Stories by Subhash

[pavalamani pragasam]

During my random browsing tours I came upon a site where one particular writer captivated my admiration. Subhash is a master of the art of story-telling with a unique style & a flair for empathy. Since I feel the pleasure I derived from reading his stories should be shared I am reproducing them here:


DONT DELVE TOO MUCH


The moment I see Muthu, the office-boy, standing at the door of the class room I feel a familiar fear. I close my eyes and try to concentrate on Ms Bhalla who is reading aloud with dramatic effect Ruskin Bond’s story ‘The Woman on Platform 8’. It’s a moving story about a brief encounter between a woman and a motherless boy.





I love short stories, especially Ruskin Bond, and Ms Bhalla is my favorite teacher. But it’s no use. I can’t hear a word she is saying.





I open my eyes. Ms Bhalla is in a world of her own, reading away, book in her left hand and making gestures with her right. She hasn’t noticed Muthu, or the fact that almost everyone in the class are looking at him and not at her. So thoroughly is she absorbed in herself and so totally is she oblivious of her surroundings that no one dare disturb her.





“………..I watched her until she was lost in the milling crowd,” Ms Bhalla ends the story with a flourish and looks at us triumphantly only to discover that most of her students are looking towards the door. Her ex-pression starts changing.





Before she gets angry someone says, “It is Muthu, ma’am.”





Ms Bhalla glares at poor Muthu who sheepishly walks in and gives her the chit he is holding in his hand.





I look down into my notebook trying to keep my mind blank, but even without seeing I know that Ms Bhalla is looking at me. “Shanta, go to the principal’s office,” she says, “and take your bag with you.”





Take my bag with me? I feel scared, anxious. I hope it’s not too serious.





“Must be a big binge this time,” I hear Rita’s voice behind me. Tears start to well up in my eyes. Rita is from such a happy family. Why is she so mean and nasty?





I’m about to break down when I feel Lata’s reassuring hand on my wrist, “Let’s go, Shanta. I’ll bring your bag.”





We walk through the silent corridors. Our school is located in one of those ancient castle type buildings - cold, dark and gloomy.





“I shouldn’t have left him alone last night,” I say.





“I feel so sad for uncle,” Lata says.









“Whenever I’m there with him, he’s okay and controls himself. He loves me so much. I’m the only one he’s got in this world - after mummy died.”





“He was improving so much and looked so good last weekend,” Lata says.





Lata is my true friend who I can open my heart to. The others - they watch from a distance. With pity. And a few like Rita with an evil delight at my misfortune.





“Something must have happened yesterday,” I say. “I wish I had gone home last night. It’s in the evenings that he needs me the most.”





“Shanta, you want me to come,” Lata asks.





“Yes,” I say. I really need some moral support. Facing the cruel world all alone. I can’t bear it any longer.





Ms David, our class-teacher, is standing outside the principal’s office. I follow her in.





I nervously enter the principal’s office. The principal, Mrs. Nathan, is talking to a lady sitting opposite her. Noticing me she says, “Ah, Shanta. You daddy’s not well again. He’s admitted in the clinic again. You take the ten o’clock shuttle. And ring me up if you want anything.”





“Can I go with her?” Lata asks.





“You go back to class,” the principal says sternly, “you’ve got a mathematics test at 10 o’clock haven’t you?”





“Please Miss,” Lata pleads with Ms David, our class teacher, but Ms David says, “Lata you are in the ninth standard now. Be serious about your studies. And today afternoon is the basketball final. How can you be absent?”





I feel pain in the interiors of my mind. No one ever tells me to be serious about studies; or even sports.





Lata gives me my school-bag and leaves quickly.





Mrs Nathan takes off her glasses and looks at me. There is compassion in her eyes. “Be brave, Shanta,” she says. “This is Ms Pushpa - an ex-student of our school.”





“Good morning, ma’am,” I say.





“Hello, Shanta.” Ms Pushpa says. “I’m also taking the train to Coonoor. We’ll travel together.”





As we leave the principal’s office I can feel the piercing looks of pity burning into me. The teachers, the staff, even the gardener. Everyone knows. And they know that I know that they know. Morose faces creased with lines of compassion. The atmosphere of pity. The deafening silence. It’s grotesque, terrible. I just want to get away from the place. These people - they just don’t understand that I want empathy; not sympathy.





I walk with Ms Pushpa taking the short-cut to Lovedale railway station. It’s cold, damp and the smell of eucalyptus fills my nostrils. A typical winter morning in the Nilgiris.





I look at Ms Pushpa. She looks so chic. Blue jeans, bright red pullover, fair creamy flawless complexion, jet-black hair neatly tied in a bun, dark Ray-Ban sunglasses of the latest style. A good-looking woman with smart feminine features. Elegant. Fashionable. Well groomed.





We walk in silence. I wait for her to start the conversation. I don’t know how much she knows.





“You’re in Rose house, aren’t you?” she asks looking at the crest on my blazer.





Polite conversation. Asking a question to which you already know the answer!





“Yes ma’am,” I answer.





“I too was in Rose house,” she says.





“When did you pass out, ma’am ?” I ask.





“1987,” she says.





I do a quick mental calculation. She must be in her mid-thirties. 35, maybe. She certainly looks young for her age. And very beautiful.





We cross the tracks and reach the solitary platform of the lonely Lovedale railway station.





“Let me buy your ticket. You’re going to Coonoor aren’t you?” she asks.





“Thank you ma’am. I’ve got a season ticket,” I say.





“Season ticket?” she asked surprised.





“I’m a day scholar, ma’am. I travel every day from Coonoor,” I say.





“Oh! In our time it was strictly a boarding school,” she says.





“Even now ma’am,” I say. “I’ve got special permission. My father doesn’t keep well. I have to look after him.”





“Oh, yes,” she says, and walks towards the deserted booking window.





Lovedale is the most picturesque railway station on the Nilgiri mountain railway but today it looks gloomy, desolate. One has to be happy inside for things to look beautiful outside.





She returns with her ticket and we sit on the solitary bench.





“Where do you stay ma’am ?” I ask.





“Bangalore,” she says. “You’ve been there?”





“Yes”





“Often?”





“Only once. Last month. For my father’s treatment,” I say.





She asks the question I’m waiting for, “Shanta. Tell me. Your father? What’s wrong with him? What’s he suffering from?”





I’ve never really understood why people ask me this question to which I suspect they already know the answer. Each probably has their own reason. Curiosity, lip-sympathy, genuine concern, sadistic pleasure! At first I used to feel embarrassed, try to cover up, mask, give all sorts of explanations. But now I have learnt that it is best to be blunt and straightforward.





“He’s an alcoholic,” I say.





Most people shut up after this. Or change the topic of conversation. But Ms Pushpa pursues, “It must be terrible living with him. He must be getting violent?”





“No,” I say. “With me papa is very gentle. He loves me a lot.”





Tears well up in my eyes and my nose feels heavy. I take out my handkerchief. I feel her comforting arm around my shoulder and know her concern is genuine.







Suddenly the station bell rings, I hear the whistle and the blue mountain train streams into the platform. They still use steam engines here on the Nilgiri mountain railway. The train is almost empty. It’s off-season, there are no tourists, and in any case this train is never crowded as it returns to Coonoor after transporting all the office-goers to Ooty.





We sit opposite each other in an empty compartment. She still hasn’t taken off her dark sunglasses even though it is overcast and it begins to drizzle.





She looks at her watch. I look at mine. 10 AM. Half-an-hour’s journey to Coonoor.





“You came today morning, ma’am?” I ask.





“No. Last evening. I stayed with Monica David. Your class teacher. We were classmates.”





What a difference. Miss David is so schoolmarmish. And Ms Pushpa so mod and chic. But I better be careful what I say. After all, classmates are classmates.





The train begins its journey and soon Ketti valley comes into view.





“There used to be orchards down there. Now there are buildings,” she says.





“You’ve come after a long time?” I ask.





“Yes. It’s been almost eighteen years. I am returning here the first time since I passed out,” she says.





“For some work? Children’s admission?”





“No, No,” she bursts out laughing, “I’m single. Happily unmarried.”





“I’m sorry,” I say, contrite.





