Short stories from my new book

[bls31]

8 The Time The Moon Sneaked In My Bed Room



F


OR NO APPARENT REASON I woke-up from the deep slumber I was in.With the summer creeping in and nights becoming warmer- the AC still not required and switched off, with just the fans enough, I had left the door to the balcony open to let the night breeze in and the screen door closed to keep the swarm of the mosquitoes out.
Slowly as I moved from the dream world to the real I could feel a change in the environment of the room: dark earlier when I had switched off the lights was now suffused with a strange glow bringing in relief the clutter invisible earlier. There was also a shaft of bright light angling in through the door and focussing on my bed.
Intrigued about the strange phenomena, the street lights three floors down below had been on blink for the last so many days, curious and to investigate the cause, I stepped down from the bed, opened the screen door, and walked to the balcony. And there it was the full moon, large as it can be when full and so bright that it was hurting my still sleepy eyes.
To me it appeared as if the Moon had move across the night sky and positioned itself bang in the centre of the small gap, between the terraces of the two seven floor blocks, opposite, across the road and had sneaked in my bed room for the sole purpose of waking me up to be a privileged witness to the magic it had created out-side: the concrete jungle, so mundane a sight during day, now bathed in the magic of the golden light was an ethereal sight; difficult to describe.
Waking up in the middle of night was worth it, the magical sight would have been lost to me had I continued to sleep. BLS 31

[bls31]

Another Story from the book
10 The Missing Magic


A




FTER A MEMORABLE EVENING of Dinner, Drinks and animated conversation, in an expensive mood and with a feeling of euphoria we came out of the Air Conditioned Pub of Noida Golf Course, to suddenly find us in a different world.

The combination of the full moon in the sky, the emerald green fairways, bathed pale, a pleasantly mild, caressing cool breeze made us linger a little longer, we had meet at the club to welcome Maliks, our common friends, on a short visit from USA, and continue talking of past with feelings dipped in nostalgia.

Earlier with the Kulfies and Gulab-jamuns savoured slowly and the tables cleared we had lingered on and later, again , with a feeling of bonhomie at the car park, one hand on the car door handle and the other extended for reluctant goodbye, subconsciously trying to hold on to the magic of the evening a bit longer.

The moon and the cool breeze combine, unusual for the time of the year and more so in the world of Noida, brought back the memories of the legendary Malwa Nights, the vast landscape, lit by the full moon in the sky, stretching far towards the Bercha Lake, long back in time in Mhow in the endearing. company of Jeet, my late wife, also evocative of similar nights of ‘The Dwars’ at Tezpu, the airfield area spread as far as one could see, suffused with the pale- white moonlight, the tall grass reeds swaying in the mild breeze, their silvery-white plumes shining bright, the high in the sky, full moon of those winter nights was an ethereal sight: the sight, peace and quiet of those special nights though wove a web of sheer magic alas provided no compensation for the pain and pangs of separation from the family far away at Dehradun.

I came home, parked the car, took the lift up to the third floor flat, changed and took the lift down once again and walked to the adjacent park.

It was now past twelve; the full moon, now at its Zenith in the sky was still bright as before, possibly a bit more, the breeze was still blowing and swaying the trees and bushes; the park was suffused with the same pale-white, evocative light. Alas the magic that I had come down in search of was missing; so was the company and the companion.

A few days later, the venue was the same, the company was also congenial as we came out after dinner, there was also some breeze blowing with half a moon in the sky, the good byes were perfunctory, with little lingering, more importantly the Magic of earlier visit, could not be repeated.

[bls31]

6 Sela Pass and the Mompa Girl

file:///C:\DOCUME~1\BLS~1.OMS\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\cl ip_image002.jpg
THIS IS HOW A FABLE becomes fact and falsehood a legend. I am referring to an article in the souvenir issued on the occasion of the wreath laying ceremony at the ‘Shaheed Smarak’ Noida recently which has an article, ‘Tawang remembers its ’62 war heroes’ by Rahul Karmakar, lifted bodily from OUTLOOK ‘Travel’ published some time back, where in the author has attributed the name ‘.Sela ‘given to the pass due to the bravery of some local Mompa girl who had helped soldier Jaswant Singh in holding the Chinese army for 72 hours in 1962.
Some Mompa girl may or may not have helped Jaswant Singh; however, there were no Chinese near or about Sela, in as far back as May 1962 when I drove across the pass, still and then known as ‘Sela’, to Tawang. Chinese if any came to Sela only in November 1962.
The lady names ‘Sela’ has thus become a legend and Army lore thanks to OUTLOOK and the publisher of the Shaheed Samarak Souvenir

[bls31]

30 The Village Pond


I



HE THIRTIES, then being five to six years of age and youngest child, that I always accompanied my mother whenever she visited her parents in her village.


The modern age was still in future, the village pond was the favourite playground of my cousins and I was always a fascinated invitee.

Whenever they threw a pebble in the pond, it would make the green moss covering its placid surface part making the water to break into ripples.

