbai you can become a model. I can promote you.”

That amused her. “I am not interested,” She said.

“Dude, you gotta convince her. It’s not a bad deal,” he told me.

After Dude’s departure, she was silent and thinking.

“Once you make some money, let’s get out from here,” she said.

“Why not accept Dude’s offer?”

She looked straight in my eyes.

“He is a fool,” she said.

A sudden change of fate

I was working at a small firm in Mangalore, run by a husband-wife pair. Being a Trainee, I was not paid for initial months. The job description was vague; I was expected to do anything and everything——including running errands——everything for free! Blood suckers.

One day, the husband gave me a plastic bag. “Drop this at home, my wife is waiting for it,” he said. His wife seldom came to the office. But she was on the payroll——something to do with tax evasion.

I collected Suma outside her class, took an auto to deliver the bag.

En route, she started searching the bag.

“Don’t-”

Before I could stop her, she had found something in the bag——neatly piled crispy bank notes. I had never seen so much cash in my life.

She asked the auto driver to make an U-turn.

“What are you doing?”

“This is our chance,” she said.

“What chance?”

“To escape this place.”

“Are you——” and then I realized, all along she was serious about eloping.

“But this is not right,” I said.

“Do they not owe you money?”

“Yes but,” I glanced inside the bag, “This is a lot.”

“Don’t say a word.”

“What?”

She asked the auto driver to stop.

“Why are we stopping here?”

“Don’t say anything.”

The auto driver demanded full amount for the ride. Suma tried to bargain. “Madam,” said the auto driver, “why bother about trifles when Lakshmi has suddenly blessed you with abundance?” He smiled suggestively.

The fool was listening to our conversation. She sighed, gave him whatever he was demanding, and started walking briskly. I followed her, trotting.

“Why did we get down here?”

“Do you want the auto driver to come to your home tonight, with his friends?”

I never thought in that angle. Suddenly she was in charge.

We made sure no one was following, crossed the road, and stopped another auto. The driver didn’t agree for the long ride.

“Too far, I won’t find a return customer,” he said.

“I will pay one-and-half,” I said. That didn’t lure him.

“Brother,” Suma intervened, “this is an emergency; mother has been hospitalized.”

Immediately he softened: “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”

The driver raced with the wind, as if his own mother had been hospitalized. He was sitting on the very edge of the seat, in a precarious position, ill-suited for such a high speed. On a different occasion, I would have suggested him to sit comfortably, but now, being mother in hospital, I checked myself. An Express bus, with a conductor dangling at the rear-door, drove alarmingly close by.

“Is this your Father’s road?” shouted the conductor, showing annoyance at the auto rushing on the mid-road.

Our driver retorted something equally provocative, involving sex and conductor’s mother——challenged him for a bare fist-fight. The conductor accepted the challenge, and counter-challenged the auto driver to stop the auto instantly, to start the proposed fight, if he was a true-son of his mother. Thus they fought for some distance, eventually the bus gained speed, and they could not continue.

We stopped outside the Hospital. The auto driver didn’t take the money.

“Sister,” he said addressing Suma, “Mother no money!”

He said that in English. Everyone here, whenever possible, in their own unique way, wants to show an intense fascination for the foreign language.

We entered the Hospital and came out from the opposite end.

I was hesitant.

“I need some time,” I said.

“What for?”

“To think.”

“What is there to think? Do you want to rot here?”

“Still this is not correct,” the whole idea didn’t convince me.

“2 days,” She said, “That’s all you will get. I will keep the money. Else you will return it by midnight.”

With that we parted, took separate buses to home.

In the evening I met Dude at the hotel. I had not seen him in last few days. He showed me his pictures of Kamabala——Buffalo race. I was preoccupied with the money. I gave him a lame excuse and went home.

A surprise post card

Two days were like in hell. Finally, I decided against our plan: It was impulsive and risky. Third day Inas came looking for me.

“You have a postcard,” he said.

Which fool would send me a postcard? From the look on his face, I realized he had read the content. I was about to give him a sharp warning on other people’s privacy, but noticed familiar hand-writing.

“Vasu,

I knew you would refuse. Experience! Life is short: opportunities don’t come everyday.

I am leaving.

No more yours,

Suma.

P.S. Don’t search for me.

”

It took me time to digest the whole thing. Even in pain, I noticed her short direct sentences that carried subtle meaning! Inas held me, I would have collapsed otherwise.