“Come on, Shanta. It’s Okay,” she says. “I’ve come for some work in Coonoor. Just visited the school for old times’ sake.”





“You must come during Founder’s day. You’ll meet everyone,” I say.





“Yes,” she says. “All these years I was abroad. America, Singapore, Manila, Europe. Now that I’m in Bangalore, I’ll definitely make it.”





“You work?” I ask.





“Yes. In an MNC.”





She must be an MBA from a top business school. Like IIM. Or maybe even Harvard. Wish I could be like her. Independent. Smart. Elegant. Successful. I certainly have the talent. But what about papa? Who will look after him?





I try not to think of the future. It all looks so bleak, uncertain. Better not think of it. I don’t even know what awaits me at the clinic. Just a few minutes more. It’s unbearable - the tension. Why do I have to go through all this?





She’s looking out of the window. It’s grey and cold. Dark clouds. But she still wears her dark sunglasses. Hasn’t taken them off even once.





Suddenly we enter the Ketti tunnel. It’s pitch dark. The smell of steam and smoke. It’s warm. Comforting. I close my eyes.





The train whistles. Slows down. I open my eyes. She’s still wearing dark glasses. Maybe she too has something to hide. And me. What I want to hide, everyone knows; but makes a pretence of not knowing. At least in my presence.





The train stops at Ketti. On the platform there is a group of girls, my age. They are in a jovial mood; giggling, eyes dancing, faces beaming, so carefree and happy. Their happiness hurts me deep down in my heart.





The girls don’t get in. Dressed in track-suits, and Ketti valley school blazers, they are probably waiting for the up train to Ooty which crosses here. Must be going for the basketball match.





A girl with a familiar face walks up to me with her friend.





“Not playing?” she asks.





“No,” I say.





“I wish we knew. We wouldn’t have gone so early to practice,” she says.





“Who’s captaining?” her friend asks.





“Lata maybe. I don’t know,” I say.





“Where are you going?”





“Coonoor.”





“Coonoor?”





“My father’s in hospital. He’s not well.”





“Oh! Hope he gets well soon. Okay bye.”





The girls walk away whispering to each other. And I hear the hushed voice of the one I’ve met for the first time, “Poor thing.”





“Poor thing.” The words pierce through my heart. “Poor thing.” The words echo in the interiors of my mind. “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” “Poor thing!” The resonance is deafening. I feel I’m going mad. I feel Ms Pushpa’s hand on mine. A slight pressure. Comforting.





The up train comes, the girls get in, and train leaves towards Ooty.





Our engine’s whistle shrieks, our train starts moving. Outside it starts to rain. We close the windows. The smallness of the compartment forces us into a strange intimacy.





“I’ll come with you to the hospital,” Ms Pushpa says.





I know she means well, but nowadays I hate to depend on the kindness of strangers; so I reply, “Thank you ma’am, but I’ll manage. I’m used to it.”





“Is your father often like this?” she asks.





Why is she asking me all this? It seems genuine compassion. Or maybe she has her own troubles and talking to even more troubled people like me makes her own troubles go away.





I decide to give her every thing in one go. “When I am there he’s okay. Controls himself. He loves me more than his drink. Last night I stayed at the hostel to study for a test. And he must have felt lonely and hit the bottle. I shouldn’t have left him alone. After mummy’s gone I am the only one he’s got, and he’s the only one I’ve got.” I pause and I say, “He was improving so much. Something must have happened last evening. Something disturbing! He must have got upset - really badly upset.”





“I’m so sorry,” she says. Her tone is apologetic as if she were responsible in some way.





“Why should you feel sorry, ma’am. It’s my fate. I’ve to just find out what’s upset him. And see it doesn’t happen again. Maybe somebody visited him, passed some hurting remark. He’s very sensitive.”





Her ex-pression changes slightly. She winces. “Does he tell you everything?” she asks.





“Of course he tells me everything,” I say, “There are no secrets between us. I’m his best friend.”





“I wish I could help you in some way,” she says.





I don’t say anything. I close my eyes. What a fool I have been, I’ve told her everything. And I know nothing about her. Not even the color of her eyes - she hasn’t even once taken off her dark sunglasses, like someone who’s blind. How cleverly she’s manipulated the conversation. Maybe people who are happy and successful feel good listening to other people’s sorrows.





I feel stifled. I open my eyes and the window. A shrill whistle and we pass through a gorge. Noise, steam, smoke, and suddenly it becomes sunny and the train begins to slow down.





“We’ve reached,” I say. We get down on the platform at Coonoor.





“I’ll come with you,” she says.





“Thanks. But it’s okay. I’ll go by myself.”





“Sure?”





“I’m sure, thanks.”





Ms Pushpa takes off her dark sunglasses and looks at me. I see her eyes for the first time. A shiver passes through me as I look into her eyes. They are greenish-grey. She’s got cat-eyes. Exactly like mine.





Suddenly she takes me in her arms and hugs me in a tight embrace.





Stunned, I struggle, feeling acutely uncomfortable.





She releases me and I just stand there feeling numb, confused.





The whistle shrieks. I come to my senses. Look up at her. Her eyes are red and tears flow down her cheeks.





Suddenly she puts on her sunglasses, turns and walks away.





As I walk towards the hospital I think about my brief encounter with Ms Pushpa, her rather strange behaviour. It’s certainly not one of those hail fellow – well met types of time-pass conversations between co-passengers. But suddenly she’s gone and I don’t know anything about her. She hasn’t even given me her card, address, phone, nothing. It all happened so fast.





I reach the clinic. Well laid-out. Neat. Spick and span. Anesthetic smell. An air of discipline. I walk through the corridor. I know where to go.





“Yes?” a voice says from behind.





I turn around. It’s a matron. I’ve never seen her before. Her eyes are hard, pitiless.





I tell her who I am. Her ex-pression changes. Lines of compassion begin to crease her face. But still, her face has something terrible written on it.





I smile. I have learnt to smile even when I feel like weeping.





I enter the room. Papa is lying on the solitary bed. He looks okay. His eyes are closed.





“Papa,” I say softly.





He opens his eyes. “Shanta! Come to me,” he says. I rush to his bed. He hugs me tightly, “Don’t go Shanta. Don’t leave me and go away,” he cries.





“Don’t cry papa. I’ll always be with you. I’ll never leave you alone again,” I say, tears rolling down my checks.





We both cry copiously. Time stands still. I sense the presence of people in the room. Apart from the matron, there is the comforting face of Dr. Ghosh and a young doctor in white coat, stethoscope around his neck.





“Can I take him?” I ask.





“Of course,” Dr. Ghosh says.” He’s okay now.”





“But sir,” the young doctor protests and says, “He’s hallucinating….”





“It’s okay,” Dr. Ghosh interrupts giving him a sharp look. “Shanta knows how to look after him; like a mother. Isn’t it Shanta?”





“Yes,” I say.





Papa gives sheepish look. That’s what I like about Dr. Ghosh. The way he gets his message across. There is no need for him to reprimand papa. Especially in front of me. My papa’s own remorse is his own worst reprimand.





We talk in silence. I don’t ask him any thing. He’ll tell me when he wants to.





“You’re hungry?” he asks.





“Yes,” I say. It’s almost noon.





Soon we sit at the Garden Restaurant overlooking Sim’s Park. He takes his hands out of the overcoat pockets and picks up the menu card. His hands tremble. DT. Delirium Tremens. Withdrawal symptoms. Must have had a prolonged bout of drinking last night. I know what to do. Just in case. I don’t want him to turn cold turkey.





“Papa, you order,” I say and pick up my school bag and briskly walk across the road to the wine shop. On seeing me the owner puts a small bottle of brandy in a brown paper bag and gives it to me. I put in my school bag. No words are exchanged. No permit is required. It doesn’t matter that I’m a 14 year old schoolgirl. He knows. Everyone knows. Pity. Compassion.





But I know that unseen eyes see, and tongues I cannot hear will wag.





The silence. It’s grotesque. Deafening. Unbearable.





As I give him a fifty-rupee note, the owner asks, “Saab - I hope he’s okay.”





I nod. I don’t seem to have a private life anymore. Unsolicited sympathy is a burden I find difficult to carry nowadays.





Papa has ordered Chinese food. My favorite. He has a nip of brandy. His hands become steady. We start eating.





“She wants to take you away from me,” he says.





“Who wants take me away? I don’t understand,” I say perplexed.





“Yes. She’s going to take you away. She came last evening.”





“Who?”





“Your mother.”





I feel a strange sensation in my stomach. The food becomes tasteless in my mouth. It seems he’s reached the final stage. Hallucinations. Loneliness. Driving him insane. He’s seeing images of mummy now. The point of no return. Fear drills into my vitals.





“Please papa. Mummy is dead. You’re hallucinating again.” I say.





“She came last evening. Wanted your custody.”





“Custody? What are you talking?”





“Yes. She wants to take you away from me.”





“Who?”





“Your birthmother.”





“Birthmother?”





“Yes.”





“But mummy?”





“Don’t delve too much.”





In the evening we sit on the lawns of the club waiting for my birthmother. I feel like a volcano about to erupt. Daddy sits with his head in his hands; nervous, scared. Dr. Ghosh looks away into the distance, as if he’s in our group but not a part of it. I wonder what’s his role in all this.





And opposite me is that hideous woman with suspiciously black hair. Mrs. Murthy. The social worker from the child welfare department.





Social work indeed! Removing adopted children from happy homes and forcibly returning them to their biological parents who had abandoned them in the first place.





And this birthmother of mine. I hate her without even knowing her. First she abandons me. And then after fourteen long years she emerges from nowhere with an overflowing love and concern for me. ‘My papa is a dangerous man,’ she decides. It’s unsafe for me to live with him. So she wants to take me away into the unknown.





“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Murthy the social worker says,” Everything will be okay.”





Yes. Everything will be okay. Papa will land up in an asylum. I’ll be condemned to spend the rest of my life with a woman I hate. Our lives will be ruined. Great social service will be done. Yes. Everything will be okay.





Papa is silent. Scared. He’s been warmed by Dr. Ghosh. No outbursts. It’ll only worsen the case.





And me. I’m only a minor. They’ll decide what is good for me. Of course they’ll take my views into consideration. I can see my world disintegrating in front of me.





We sit in silence. Six-thirty. Seven. The longest half-hour of my life.





“She said she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp,” Mrs. Murthy says, “I’ll check up.” She pulls out her cell phone. Signal’s weak. She walks to the reception.





We wait. And gradually, a depressing and frightening darkness envelopes.





Mrs. Murthy returns. There’s urgency in her step. “Her cell phone is switched off. I rang up the hotel,” she says, “It’s strange. She checked out in the afternoon. Hired a taxi to Bangalore. It’s funny. She hasn’t even bothered to leave a message for me.” Mrs. Murthy is disappointed and says angrily, “After all the trouble I have taken. She just goes away without even informing me. She promised she’ll be here at six-thirty sharp.” Looking perturbed, she leaves, promising to check up and let us know.





After she leaves, Dr. Ghosh says to my father, “Come on. Let’s have a drink.”





“No,” my papa says,” I don’t need a drink.”





“Sure?”





“Absolutely sure.”





We take leave of Dr. Ghosh and begin walking home.





“Papa?”





“Yes.”





“This woman. My ‘birthmother’. Does she have cat-eyes? Like me?”





“Don’t delve too much!” Papa says lovingly as he puts his protective arm around me and we walk together into the enveloping darkness. And I can see light in the distance.

[pavalamani pragasam]

Happy New Year


She licked the salt from her hand and drank the shot, in one go, then a long swallow of beer that met the tequila’s burn as it rose.


Everyone clapped and cheered. With that one act she had crossed the barrier. She was no longer the rustic girl from the mofussil. Now, she was one of “them”. No longer would she have to hear those derisive jeers and taunts which pierced her heart – dehati, behenji, ghati – for now she would “belong”.


“Hey, Mofussil, that’s not the way to have a shot,” Cute Girl said.


“Please don’t call me Mofussil,” she said and looked at Cute Girl. Cute Girl was one of those sophisticated synthetic beauties who looked real chic – her role model.



“Then let me see you do a Los Tres Cuates.”



“What’s that?”



“The Three Chums. The best way to drink tequila. Look,” Cute Girl said. She put some salt on her palm, licked it off, downed the neat tequila shot, picked up a wedge of lime and pressed it between her teeth biting hard into it.



The girl they all called Mofussil sprinkled some salt on her left palm and picked up a tequila shot from the bar with her right.



“Be careful,” a voice said, “It’s her first time.”



“Oh, come on, killjoy. She’s a tough girl. She’ll drink all of us under the table,” Cute Girl said.



It was now or never. Once she proved her capacity to drink she would gain real respect in this crowd. She downed the shot in one go. As the shot hit the pit of her stomach, a rash of gooseflesh raced up from her insides, tremors reverberated through her body up the back of her neck resonating into her brain and she felt her brain she might explode – like a terrible black orgasm.


And then she felt a high, a high she had never felt before.


Everyone cheered and a voice said, “Let’s drink to that,” and they all had a few shots. In quick succession. One after another.


“Let’s hit the dance floor,” someone shouted, and propelled by unseen hands she was in their midst swinging away on the dance floor to the rocking music. The atmosphere in the disco was electric, fantastic, like she had seen in the movies. She felt wonderful, mesmerized, and with her inhibitions dissolved in the alcohol inside her, she let her hair down and danced so unabashedly and vigorously that soon she lost herself in the ultimate state of frenzied ecstasy she had never felt before. This was the hep, hot and happening way to celebrate New Year’s Eve – not sitting with a pizza and ice cream watching the boring New Year’s Eve programme on TV like she had done for the past few years and her roommate was doing right now.


She danced continuously without break. The dance-floor was packed with bodies, rubbing against each other. Suddenly, the lights went off and it was pitch dark. The DJ announced, “Ten seconds left for the New Year.” And then he began counting: “10, 9, 8, …, 3, 2, 1” and suddenly all the lights came on and everyone seemed to have gone berserk. Hooters, whistles, horns, drums, shouts – all had raised the noise level to a din. Total strangers hugged and kissed her wishing her a Happy New Year. The reverberating music, the crowd, the dancing strobe lights, the smoke, the cacophony, her exhaustion and the alcohol inside her – it made her head swim so she negotiated her way and swayed across to the nearest sofa and slumped down on it.


She tried to focus on the dancing couples. Everything was a bit hazy. Her head began to swim even more and she felt thirsty and reached out for the glass of water across the table. As she stretched across the table she swayed and rolled back uncontrollably into her chair. Her stomach seemed to be full of mercury, ice-cold and enormously heavy. Her face felt hot and beads of perspiration began to appear on her forehead. She pushed herself forward again, trying to reach the glass, and knocked it across the table. Her brain began to fade, and she leaned her elbows helplessly on the glass edge of the table and felt her head fall on her wrists.



“You’re okay?” Cute Girl asked.



“I don’t know, “ she said.



“Come,” Cute Girl said holding out her hand, “Let’s get some fresh air.”



She took Cute Girl’s hand and followed her like a zombie into the dark. Outside it was cold, and she could sense a maze of hands groping her, supporting her unsteady body and propelling her towards the car park.



She felt there were two persons within her as result of the baleful double personality that comes into being through drunkenness. The first acted as if without any brain at all, in a mechanical, vacant manner, and the second observed the first quite lucidly, but seemed entirely powerless to do anything.



“Shove her in the backseat,” a male voice said.



“And you come in front,” the man in the driver’s seat told Cute Girl.



The car drove off into the darkness, and hearing a shuffling noise in the rear the diver asked, “Hey, what are you guys up to?”



“Giving her a drink.”



“Be careful, she’s already had too much,” Cute Girl said.



“Just priming her up!”



“It may be her first time



“Really? Then she’ll need more priming. I’ll give her one more swig.” And he forced the bottle into her mouth.



“Shall we do it here?”



“No. Not in the car. We’ll go to our usual place.”



“Shit! Bloody Shit!”



“What happened?”



“She’s puking.”



“What?”



“Bloody drunken bitch! She’s vomiting all over me. Stop the car before the whole place is covered in puke.”