Dude was missing too. It didn’t take me long to add one and one.

Within moments the whole village learned the news; suddenly it buzzed with life; it had waited patiently for such a colorful event. Thus far, in the absence of such an event, the villagers were bored and life was monotonous.

The cow-incident was the last big thing. Ijjam’s cow had fallen in the swamp behind our house. Its painful moaning gathered the whole village. School declared a holiday. Every next moment the cow drowned by a fraction. It was a painfully slow process. A desperate attempt——by Inas and some youngsters——to save the cow failed. People talked about it for months. After that village life was silent and dull. That had happened a year back; the village was waiting patiently for the next big thing.

And now, the whole village talked about my affair. I was wrong about villager’s ignorance. They knew about it all along. Later I met a couple of old ladies who could recite the exact words from the postcard word for word——such is the power of human memory.

As the days passed by, I became more and more restless. I had failed to know her. A desperate urge to trace the lovers occupied me all the time. I begged Dude’s grandmother for his Mumbai address. But the old crone smartly denied any knowledge of the address; she knew divulging that information would put her grandson at a great risk.

My only other hope was Inas, who refused point blank, “How dare you?” he said, “It is confidential information: property of post office. Your request is unethical.”

He was at the toddy shop, having his usual rounds.

“Is it ethical to elope with the fiancée of a friend?” I asked him.

“Don’t ask me moral questions.”

I knew this drama artist: Countless times I had escorted him home from the very toddy shop.

I came straight to the point: “I am ready to pay.”

“Careful Vasu,” he warned me. “Don’t try your tricks with me. You don’t know me.”

The situation was going out of my hand.

“How much?” he asked.

“What?”

“How much money?” he smiled sheepishly.

The fool had a penchant for acting.

“50 Rs,” I said.

“Meet me here in 4 days,”

I got up, for there was nothing more to discus.

“Wait,” he said, “If you want the information immediately, it can be arranged.”

“How?”

“500 Rs. and I will give you right away.”

“Do you have it with you?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions.”

I went to Mumbai, met Dude’s father——learned that Dude had been kicked out the house along with his lover. I made a futile effort of searching them. No one knew where they had gone. They had simply vanished.

One day the door-bell rang at dinner time. Father opened the door. “Someone for you,” he said from the threshold. I went in a hurry. My manager was there. Behind him two muscular men were waiting for his orders.

My mother sold some of her jewelry. Fresh rumors started; village buzzed, twice in a row, all because of me, an unprecedented achievement! Father stopped talking to me, unable to face the villagers he confined himself to the home.

Part 2

The Plan

A year has passed. I have turned a new leaf of my life——found a new job with a regular income. I don’t mingle with the village activities. Occasionally, I hear whispers and giggles; the year old incidents are still afresh in people’s memory. I keep to myself and resume my walk. The village is unforgiving.

Yesterday, while returning from office, I saw a light in the old bungalow. Old crone had died a few months back. I got curious. Behind the mammoth iron-gate I waited. After a while a man came to the window. In the dark, someone else could have difficulty recognized the man, but not me, I won’t forget that face in a million years——it was Dude.

At once, all emotions rushed back: the humiliation from the villagers; sleepless nights; Father’s silence; Mother’s indifference. My enemy was just a few feet away. In a similar situation, long back, my grandfather had pulled the trigger. I remembered grandfather: How he used to make me sit on his lap and narrate stories of courage and intrigue. I didn’t have his courage. I had failed him. And then, after so many years, for the first time, I remembered the revolver.

My plan is simple. I will announce everyone, a visit to my uncle at Bangalore. I will take the night train; but, get down after a few stations; go to the bungalow; drag Dude to the swamp at gun point; put a bullet in his head; and, dump the body in the swamp. No one will ever come to know. In a worst case, if the body was discovered, I won’t be a suspect, since everyone knows I was out.

I announced my visit to Mother. She didn’t disagree or agree——just indifferent. That’s how things stand now. My parents no more care what I do.

A favor

Parents are at the temple. The whole village is gathered there for the yearly Yakhshagana. I have stopped attending it. It all looks same to me. Starts at midnight and ends some time at dawn. No one watches the whole performance.

Someone is knocking at the door. At this time? I opened the door, and almost got a heart-attack at the sight of the person in front.

“Dude!” I said.

“Call me Rakesh,” he said.