They stopped the car.



“She’s badly sick,” Cute Girl said, “It was her first time and she’d had too many shots. I told you not to force booze down her throat.”



“What do we do?”



“Let’s clean her up and go ahead.”



“Shit! She’s still puking. It’s bloody nauseating. I’ve lost it.”



“Disgusting! Let’s dump her here.”



“Here? No. Let’s drop her back,” Cute Girl said.



“Drop her back? Are you crazy? And ruin our New Year’s fun?”



“We’ll get into trouble.”



“Bullshit. She’s so drunk she won’t remember a thing.”



So they dumped her in a desolate spot and drove away to enjoy the New Year.





Wallowing in her stinking vomit and shivering uncomfortably, she stared vacantly into the dark sky, never so frightened, never so alone. She wanted to cry but tears refused to well in her eyes and her throat felt dry. Her recollections and images of the terrible night were just vivid flashes in a void. Her head throbbed with pain and her body ached as she retched again and again till there was nothing left inside her. Feeling totally shattered and enveloped by unimaginable agony she lapsed into a zombie-like state of suspended vacuum.


And at exactly the same moment, her roommate, drifting off to sleep tucked in her comfortable warm bed, after watching the boring show on TV, is thinking about her, wishing she had accompanied her to the party. Wondering with envy what she’s up to she dials her cell number to wish her Happy New Year. The mobile phone rings in her puke-drenched purse, but the totally inebriated girl is dead drunk, passed out stone-cold, oblivious to her surroundings, so her roommate send her an SMS: “Happy New Year”.

[pavalamani pragasam]

A chase

“Wake up, I’m sending you on a mission,” my father said, shaking me off my bed.



“Mission!” I jumped out of bed and got ready in a jiffy.



My father is a detective and, once in a while, he sends me on undercover assignments. My father is all I have got in this world after God took my mother away.



“Surveillance?” I ask, as we stand discreetly at the bus stop outside Taraporewala Aquarium on Marine Drive.



“Yes. A simple tail-chase. Look to your right; keep your eyes focused on the gate of the working women’s hostel. A woman will come out soon. Follow her, shadow her, like a tail, but very discreetly, and the moment you lose her, ring me up on your mobile.”



Suddenly, a tall woman wearing a bright yellow dress appeared at the gate. My father gave me a nudge, and then he disappeared.



The woman walked towards Charni Road Station, crossed the over-bridge to platform No.2, and waited for the train to Churchgate. She got into the ladies compartment and I followed her in, for though I am a boy, I’m still below twelve. She sat down and I observed her, unseen, standing in the crowd. She must have been around 25, maybe 30, and with her smooth fair creamy complexion she looked really smashing in the bright yellow dress. What I liked about her the most was her huge strikingly expressive dancing eyes.



At Churchgate, she leisurely strolled down the platform, whilst everyone else rushed by. She browsed at Wheeler’s bookstall, and then stopped at Tibbs, bought a Frankie, and walked towards the underground exit. I too love frankies, so I quickly bought one too, and followed her, careful not to be seen. We both walked, me behind her, munching away, straight down the road towards Nariman Point, till she stopped at the Inox Multiplex.



Shit! I hoped she wouldn’t go for an Adults movie, but luckily she bought a ticket for ‘Madagascar’ and I followed her in.



I really enjoyed the rest of my mission. She was quite a fun person, and spent the day enjoying herself, seeing the sights, browsing books, window shopping, street food, eating things I love to eat, doing the things I like to do.



It was smooth sailing, till suddenly she stepped into a beauty parlour.



Now I needed backup, so I called up my father. But he told me to abort the mission and to meet him at our usual favourite place in the vicinity – Stadium next to Churchgate station.



We chose an inconspicuous table in the middle of the restaurant and sat facing the entrance. I told him everything. He listened intently.



Suddenly I saw the woman in yellow standing bold as brass at the entrance of the restaurant looking directly at us. I felt a tremor of trepidation, the ground slipped beneath my feet, and when I saw her coming directly towards our table, I wished the earth would swallow me up.



My father smiled at the woman, “Hello, Nanda.”



‘Hello Nanda?’ This was too much! First he sends me after her on a tail-chase, shadowing her all day, and now ‘Hello Nanda’!



She sat down, looked at me curiously.



“You’ve met, haven’t you?” father asked.



“No, she said.”



“No? You’re sure? Try to think. You must have seen him somewhere before.”



“I’m sure. I never forget a face. This is the first time I am seeing him. He’s cute.”



My father winked at me in appreciation.



But who was this woman, I wondered, so I asked my father, “Who is this aunty?”



It was the beautiful woman with dancing eyes who looked lovingly at me and answered, “Don’t call me aunty. I’m going to be your new mother.”

[pavalamani pragasam]

Thriller

I waited in anticipation overcome by tremors of trepidation, secretly hoping he would not come. But he did come. Right on the dot. Sharp ten o’clock at night. As planned.



He said nothing when he entered. The moment I recognized him I started to tremble. But he didn’t seem to notice. He turned around, as if he had forgotten something, took two quick steps and bolted the door.



Hoping to conceal my emotion, I began to speak in order to gain my composure: “Please be seated, sir,” I said. “Would you like a drink?”



“Whisky and soda,” he said, loosening the knot of his tie, as he moved towards the sofa. He sat down and gave me an appraising look.



I took my time getting up from my chair, taking care to make my movements deliberately slow, in order to hide my fear and nervousness. I walked towards the fridge, my back turned in his direction, but still I could feel his eyes piercing me.



Soda, glass, opener, ice-bucket and a bowl of peanuts ready on a tray, I opened the liquor-cabinet. At first my hands instinctively touched a bottle of cheap whisky, but then I hesitatingly picked out a bottle of the best premium whisky. After all this was a first-class client. And maybe his last drink. Let him enjoy it.



I carefully set the loaded tray on the table in front of him and sat down on the chair across. I poured him a stiff drink and opened the bottle of soda.



“Put lots of ice,” he said, in a commanding voice. And then, as an afterthought, he added, “What about you?”



“No,” I said handing him the glass, “I don’t drink on duty.”

“Duty?” he laughed looking me in the eye. He took a sip of the whisky and closed his eyes with a gesture of fatigue, as if waiting for the whisky to caress his brain. His was not an unpleasant face. In fact he looked quite handsome.



“Without any effort I could go straight to sleep,” he said with his eyes still closed. Then suddenly he opened his eyes, looked directly at me, and with a mischievous smile he said, “But there’s plenty to do tonight, isn’t it?”



“Yes indeed!” I said to myself. “There was plenty to do tonight.” In my mind’s eye, I tried to visualize how I was going to do it.



The man shifted on his seat, took out a wallet from his hip pocket and stylishly extracted ten crisp red thousand-rupee notes and put them on the table in front of me.



I did not pick up the money. “It’s okay,” I said. “It’s on the house.”

“Who said so?” he snapped an angrily.

“The person who sent me here,” I answered.

“What else did he say?”

“That you are a very special guest.”

“And?” he asked.

“That I should be very discreet. Shouldn’t even breathe a word to anyone.” I paused, and then said, “It’s okay. You can trust me.”



He smiled and said, “Take the money. I always pay for everything. I am a man of principles.”



Suddenly I could feel the venom rising inside me. A man of principles my foot! Hypocrite. That’s what he was. Where were his principles when he had killed my husband and concocted lies that it was a gruesome accident. And then quickly disposed off my husband’s body at sea – into the Davy Jones’s Locker. Murderer. That’s what he was. An unscrupulous mendacious murderer. And tonight he was going to pay for it. Everything was in my favour. I had recognized him but he did not know who I really was. For him I was just a nameless face. A one-night stand. To be used, discarded and forgotten. And though he could not possibly realize it, it was he who had reduced me to this. And now he had unknowingly walked right into my hands.



“Is it enough?” he asked, pointing to the money on the table.



“My normal rate is fifty thousand,” I said. I wanted to embarrass him for I had glimpsed into his wallet when he took out the money. I picked up the ten thousand rupees from the table, tucked them in my blouse, and said, “But for you, it’s okay.”



He smiled, looking intently into my eyes for a few seconds. Then he gulped down his drink, got up form the sofa, came around the table and stood behind me. I sat still, waiting for his next move. He put his hands on my shoulders and said matter-of-factly, “Let’s go to bed.”



When I woke up, for a moment I could not imagine where I was. The silence was so intense that I could hear my heart beating. The room was not quite dark, for the door of the bathroom was partly open, and the light in it had been left on. As I turned and I saw him lying beside me, I felt a sudden flush of passion. It was after a long time that I had really enjoyed it. But I quickly controlled my feelings and carefully observed the sleeping man. He breathed steadily, like a man immersed in deep sleep, fully satiated. But I had to be sure. “Hello,” I whispered near his ear.



No answer. He was dead to the world. Very slowly, very silently, I slipped out of my bed. I slowly bent down near the bedside table, unplugged the two-pin electric plug from the socket on the wall and carefully coiled the wires around the base of the table-lamp. I picked up the table-lamp in both hands holding the plug carefully, and stood for a while, looking at the man to see whether I had disturbed him. His breathing was as regular as before. I took a couple of tip-toe steps and halted, took a few steps more and waited, and so on, until I reached the bathroom door. Then I quickly went inside and locked the door.



I yanked out the wires form the table-lamp, and with my teeth, removed the plastic cladding from the open ends exposing at least two inches of naked copper on both the wires.



I smiled to myself. In my hands was a weapon of death. A set of coiled wires, one red and one black, long enough, a two-pin plug at one end and the other end exposed, naked.



I retraced my steps, tiptoed, leaving the bathroom light on and the door a bit ajar, so that I could just about see slightly. I put the plug in the socket. Then I uncoiled the wires, carefully holding one wire in each hand, a few inches away from the naked exposed copper, my hands apart. I switched on the electric switch with my left toe, got on the bed and slowly advanced on my knees towards the sleeping figure. The man was lying on his back, sleeping soundly, dead to the world. I decided to aim for his eyes. Simply thrust one live wire into each eye. Hopefully death would be instantaneous, the electric current flowing though his brain; even if it wasn’t, at least he’d be unconscious and then I could take my time.



The live wires had almost touched his eyes when some invisible force seemed to have grabbed my wrists. I froze. And felt a turbulence of conscience.



“I don’t want to be a murderess. What do I gain? And then what’s the difference between him and me? What about his family? Why should I make them suffer for no fault of theirs? And maybe what he said was indeed true; that it was just an accident, like he had reported,” said one part of me, pulling my hands back.



“Revenge! Vengeance! He deserves it,” desperately urged the other part of me, pushing my hands forward. “An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Do it now. Fast!” And slowly my hands started moving forward.



Suddenly the man started turning and, panicking, in a reflex action I instantly pulled my hands back. In the confusion, the naked wires touched; there were sparks and then total darkness. My blood ran cold. There was no movement from the man. Instinctively I guessed that the man had turned over on his side, his back towards me.



I tiptoed to the bathroom, retrieved the table-lamp, kept it on the bedside table and tucked the wires underneath. Then I lay down on my bed as if nothing had happened. The centralized air-conditioning was still on; but the bathroom light had gone off. Probably only the local light fuse had blown, but I didn’t know where it was.



I had muffed up a golden chance. The man was lucky to be alive. Sheer luck! But I knew try again. Again and again. For he did not deserve to live. And with these thoughts I drifted off to sleep.



When I woke up in the morning, I saw that the man was still fast asleep. The dawn had broken. I opened the window and let the sunlight in.



“Who’s that?” he asked, startled, adjusting his eyes to the sunlight.



“You must go to your room now,” I said. “Someone may notice.” I walked towards the sofa, picked up his clothes and threw them to him.



He dressed hurriedly and quickly walked to the connecting door between our rooms. He opened the door, paused for a moment, and turning towards me he said, “Good Bye, Mrs. Morris. They told me that you’d kill me. I came to find out. But killing isn’t easy. You can take my word for it.”



With these words he left my room, silently closing the door. I sat in dumbstruck silence, a deathly grotesque deafening silence. And I never saw him again.

[pavalamani pragasam]

LPO

On the morning of New Year’s Eve, while I am loafing on Main Street, in Surat, I meet an old friend of mine.





“Hi!” I say.





“Hi,” he says, “where to?”





“Aimless loitering,” I say, “And you?”





“I’m going to work.”



“Work? This early? I thought your shift starts in the evening, or late at night. You work at a call center don’t you?”



“Not now. I quit. I’m on my own now.”



“On your own? What do you do?”



“LPO.”



“LPO? What’s that?”



“Life Process Outsourcing.”



“Life Process Outsourcing? Never heard of it!”



“You’ve heard of Business Process Outsourcing haven’t you?”



“BPO? Outsourcing non-core business activities and functions?”



“Precisely. LPO is similar to BPO. There it’s Business Processes that are outsourced, here it’s Life Processes.”



“Life Processes? Outsourced?”



“Why don’t you come along with me? I’ll show you.”



Soon we are in his office. It looks like a mini call center.



A young attractive girl welcomes us. “Meet Rita, my Manager,” my friend says, and introduces us.



Rita looks distraught, and says to my friend, “I’m not feeling well. Must be viral fever.”



“No problem. My friend here will stand in.”



“What? I don’t have a clue about all this LPO thing!” I protest.



“There’s nothing like learning on the job! Rita will show you.”



“It’s simple,” Rita says, in a hurry. “See the console. You just press the appropriate switch and route the call to the appropriate person or agency.” And with these words she disappears. It’s the shortest training I have ever had in my life.



And so I plunge into the world of Life Process Outsourcing; or LPO as they call it.



It’s all very simple. Working people don’t seem to have time these days, but they have lots of money; especially those double income couples, IT nerds, MBA hot shots, finance wizards; just about everybody in the modern rat race. ‘Non-core Life Activities’, for which they neither have the inclination or the time – outsource them; so you can maximize your work-time to rake in the money and make a fast climb up the ladder of success.



“My daughter’s puked in her school. They want someone to pick her up and take her home. I’m busy in a shoot and just can’t leave,” a creative ad agency type says.



“Why don’t you tell your husband?” I say.



“Are you crazy or something? I’m a single mother.”



“Sorry ma’am. I didn’t know. My sympathies and condolences.”



“Condolences? Who’s this? Is this LPO?”



“Yes ma’am,” I say, press the button marked ‘children’ and transfer the call, hoping I have made the right choice. Maybe I should have pressed ‘doctor’.



Nothing happens for the next few moments. I breathe a sigh of relief.



A yuppie wants his grandmother to be taken to a movie. I press the ‘movies’ button. ‘Movies’ transfers the call back, “Hey, this is for movie tickets; try ‘escort services’. He wants the old hag escorted to the movies.”



‘Escort Services’ are in high demand. These guys and girls, slogging in their offices minting money, want escort services for their kith and kin for various non-core family processes like shopping, movies, eating out, sight seeing, marriages, funerals, all types of functions; even going to art galleries, book fairs, exhibitions, zoos, museums or even a walk in the nearby garden.



A father wants someone to read bedtime stories to his small son while he works late. A busy couple wants proxy stand-in ‘parents’ at the school PTA meeting. An investment banker rings up from Singapore; he wants his mother to be taken to pray in a temple at a certain time on a specific day.

Someone wants his kids to be taken for a swim, brunch, a play and browsing books and music.



An IT project manager wants someone to motivate and pep-talk her husband, who’s been recently sacked, and is cribbing away at home demoralized. He desperately needs someone to talk to, unburden himself, but the wife is busy – she neither has the time nor the inclination to take a few days off to boost the morale of her depressed husband when there are deadlines to be met at work and so much is at stake.



The things they want outsourced range from the mundane to the bizarre; life processes that one earlier enjoyed and took pride in doing or did as one’s sacred duty are considered ‘non-core life activities’ now-a-days by these highfalutin people.



At the end of the day I feel illuminated on this novel concept of Life Process Outsourcing, and I am about to leave, when suddenly a call comes in.



“LPO?” a man asks softly.



“Yes, this is LPO. May I help you?” I say.



“I’m speaking from Frankfurt Airport. I really don’t know if I can ask this?” he says nervously.