I had forgotten his name. There is a significant change in him: No ear ring and the porcupine hair-cut. The camera is missing. Looks like he is not exercising regularly——I saw a bulge at the waist.

“May I come in?”

He came inside, before I could stop him.

My whole body shivered. What is he up to? Did he get a wind of my plan? And come up with a counter-plan? I waited for any sudden movement, when nothing came, I said: “wait here for a moment,” and ran inside. Only when I got the revolver, I felt relaxed and confident. And, with this new found confident came outside to face the monster.

“I have come to—”

“Now wait a minute Dude,” I stopped him, “you don’t get to drive all the time. It is my time now,” pointed the revolver to his chest.

“Is that a revolver?”

“Do you expect a garland? You eloped with my girl and my money——”

“What money?” He looked surprised, “She never talked about money,” but soon collected himself, “doesn’t matter anyway.”

I don’t have time for all these things.

“Just answer my questions else I will shoot.”

That brought him to his senses.

“Who else is with you?”

“I came alone.”

“Anyone knows you are here?”

“No.”

I need to prepone my plan. Hundred things are moving in my head.

“I came to apologies,” he said.

“After a year?”

“Listen to me please.”

“You see a revolver and change your color. Where is she?”

“Listen to me. I will explain everything,” then he narrated the events. “Once we eloped from here, we rented a small apartment in Mumbai, for Father didn’t allow entry to home. Initial days were beautiful. Gradually she started asking about the show business opportunities.”

“You are the one who gave her ideas,” I retorted.

“I was not serious. She realized that soon. There were daily fights. One fine day, when I came home, she was gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. I searched for her everywhere. Later I found that she had cleared the bank account. Vanished with the money I had saved for the gallery. That’s when I realized she had gone forever. Listen vasu, she was smart for both of us. I got what I had deserved. I have come to apologies. Today is the first time I feel free.”

I crashed into the near by chair.

“It was your fault. Only a fool will stay with you,” I said.

“Don’t say that Vasu. Why you want such a person in your life? She left both of us for worldly things. Twice she has done that. Is there any worth coveting such a person? Start a new life. Forget the old things. Don’t make any more mistakes.”

This was not the old Dude. But how can one forgive so easily?

“It’s all your fault,” I said. My eyes welled up. “Before you entered my life, things were so beautiful. You made my life hell. All because of you,” I cried.

Unable to face me, he looked out the window. “Don’t be so vengeful my friend,” he said, “By stealing her from you, I haven’t done anything but a favor.”

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

Note: This story was previously published on daiji.

Dreams and Nightmares

2010-10-23T21:33:00.003-04:00

It is Friday afternoon. In Kaizen Tech, everyone is in the weekend mood. The early birds have already left for the day——except Paddy; though one of the firsts to arrive, he leaves only after Bob, his boss, goes to home. Uncharacteristically Bob has called for a late meeting. An unplanned meeting, late Friday afternoon, means only one thing: someone needs to be fired!

“Swing by my desk, when you have a minute,” Bob had left a message on the Outlook Communicator. Though Bob has not indicated anything——Paddy knows. Bob won’t do the dirty job. He will give instructions and wash his hands off the whole thing. Paddy is the executioner. In the past, Paddy had been unconcerned. But today it is a different case. The candidate, unaware of his ominous fate, is a dear one; at least, was dear to Paddy once. What no one knows, including Bob, is that Paddy has master minded the whole thing, with a simple plan: simple and full proof.

Part 1

Paddy

Padmanathan Ulaganathan landed in the US a decade ago. Among other things, he was thoroughly perplexed by Americans failure in pronouncing his name. Americans, as usual, with a penchant for simplifying everything, had shortened him for Paddy——which he liked instantly more than his real name. Over the period many had forgotten his real name——except his Grandma in India, whom he called every week. “Ulaganathan, don’t forget your roots,” she would remind, much to his dismay.

Last year, in the absence of a suitable candidate, he was promoted. Sticking to one organization was one of his many schemes. He was full of such seemingly innocent but effective-on-the-long-run schemes. These schemes would some day place him at the top——such was his hope.

Paddy was a survivor. He smoked the exact brand of cigarettes that Bob smoked; at the lunch hour, involved himself with the right kind of people; always dressed sharp; made the right kind of jokes in management circles; laughed at the right moment; and stopped laughing at the right time not to raise any brows. He was a smooth player.