“Please go ahead and feel free to ask anything you desire, Sir. We do everything.”



“Everything?”



“Yes, Sir. Anything and everything!” I say.



“I don’t know how to say this. This is the first time I’m asking. You see, I am working 24/7 on an important project for the last few months. I’m globetrotting abroad and can’t make it there. Can you please arrange for someone suitable to take my wife out to the New Year’s Eve Dance?”



I am taken aback but quickly recover, “Yes, Sir.”



“Please send someone really good, an excellent dancer, and make sure she enjoys and has a good time. She loves dancing and I just haven’t had the time.”



“Of course, Sir.”



“And I told you – I’ve been away abroad for quite some time now and I’ve got to stay out here till I complete the project.”



“I know. Work takes top priority.”



“My wife. She’s been lonely. She desperately needs some love. Do you have someone with a loving and caring nature who can give her some love? I just don’t have the time. You understand what I’m saying, don’t you?”



I let the words sink in. This is one call I am not going to transfer. “Please give me the details, Sir,” I say softly into the mike.



As I walk towards my destination with a spring in my step, I feel truly enlightened.



Till this moment, I never knew that ‘love’ was a non-core life process worthy of outsourcing.



Long Live Life Process Outsourcing!

[pavalamani pragasam]

get your money worth


Here is an apocryphal story; I heard long back, and it's inner meaning had a profound positive effect on me:


On his first visit to India, a rich merchant saw a man selling a small green fruit which he had never seen before. It looked fresh and juicy and the merchant was tempted, and curious, he asked the vendor, “What is this?” “Chillies, fresh green chillies,” said the hawker.


The merchant held out a gold coin and the vendor was so overjoyed that he gave the merchant the full basket of chillies.


The merchant sat down under a tree and stared to munch the chillies. Within a few seconds his tongue was on fire, his mouth burning and tears streamed down his cheeks. But despite this discomfort, the merchant went on eating the chillies, chewing them one by one, scrutinizing each chilli carefully before he put it into his burning mouth.



Seeing his condition, a passerby remarked, “What’s wrong with you? Why don’t you stop eating those hot chillies? ”


“Maybe there is one that is sweet,” the merchant answered, “I keep waiting for the sweet one.” And the merchant continued eating the chillies.


On his way back, the passerby noticed that the merchant’s condition had become miserable, his face red with agony and copious tears pouring out of his burning eyes. But the merchant kept on eating the chillies, in his search for the ‘sweet one’.


“Stop at once, or you will die,” the passerby shouted. “There are no sweet chillies ! Haven’t you realized that? Look at the basket - it’s almost empty. And have you found even one sweet chilli yet? ”


“I cannot stop until I eat all the chillies. I have to finish the whole basketful,” the merchant croaked in agony, “I have paid for the full basket and I will make sure I get my money’s worth.”




Dear Reader – Read this story once more, reflect on it, and apply it to your life. Don’t we cling on to things that we know we should let go (at first hoping to find ‘sweet one’ and even when we discover that there is no ‘sweet chilli’ we still continue to shackle ourselves to painful, harmful and detrimental things just to ‘get our money’s worth’ when we should let go and liberate ourselves).

[pavalamani pragasam]

ROMANCE

What does a beautiful woman do when a handsome young man looks at her in an insistent, lingering sort of way, which is worth a hundred compliments?

I’ll tell you what she did. First, she realized that I was looking at her, then she accepted the fact of being looked at, and finally she began to look at me in return.


Suddenly her eyes became hard and she grilled me with a stern stare that made me uncomfortable.



Scared and discomfited, I quickly averted my eyes and tried to disappear into the crowd. I felt ashamed of having eyed her so blatantly. ‘What did she think of me ?’ I wondered.


But soon, by instinct and almost against my will, my eyes began searching, trying to find her again. There she was. At the fruit-stall. Buying fruit.


She was an exquisite beauty - tall, fair and freshly bathed, her luxuriant black hair flowing down her back, her sharp features accentuated by the morning sun, her nose slightly turned up, so slender and transparent, as though accustomed to smelling nothing but perfumes.


I was mesmerized. Never before had anyone evoked such a sensation in me. An unknown force propelled me towards the fruit-stall. I stood near her and made a pretence of choosing a papaya, trying to look at her with sidelong glances when I thought she wasn’t noticing.


She noticed. And looked at me. Her eyes were extremely beautiful -enormous, dark, expressive. And suddenly her eyes began to dance, and seeing the genuine admiration in my eyes, she gave me smile so captivating that I experienced a delightful twinge in my heart.

She selected a papaya and extended her hands to give it to me. Our fingers touched. The feeling was electric. It was sheer ecstasy. I felt so good that I wished time would stand still.


I can’t begin to describe the sensation I felt deep within me. I tried to smile. She communicated an unspoken good-bye with her eyes and briskly walked away.


Three months have passed since. She has never missed her date with me, same time, same place, every Sunday - at precisely Seven o’clock in the morning. But, my dear Reader, do you know? Not a word has been exchanged between us. We romance using the language of the eyes. And part with an unspoken good-bye. Once I was slightly late for our rendezvous. And I could see her eyes desperately searching for me. And when she found me, her eyes danced with delight.


Me and my lady love. We live in this world but love in another. Romancing in our own enchanting secret ethereal world. Can any love can surpass our silent love? Our enchanting love. It feels like non-alcoholic intoxication. Supreme Bliss.




Should I speak to her?
I do not know.


Why doesn’t she speak to me?


I do not know.
Does one have to speak to express love?
Are words the only way to communicate love?


Maybe we both want our beautiful romance to remain this way. Esoteric. Our lovely love. So exquisite. So pristine. So divine. So fragile. So delicate. So sensitive. So delicately poised. So silent. Just one word would spoil everything, destroy our enthralling state of trancelike bliss, and bring everything crashing down from supreme ecstasy to harsh ground reality.


I think it’s best to let our lovely romance go on for ever and ever, till eternity.


Do you think so? How long should we go on like this? ‘Dating’ with our eyes on Sunday Morning !

[pavalamani pragasam]

AFTER QUITTING SMOKING


One of the things that deters smokers from quitting decisively in one go is the fear of withdrawal symptoms. This results in smokers resorting to half-baked remedies like gradual reduction, nicotine patches, low tar cigarettes and various other futile therapies. In my opinion this exaggerated importance given to withdrawal symptoms is just a big myth, a ploy, an excuse by addicts to avoid giving up smoking. The so-called withdrawal symptoms are nothing but craving. The best and most effective way of quitting smoking is to just stop smoking, totally, in one go, and then never to smoke again. Don’t be afraid of the so-called “withdrawal symptoms” – you can easily tackle the craving. You can take my word for it – I successfully did it and conquered the craving for smoking once and for all.




I have described how I quit smoking. I’m sure you must have read it here in my blog (If you haven’t I’ve pasted the article below at the end of this one for you to read). Now let me describe to you the day after I quit smoking.




I woke up early, at five-thirty as usual, made a cup of tea, and the moment I took a sip of the piping hot delicious tea, I felt the familiar crave for my first cigarette of the day. I kept down the cup of tea, made a note of the craving in my diary, had a glass of hot water (quickly heated in the microwave oven), completed my ablutions, and stepped out of my house, crossed the Maharshi Karve Road, and began a brisk walk-cum-jog around the verdant tranquil Oval Maidan, deeply rinsing my lungs with the pure refreshing morning air. which made me feel on top of the world. The Clock on MumbaiUniversity’s RajabaiTower silhouetted against the calm bluish gray sky, was striking six, and I felt invigorated. I had overcome my craving, and not smoked, what used to be my first cigarette of the day.


I then went on my daily morning walk on Marine Drive to Chowpatty and on my way back I spotted my friends ‘N’ and ‘S’ across the road beckoning me for our customary post-exercise tea and cigarette at the stall opposite Mantralaya. I felt tempted, but my resolve firm, I waved to them, looked away and ran towards my house. They must have thought I’d gone crazy, but it didn’t matter – I had avoided what used to be my second cigarette of the day. I made a note of it my diary, as I would do the entire day of all the stimuli that triggered in me the urge to smoke – what I would call my “smoking anchors” which could be anything, internal and external, tangible or intangible – people, situations, events, feelings, smells, emotions, tendencies, moods, foods, social or organizational trends, practices, norms, peer pressure; and most importantly how I tackled and triumphed over these stimuli.