During the course of the day, he would attend as many meetings as possible, where in he would volunteer to, jot down the Minutes. After the meetings he would promptly send Minutes to all the attendees, kindly requesting for possible updates. Though, many were unaware of his role in the bigger scheme of things, because of his constant presence at the meetings, he seemed like a promising candidate in the rat race.

Many a times he was seen rushing around with important looking documents——relentlessly giving instructions to subordinates on his hands-free Bluetooth——hooked to his right ear; that made him look like a character from Starwars. In Kaizen, 2 most unpredictable things were Death and Paddy’s e-mails. Paddy’s e-mails, lengthy, well formatted, important-sentences-highlighted, CC’d to upper management, would arrive at all possible hours. Clueless employees, upon opening the mail box in the morning, would find half a dozen of e-mails from Paddy, sent in the wee hours, requesting immediate attention——lest an unfathomable business loss would ensue.

Those were Golden days. He was a magician, a conjurer, a demigod: others were mere pawns. He was not like this always. A decade ago, new to Kaizen, he was simply a technical consultant. In those days he was considered a Geek. However, being in one organization for a long time, he was not abreast with the current technology. That didn’t bother him much. In his own words, he was a Solution Provider. In the outside world job market was low. There were not many openings for unskilled candidates. Only a year back, being an indispensable resource, he was not worried about job security or the job market. Then something happened.

Paddy would never finish his tasks before time——but at the right time—— when people had just reached their frustration level. Either Bob had sensed this or had a genuine concern for the seemingly over-worked subordinate. He recruited an assistant for Paddy.

Swami

When Swami joined Kaizen, he was relatively new to the US. He had difficulty understanding American accent, and usually his American colleagues ended up repeating themselves multiple times, before he could finally get the drift. On the other hand, his boss, Paddy, was divinely blessed with two accents: One for Americans and the other for Desis: less mortals from Indian sub continent. Occasionally though, Paddy would mix-up the accents, use the wrong accent for the wrong group——but those were rare cases. Swami compensated his lack of soft skills with a strong technical knowledge. In this way both were opposite poles, thus, they attracted each other. Paddy wanted a disciple to listen to his management ideas, and the new guy was in need of a Guru——to teach him the American ways. Thus, the Guru and his protégée gelled very well.

There were some tasks on Paddy’s plate, which he had stalled for months; not by choice, but he simply didn’t know how to do them. Some of the servers were performing poorly. Performance is a relative subject. The more the better and, nobody have been harmed because of high performance. In the last stakeholders meeting, when the performance issue was raised, Paddy had lamely suggested to procure new hardware. The suggestion didn’t fly. In fact it backfired, and Paddy was asked to work on the issue diligently.

Paddy, if put his mind to it, could have come up with something. Instead he passed the buck to Swami. “Find a solution,” he told Swami, “and I will buy you a beer.” Swami, a born teetotaler but, ever-ready to please the Guru, worked on the problem day and night: searched all over the Net; posted queries on various newsgroups. Finally, he came up with a solution.

“I think we should do partitioning,” he told Paddy one day. Paddy listened. “Or archival,” Swami continued, “Archive the older data. Keep it on a separate server, serve the current requests from the smaller database and redirect the historical queries to archival server.”

Paddy absorbed the information like a sponge. The simplicity of the solution baffled him. The fact that his experienced mind could not come up with this solution first hand, made him cringe.

“Do you think we should inform Bob?” Swami asked eagerly.

“Not now,” said Paddy, “Do some more research. Bob will ask hundred questions. You need to cover everything.”

The next day, Bob stopped at Swami’s desk. “Got a minute?” he said, and continued without waiting for a response, “Paddy hit a jackpot, gave a brilliant idea. Archival! Archive older data and keep the delta in the current server-”

Swami listened to his own solution in shock. Paddy had taken the credit for his work——stabbed to his back. The Guru was a fake! Buried under the immense grief of betrayal, the protégée decided to break every rule he had learned from the Master. After all they were like water and oil ——never destined to be mixed.

This incident made a crack in their relationship. Though, they continued like brothers, Swami started breaking all the rules. In the past paddy had stalled simple tasks for hours——creating an impression of the tasks being complex needing hours of undivided attention. Now, the same tasks were completed in minutes under Swami’s supervision. People realized: either Swami was supremely diligent or Paddy had been creating the smoke-screen all along. Both views were good for Swami. The trainees, tired of Paddy’s red-tape, finally found a friendly person in Swami——who treated them as equals.