After breakfast, I didn’t drink my usual cup of coffee – a strong “smoking anchor” which triggered in me a desperate desire to smoke, and drank a glass of bland milk instead, thereby averting what used to be my third cigarette of the day. It was nine, as I walked to work, and I hadn’t smoked a single cigarette. It was a long day ahead and I had to be cognizant, observe myself inwardly and devise strategies to tackle situations that elicited craving for smoking – recognize and neutralize my “smoking anchors”, so to speak.




Anchoring is a naturally occurring phenomenon, a natural process that usually occurs without our awareness. An anchor is any representation in the human nervous system that triggers any other representation. Anchors can operate in any representational system (sight, sound, feeling, sensation, smell, taste). You create an anchor when you unconsciously set up a stimulus response pattern. Response [smoking] becomes associated with (anchored to) some stimulus; in such a way that perception of the stimulus (the anchor) leads by reflex to the anchored response [smoking] occurring. Repeated stimulus–response action, reinforces anchors and this is a vicious circle, especially in the context of “smoking anchors”. The trick is to identify your “smoking anchors”, become conscious of these anchors and ensure you do not activate them.




The moment I reached office I saw my colleague ‘B’ eagerly waiting for me, as he did every day. Actually he was eagerly waiting to bum a cigarette from me for his first smoke of the day [“I smoke only other’s cigarettes” was his motto!]. I politely told him I had quit smoking and told him to look elsewhere. He looked at me in disbelief; taunted, jeered and badgered me a bit, but when I stood firm, he disappeared.




I removed from my office my ashtray, declared the entire place a no-smoking zone and put up signs to that effect. The working day began. It was a tough and stressful working day. I was tired, when my boss called me across and offered me a cigarette. I looked at the cigarette pack yearningly, tempted, overcome by a strong craving, desperate to have just that “one” cigarette. Nothing like a “refreshing” smoke to drive my blues away and revitalize me – the “panacea” to my “stressed-out” state! It was now or never! I politely excused myself on the pretext of going to the toilet, but rushed out into the open and took a brisk walk rinsing my lungs with fresh air, and by the time I returned I had lost the craving to smoke and realized, like in the Oval early in the morning, that physical exercise is probably the best antidote.




People may think I’m crazy, but even now I rush out of my office once in a while to take a brisk walk in the open and not only do I lose the craving for a smoke but I feel distressed and invigorated as well. Conversely, once I rushed into a “no-smoking” cinema when I desperately felt like a smoke while strolling in the evening. Often, after dinner, when I used to feel like a smoke, I rushed into the Oxford Bookstore next door, for a long leisurely browse till my craving dissipated. And, of course, one has to change his lifestyle, activities, and, maybe, even friends. Always try to be with likeminded people who you would like to emulate – if you want to quit smoking try to be in the company of non-smokers.




It was simple after that, but my diary for that defining day makes interesting reading of smoking anchors – saunf or supari after lunch, afternoon tea, the company of smokers, paan… But the crucial test came in the evening. My dear friend ‘A’ landed up for a drink. Now ‘A’ is a guy who doesn’t smoke in front of his kids and wife (I’m sure she knows!). So since he doesn’t smoke in his own home he makes up in other people’s houses. But mind you, he doesn’t bum cigarettes – in fact he gets a pack and generously leaves the remaining behind for the host.




We poured out a rum–paani each, clinked our glasses, said cheers, and sipped. ‘A’ lit a cigarette and offered the pack to me. At the end of a hot, humid and tiring day, the fortifying beverage induced a heavenly ambrosial sensation which permeated throughout the body and what better way to synergise the enjoyment than to smoke a cigarette along with the drink and enhance the pleasure to sheer bliss. Till that moment, for me, drinking and smoking were inextricably intertwined – they complemented, accentuated each other and accorded me the ultimate supreme pleasure. I enjoyed my smoke the most along with a drink. I realized that drinking was my strongest “smoking anchor” and if I had to quit smoking permanently I would have to give up drinking forever. So that’s what I did. At this defining moment of my life, I quit drinking forever. It’s been almost four years now and I do not smoke and I do not drink.




I will never smoke again – I have quit smoking forever. I may be tempted, but I know I can overcome the urge, for I have mastered the art of taking charge of my “smoking anchors”. And from time to time, I shall look at my old diary to remember and cherish that cardinal day of my life – ‘the day after I quit smoking’.

[pavalamani pragasam]

STORY PART -1

“I don’t want to marry Manisha,” I told my mother.

My mother looked as if she had been pole-axed. Suddenly there was a metamorphosis in her ex-pression – a distant look across my shoulder followed by a smile of forced geniality.

“Manisha is coming!” my mother whispered.

I turned around quickly and saw Manisha entering the wicket-gate and walking towards us.

She wished my mother and smiled at me. “I want to come and see you off at the airport.”

“Why bother? I’ll go on my own,” I said. “The flights are quite unpredictable. They never leave on time. And how will you come back all the way?”

“You two talk here in the garden,” my mother said. “I’ll go inside and pack your things.”

“I am sorry about last night,” Manisha said, with genuine regret in her voice.

“It’s okay.” I looked at Manisha. Plump and full-faced, with small brown eyes and dusky complexion, hair drawn back into a conventional knot – there was only one adjective to describe Manisha – ‘prosaic’; yes, she looked prosaic – so commonplace, unexciting and pedestrian.

“I’ll go inside and help your mother,” Manisha said, and went inside. ‘Last night’ was the fiasco at the disco. Manisha and I - An unmitigated disaster!

“Let’s dance,” I had asked Manisha.

“No,” Manisha was firm.

“Come on. I’ll teach you,” I pleaded. “Everyone is on the floor.”

But Manisha did not budge. So we just sat there watching. Everybody was thoroughly enjoying themselves. Many of my friends and colleagues were on the floor, with their wives, fiancées and girlfriends. Among them Sanjiv and Swati.

“Who is this wallflower you’ve brought with you?” taunted Sanjiv, during a break in the music.

“My fiancée, Manisha,” I answered, trying to keep cool.

“Your fiancée? How come you’ve hooked on to such a Vern?” Swati mocked.

“Come on Vijay,” she said derisively,coming close and looking directly into my eyes.

“You are an Executive now, not a clerk. Don’t live in your past. Find someone better. She doesn’t belong here.”

If someone had stuck a knife into my heart it would have been easier to endure than these words. It always rankled; the fact that I had come up the hard way, promoted from the ranks.

“This is too much” I said angrily to Sanjiv.

“Cool down, Vijay,” Sanjiv said putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know Swati doesn’t mean it.” But I knew that Swati had meant every word she uttered.

“Let’s go,” I told Manisha. “I’ve had enough.”

When we were driving home, Manisha asked innocently, “What’s a Vern?”

“Vernacular!” I answered. And at that moment there was a burst of firecrackers and rockets lit up the sky to usher in the New Year.

That night I could not sleep. I thought of my future, trying to see both halves of my future life, my career and my marriage, side by side. I realized that my career was more important to me than anything else. I had to succeed at any cost. And a key ingredient in the recipe for success was a ‘socially valuable’ wife. It mattered. It was the truth. Whether you like it or not. Swati was right. Manisha just didn’t belong to that aspect and class of society of which I was now a part. I had crossed the class barrier; but Manisha had remained where she was. And she would remain there, unwilling and unable to change.

In marriage one has to be rational. Manisha would be an encumbrance, maybe even an embarrassment. It was a mistake - my getting engaged to her. She was the girl next door, we had grown up together and everyone assumed we would be married one day. And our parents got us engaged. At that point of time I didn’t think much of it. It was only now, that my eyes had opened; I realized the enormity of the situation. I was an upwardly mobile executive now, not a mere clerk, and the equations had changed. What I needed was someone like Swati. Smart, chic and savvy. Convent educated, well groomed and accustomed to the prevalent lifestyle, a perfect hostess, an asset to my career. And most importantly she was from a well-connected family. I tired to imagine what life would have been like had I married Swati.