Gradually, it dawned on Paddy that he was no more indispensable. There was a replacement for him. And, some people realized that the replacement was superior.

Paddy was waiting for the right time. Timing is everything——Bob used to say. Paddy had gone one step further: Timing and a knack for creating opportunities. Just a few months back, he had volunteered to drop John Clucas at the airport. Clucas, Vice President of Kaizen, operated from Chicago, was Bob’s boss. Paddy had never met him before, but recognized the old man waiting at the reception, at once from the company website. Paddy introduced himself to the old man, and realized that the old man was waiting for a pick up car. Paddy volunteered——being residing near to the airport. On the way, they had a small talk, and Paddy gave a subtle hint conveying he can handle Bob’s responsibilities if such a need arrived. The old man looked at Paddy amusingly and said he would think about it. Paddy had created an opportunity from almost nothing——just by driving 20 miles opposite from his home to the airport. He was an opportunist.

One morning, Paddy came to Swami’s cubicle with a fat file.

“Read this and estimate the efforts,” he said.

After 2 hours swami reported: “6 months for our team.”

Paddy had an 8 member team, consisting mostly fresh graduates.

“Too much,” paddy said.

“Paddy, it’s a complex application. We might end up creating custom components-”

“Dude, I know the game,” said Paddy, “5 months. No more.”

That put a stop for further discussion.

Later that afternoon, in the stakeholders meeting, Paddy gave a presentation for the project estimate.

“5 months is way high,” said Kurt, one of the business owners. In a prior meeting Kurt was unhappy with Paddy’s suggestion to procure new hardware.

“I know Kurt,” Paddy consoled, “But it’s a complex app. We need to develop custom components-”

In the corner Swami rolled his eyes.

“Paddy, you have estimated over a million dollars. There is no such budget for this project.”

“Kurt, believe me, I know, I did the math myself.”

Kurt let a sigh. He had underestimated the project. He was thinking of redirecting some of the budget to procure hardware. Now, that was out of the question.

“Swami, what do you think?”

No one had asked Swami’s opinion in the past. He was mostly invisible: a fly on the wall. Now, his very presence surprised some of the top guys.

The sudden question startled Swami, who took some time to weigh the question, finally he croaked: “one month.”

“But Swami, did you consider the-” Paddy tried to intervene. Kurt stopped him with a raise of his brows. Paddy mumbled an apology and stopped.

“Swami, you were saying?”

“Just give me the project. I will do it in a month,” he said confidently this time.

After the meeting Paddy stopped him at the cafeteria. “What was that?”

“What was what?” Swamy asked.

“Don’t play games with me, Dude.”

“Sorry Paddy, I estimated wrongly at the first time.”

Paddy stared his ex-protégée, searched his eyes, he thought he saw a twinkle.

So far Paddy was enjoying the game. Everything was under control. But the stakeholders meeting changed all that, made him unfavorable among some of the top guys. This was when Paddy drew a line; and, came up with a plan to fix Swamy——once and for all. He called for a meeting with Anusha.

Part 2

Anusha

Anusha was thinking of leaving for home early, when she got the meeting request from Paddy. She had a Redeye flight to LA. She called Paddy at his desk; suggested to postpone the meeting.

“Can’t do that, it’s urgent,” he said.

It was useless arguing with Paddy, he would only be more obstinate; and, would come up with colorful and creative reasons about why the meeting can’t be postponed.

What could be the urgency? She wondered. Though she reported to him——they seldom talked, unless there was an unavoidable need. She maintained a strict 8 hour work schedule——unlike Paddy, who, given the option, wouldn’t have minded staying in the office full-time. All early goers, in Paddy’s book, were not diligent.

“Other people are putting more hours,” Paddy had told her at the last appraisal, “I can’t ignore them.”

“I don’t need a promotion,” she said flatly. She didn’t care for the corporate ladder, which was a good thing——one less candidate in the rat race. Paddy was a front runner.

She would be in LA during the weekend——with Manish. Six months ago, she had met him at a party. They were the only people at the end. The person supposed to pick her up had forgotten. Finally, the hostess had requested Manish to escort her home.

She was silent during the whole ride. When the car stopped at her house, she didn’t get down, “Take me for a ride,” she said. He hesitated, but obliged——made a U-Turn. She inclined the front seat, let her head relax. Her dreamy eyes watched the moonlit sky from the open roof; here and there a few stars, shadows of tree braches. On the way back she was fast asleep. When she woke up, they were in the parking; he was waiting for her to wake up. She mumbled a quick Thank You and ran inside the house.

At the next party, she stayed late, knowing there would be an escort. “Take me through the longest route,” she said, while driving back from the party. Upon his hesitation, she said: “Your services will be well appreciated.” She was drunk.

As usual, she was sleeping when they reached. When she woke, she found him waiting.

“Do you want to come inside?” she asked.

He declined.

“Just one drink.”

“No,” he said, “I have to drive back.”

She gave him a look.

“What is it? Am I not your type?”

“You are drunk,” he said.

“Do you prefer bimbos over intellectuals?”

“Bye, we will talk some other time,” he said, putting the car in gear.

“Go to hell,” she slammed the car door getting out.

The next day she saw him at the mall. He gave a warm smile. They didn’t talk about the past night. While sipping coffee at Starbucks she asked: “What did we talk yesterday?”

“When?”

“Don’t be smart; when you dropped me, after the party.”

“Nothing much.”

“What exactly did I say?”

“I don’t remember,” he said.

She smiled. After the coffee they walked silently for a distance. “Thanks,” she said at the mall exit. He didn’t ask the reason.

After that, they met now and then. She liked him. “What is your story?” she asked one day. Then immediately added, “don’t tell me now. I don’t want to hear another sad story.”

“How do you know it’s a sad story?”

“One can not be compassionate without sad experiences,” she said.

He talked to her whenever she called——met her when she wanted. When she pointed this to him, he said: “I don’t expect anything from anyone.”

She pondered——A man without expectations!

“Don’t you expect me to be there for you ever?”

“No,” he said, after thinking a while. That choked her; not only his reply, but also the fact that he had taken time to answer consciously.

“Don’t talk to me again,” she said. And she had left. He didn’t try to contact her. But she could not stay away long.

“You don’t know how to talk to a lady,” she complained at their next meeting.

“There were not many ladies in my life,” he said. That pleased her.

“Take me to Niagara,” she said.

“Why Niagara?” he had asked.

“Because I want to treasure the moments with you,” she said, “or may be I want to jump into it.”

He had smiled. When they were watching the great fall he said, “If you want me to beg you, not to jump——I will do it”.

At that moment she loved him. The notion of him kneeling down and begging in front of hundreds of tourists amused her. “Why didn’t we meet before?” she didn’t say the words; they didn’t materialize.

It was a long road trip, with beautiful memories. On the way back, they had decided to go for another such trip: LA.

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

She would meet Manish at the airport. But first she had to tackle Paddy.

At 5, she went to the conference room with a note book. Paddy, as usual, was on time. He was shouting orders to a subordinate on the Bluetooth; simultaneously composing a mail on the laptop. He had noticed her entry but ignored her.

“What is so urgent?” she said, when she found him free.

Paddy pushed an envelop across the table. She opened it. Inside, she found her Niagara pictures. They were not taken by a professional. Manish was in every one of them.

“What is this?”

“What if your husband sees these pictures?”

Her husband would divorce her. That’s what Ram would do. Ram was working on the East Coast. She was in the Mid West. He would come home on alternate weeks——for namesake. It was a failing marriage——arguments over simple things; long silent days. They had reached a dead-end.

That’s when she had met Manish. The days with Manish were beautiful——made her feel younger; showed life could be beautiful. Exotic and heavenly days——almost made the risk worth it. Back of her mind, she knew, some one would find out and inform her husband. But that someone would be Paddy, made the whole thing more painful. She knew, with Paddy, there was no hope.

“What do you want?”

“I need a favor,” he said.

She waited.

“I want you to raise a complaint to the HR against Swami.”

He said slowly every word. He had practiced this line several times.

“What complaint?”

“Sexual Harassment.”

She closed her eyes. “He will be sacked immediately.”

“That’s what I want.”

“This will go in his employment record. No big company will hire him!”

“I know.”

“Why should the HR take my side?”

“I will leave that to you. You are smart, I am sure you will come up with something.”

“What is the guarantee that you won’t black mail me again?”

“You have my word.”

“Your pictures don’t prove anything,” she made a desperate try.

“I know Ram very well. He doesn’t need a convincing proof.”

With that he stood up. “Keep the pictures. I have copies,” he said.