Sanjiv was so lucky. He was already going places. After all Swati was the daughter of the senior VP.

Suddenly I returned to the present. I could bear my mother calling me. I went inside. Manisha was helping her pack my bags, unaware of what was going on in my mind. I felt a sense of deep guilt, but then it was question of my life.

“What’s wrong with you?” my mother asked after Manisha had left. “Why were so rude to Manisha, so distant? She loves you so much!”

“I don’t love her,” I said.

“What?” my mother asked surprised, “Is there some else?”

“No,” I said.

“I don’t understand you.”

“Manisha is not compatible anymore. She just doesn’t fit in.”

I could see that my mother was angry. Outwardly she remained calm and nonchalant; her fury was visible only in her eyes.

“Who do you think you are?” she said icily, trying to control herself.

“You know Manisha from childhood, isn’t it? For the last two years you have been engaged and moving around together. And suddenly you say Manisha is not compatible?” My mother paused for a moment, and then taking my hand asked me softly, “What happened last night?”

I told her. Then we argued for over two hours and till the end I stuck to my guns. Finally my mother said, “This is going to be difficult. And relations between our families are going to be permanently strained. Think about Manisha. It will be so difficult for her to get married after the stigma of a broken engagement. Forget about last night. It’s just a small incident. Think about it again. Manisha is the ideal wife, so suitable for you.”

But I had made up my mind, so I told my mother, “If you want I’ll go and talk to her father right now and break off the engagement.”

“No,” my mother snapped. “Let your father come home. He will decide what to do.”

The doorbell rang. I opened the door. Standing outside along with my father were Manisha and her parents.

“I have fixed up your wedding with Manisha Patwardhan on the 30th of May of this year,” my father thundered peremptorily in his usual impetuous style.

“Congratulations,” echoed Manisha’s parents, Mr. and Mr. Patwardhan.

I was dumbstruck. Manisha was smiling coyly. My mother was signaling to me with her eyes not to say anything. She was probably happy at the fait accompli. I felt trapped. I excused myself and went up to my room. I locked the door. Someone knocked.

“Give me five minutes,” I said. “I’ll get ready and come down.” “Come soon,” said Manisha from the other side of the door.

I took out my notepad and wrote a letter to Manisha:


Dear Manisha,

Forgive me, but I have discovered that I can’t marry you and I think that it is best for us to say goodbye.

Yours sincerely,


Vijay


I knew the words sounded insincere, but that was all I could write for my mind had bone blank and I wanted to get it over with as fast as possible; just one sentence to terminate our long relationship. I knew I was being cruel but I just couldn’t help it.

I sealed the letter in a postal envelope, wrote Manisha’s name and address on it and put it in my bag. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave.

Everyone came to the airport to see me off. Sanjiv and Swati had come too. They were located at Pune and I was off on a promotion to Delhi.

“I’m really very sorry about last night,” Swati apologized to us. She took Manisha’s hand and said tenderly, “Manisha, please forgive me. You are truly an ideal couple – both made for each other.”

As I walked towards the boarding area Manisha’s father Mr. Patwardhan shouted to me jovially, “Hey, Vijay. Don’t forget to come on 30th of May. The wedding muhurat is exactly at 10.35 in the morning. Everything is fixed. I have already booked the best hall in town. If you don’t turn up I’ll lose my deposit!”

I nodded to him but in my mind’s eye I smiled to myself – the “joke” was going to be on him! Then I waved everyone goodbye, went to the waiting hall, sat on a chair, opened my bag and took out the letter I had written to Manisha. I wish I had torn up the letter there and then, but some strange force stopped me. I put the envelope in my pocket and remembered my mother’s parting words: “Please Vijay. Marry Manisha. Don’t make everyone unhappy. Manisha is good girl. She’ll adjust. I’ll talk to her.”

During the flight I thought about it. I tried my utmost, but I just could not visualize Manisha as my wife in my new life any more. Till now I had done everything to make everybody happy. But what about me? It was my life after all. Time would heal wounds, abate the injury and dissipate the anger; but if I got trapped for life with Manisha, it would be an unmitigated sheer disaster.

I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.

To be continued…

[pavalamani pragasam]

Story Part-2
[PART – 2]

[continued from Part 1]



I collected my baggage and walked towards the exit of Delhi Airport. Suddenly I spotted a red post box. I felt the envelope in my pocket. I knew I had to make the crucial decision right now. Yes, it was now or never.


I walked towards the red post box and stood in front of it, indecisive and confused. I took a deep breath, took out the envelope from my pocket and looked at it – the address, postage stamp – everything was okay.


I moved my hand to post the letter. A strange force stopped my hand in its tracks. I hesitated, and in my mind I tried to imagine the severe ramifications, the terrible consequences of what I was about to do.


At first Manisha would be delighted, even surprised, to see my handwriting on the letter. And then she would read it…! I dreaded to even think about the unimaginable hurt and distress she would feel… and then her parents… and mine…the sense of betrayal and insult…relationships built and nurtured for years would be strained, even broken, forever. And poor Manisha…everyone knew we were engaged…how tongues would wag…the stigma of broken engagement…the anguish of my betrayal of her love… she would be devastated… may even commit…


Suddenly my cell-phone rang interrupting my train of thoughts. ‘Must be Manisha monitoring me as usual,’ I thought getting irritated at her – Manisha’s suffocating familiarity and closeness seemed like manacles and I was glad I was getting away from her. I decided not to answer, but my mobile kept ringing persistently, so I looked at the display. It wasn’t Manisha, but an unknown new number.


“Hello,” I said into my cell-phone.


“Mr. Joshi?” a male voice spoke.


“Yes. Vijay Joshi here. Who is it, please?” I asked.


“Sir, we’ve come to receive you. Please come to the exit gate and look for the board with your name.”


“I’m coming,” I said and looked the letter addressed to Manisha in my hand.


No. Not now in a hurry. Providence was giving me signals to wait, reflect, and think it over, not to do something so irretrievable in such a hurry. So I put the envelope in my pocket and walked away from the post box towards the exit.


I settled down well in my new job and liked my place in Delhi. Every morning I would put the envelope in my pocket determined to post it in the post box outside my office on my way to work but something happened and I didn’t post the letter to Manisha. Meanwhile I rang up Manisha, and my mother, every evening, and made pretence that everything was okay. The stress and strain within me was steadily building up.


Every time I looked at the envelope I felt as if was holding a primed grenade in my hand. With every passing day, the 30th of May was approaching nearer and nearer. Time was running out, and I knew I would have to unburden myself of the bombshell pretty fast. So one day, during lunch break, I decided to post the fateful letter and get it over with once and for all.


As I was walking out someone from the reception called out to me, “Hey, Mr. Joshi, is Mr. Gokhale in his office?”


Gokhale was my boss, and he was out on tour, so I said, “No, he’s gone on tour. Anything I can do?”


“Sir, there’s a courier for him,” the receptionist said.


“I’ll take it and give it to him when he comes,” I said, signed the voucher and took the envelope from the courier.


The moment I looked at the envelope an electric tremor of trepidation quivered through me like a thunderbolt.


I cannot begin to describe the bewildered astonishment and shocking consternation I felt when I saw Manisha’s distinctive handwriting on the envelope. Beautiful large flowing feminine writing with her trademark star-shaped ‘t’ crossing, the huge circle dotting the ‘i’… there was no doubt about it. And of course her favorite turquoise blue ink. There was no doubt about it but I turned the envelope around hoping I was wrong, but I was right – the letter to my boss Mr. Gokhale was indeed from Manisha; she had written her name and address on the reverse, as bold as brass!


My pulse raced, my insides quivered, my brain resonated and I trembled with feverish anxiety. At first impulse I wanted to tear open the envelope and see what was inside, but I controlled myself, tried to mask my inner emotions, put on a fake smile of geniality for everyone around, gently put the letter in my pocket and began retracing my steps back to my office.


I discreetly felt the two envelopes in my suit pocket – one, my unposted letter to Manisha; and the other, much fatter, Manisha’s unopened letter to my boss Mr. Avinash Gokhale.



To be continued…