He left her alone behind the closed doors. She had maintained a strong posture in front of Paddy. Now she collapsed. She had been cornered. The beautiful days ended. The dream was shattered. The priorities would be changed. LA plan needs to be cancelled.

The grand master

Last week was uneventful. But Paddy was sure it was silence before the storm. He had seen Anusha in the HR room. Things were moving as planned.

Usually firing happens on the second half of Friday. Bob gives instructions to paddy——who is the executioner. The candidate is called for a sudden one-to-one meeting. In the meeting Paddy breaks the shocking news. The candidate is not given much time to recover. Eventually, he would be led to his cubicle, with a brown cardboard box for his belongings. No more computer access. The security team would have already changed the credentials. The access card for the premises will be revoked. Then Paddy would march the candidate through the long narrow corridor to the exit door. For the uninformed rest of the employees, the brown box is a red alert. A hush prevails among the employees who will soon witness the dead man’s walk. During the whole march Paddy maintains a serious look, with a detachment and seriousness of an executioner. In his mind, in the past week, he has rehearsed this march with Swamy hundreds of times.

“Swing by my desk, when you have a minute,” Bob had left a message on the Outlook Communicator. This was like deja vu. He had seen this scene in his mind. He went to Bob’s cubicle.

“You know, I am bad at sacking people,” started Bob.

“Leave that to me. Just tell me the name,” Paddy said innocently——everything was going according to his plan. Even Bob, unaware, talking the same words Paddy would have scripted.

“Things are really not in my hand. I am very sad-”

“Bob,” Paddy intervened, “Who is it?”

“Paddy, you have been relieved.”

This was not on the script!

“What…What do you mean?”

“You have been terminated. Today is your last day.”

Paddy shrank into the chair. He could not find words. “There has been a mistake.”

Bob pushed an envelop across the table. Paddy saw the pictures of Anusha and Manish.

“She raised a complaint: Blackmail-” Bob said.

“This is a set up.”

“We did a forensic,” Bob replied, “Your finger prints are all over the pictures. The whole thing has snowballed. Also, some top people are not happy.”

“Top people——Who? Is it Kurt? You know Kurt hates me.” Paddy said in desperation.

Bob didn’t answer the question. He said: “I have talked with HR guys. They won’t file any charges if you leave quietly. In fact the whole incident will be treated as if you are resigning. That way your records will be clear. And I can any time give you a good reference.”

Paddy sighed. There was no way out.

“Sorry I could not do much,” Bob said.

Paddy looked at Bob, who looked sad and helpless. They had worked well as a team. He was grateful; Bob had given him a clean slate. They sat in silence.

“You need to vacate the premises in 15 minutes. You know the drill,” Bob said. Rest of the things followed smoothly. There was some paperwork——formal resignation and such things. When they were ready for the long shameful march, Paddy said: “I will be back in a minute.”

He went straight to Anusha’s cubicle. She gave a start at his sudden disheveled appearance. Paddy could hardly control himself.

“You know what is in store for you.”

She knew.

“Took me a long time to decide,” she said, “Paddy, I am no different than you. But I can not ruin an innocent’s future. Probably that’s the difference between us.”

Paddy was impatient. He had no time for philosophy. The plan had backfired because of the sly bitch.

“Be ready for a divorce-”

He wanted to say more. But Bob had placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Time to go,” he said.

They marched quietly through the corridor. Though it was an empty corridor, Paddy knew he was being watched by several curious eyes, from the crevices of the cubicles. At the cafeteria Paddy saw Swami; their eyes met; paddy could not decipher anything from his——now

ex-colleague’s——blank face.

“Say Bob,” Paddy said at the exit, “since when did we start involving Forensic?”

“We don’t-”

“You didn’t do a forensic?”

“Nope!”

“But you said-”

Bob smiled. “Remember Clucas?” he asked.

“Who?” Paddy asked.

“John Clucas - VP. You dropped him at the airport.”

“What about him?”

“Prior to Kaizen he was in the army.”

Why this story? Paddy wondered.

“He was in the War,” Bob continued, “I was reporting to him; saved his life one time.”

Oh, God! Paddy thought. He was obviously not privy to this information. In a hurry, to mitigate the situation, he tried to say something. But Bob stopped him. No more schemes. They were outside the main door.

“Good luck, Paddy.” He said.

Paddy sighed——accepted his fate. Reluctantly shook hands with Bob. Bob went inside, closing the door behind him.

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Before this Blog this story was published at Daiji.