The long reeds, the bulrushes, growing around the pond, swaying in the breeze, Dragoon flies buzzing around, the butterflies fluttering aimlessly, to my young eyes, the humming of the bees and the chirp of the koel, it was here among other wonders of village life that I was initiated in the art of smoking a clay pipe, crafted from the wet earth of the pond and a small section from the reeds, for a city bread, it was all pure thrill and fun.

There was always a herd of buffaloes in the pond, with just the nostrils and eyes showing, enjoying the cool water. Some times the children would also jump in, stark naked, gleefully and join the buffaloes to beat the heat.

The houses ware all constructed from the mud taken from the pond that is how the pond had come in to being in the first place.

This was engineering,

Before the advent of monsoons following the summers the houses were given a coating of mica powder mixed in mud paste, to reflect the summer heat away and later prevent damage from rain.

This was preventive maintenance and thermal engineering.

The rainwater would collect and fill the pond.
This also prevented the flooding of the village lanes and houses during heavy rains.

This was water harvesting, flood control and disaster management.

Simple solutions devised for simple problems by the simple but intelligent villagers.

The lanes and allies were dry and clean, water for drinking and other household requirements was drawn from the village well, and a task was assigned the young unmarried girls of the house and new brides and strictly conserved.

The village well was a popular venue for many budding romances and love affairs as also a meeting place and exchange of gossip for the village bellies. Slowly progress caught up, brick houses came into vogue and became a matter of prestige it did not matter if they became ovens in summer and iceboxes during winter

Mud from the pond was required no more and it started shrinking.

With hand pumps installed in the house the animals were also now given a bath in the courtyard itself, with the water flowing out of the house in the narrow lanes creating mud, slush and stink, mosquito menace disease and sickness.

The males of the household had also greater control on the women folk, who were now confined to the four wall of the house, loosing their small diversion from the monotonous and backbreaking daily chores.

The village well came in to disuse and was capped.

If it rained heavily, any time now, the lanes and the houses got flooded as the water had no where to flow to on the flat ground.

The greedy village ‘dadas’ encroached on the now dry and dying pond, grabbing and selling the reclaimed portion of land to friends and relations.

I noticed all this, as I grew up, during my now infrequent visits to the village, sad but helpless to influence the events.

Some lucky and progressive villagers, thirsty urban areas and even some government agencies are rediscovering the wonders of water harvesting once again, but will the magic of the village pond ever be recreated , if at all?

[AbhikRana]

Interesting read Sir. Thanks for sharing.

Your mention of the village 'dada's' reminds me of the youngsters dressed in white from top to toe - white kurta pajama and white sports shoes of course with the conspicuous heavy gold chain and gold plated kada - something akin to the 'netaji' concept in U.P.


30 The Village Pond


I


HE THIRTIES, then being five to six years of age and youngest child, that I always accompanied my mother whenever she visited her parents in her village.


The modern age was still in future, the village pond was the favourite playground of my cousins and I was always a fascinated invitee.

Whenever they threw a pebble in the pond, it would make the green moss covering its placid surface part making the water to break into ripples.

The long reeds, the bulrushes, growing around the pond, swaying in the breeze, Dragoon flies buzzing around, the butterflies fluttering aimlessly, to my young eyes, the humming of the bees and the chirp of the koel, it was here among other wonders of village life that I was initiated in the art of smoking a clay pipe, crafted from the wet earth of the pond and a small section from the reeds, for a city bread, it was all pure thrill and fun.

There was always a herd of buffaloes in the pond, with just the nostrils and eyes showing, enjoying the cool water. Some times the children would also jump in, stark naked, gleefully and join the buffaloes to beat the heat.

The houses ware all constructed from the mud taken from the pond that is how the pond had come in to being in the first place.

This was engineering,

Before the advent of monsoons following the summers the houses were given a coating of mica powder mixed in mud paste, to reflect the summer heat away and later prevent damage from rain.

This was preventive maintenance and thermal engineering.

The rainwater would collect and fill the pond.
This also prevented the flooding of the village lanes and houses during heavy rains.

This was water harvesting, flood control and disaster management.

Simple solutions devised for simple problems by the simple but intelligent villagers.

The lanes and allies were dry and clean, water for drinking and other household requirements was drawn from the village well, and a task was assigned the young unmarried girls of the house and new brides and strictly conserved.

The village well was a popular venue for many budding romances and love affairs as also a meeting place and exchange of gossip for the village bellies. Slowly progress caught up, brick houses came into vogue and became a matter of prestige it did not matter if they became ovens in summer and iceboxes during winter

Mud from the pond was required no more and it started shrinking.

With hand pumps installed in the house the animals were also now given a bath in the courtyard itself, with the water flowing out of the house in the narrow lanes creating mud, slush and stink, mosquito menace disease and sickness.

The males of the household had also greater control on the women folk, who were now confined to the four wall of the house, loosing their small diversion from the monotonous and backbreaking daily chores.

The village well came in to disuse and was capped.

If it rained heavily, any time now, the lanes and the houses got flooded as the water had no where to flow to on the flat ground.

The greedy village ‘dadas’ encroached on the now dry and dying pond, grabbing and selling the reclaimed portion of land to friends and relations.

I noticed all this, as I grew up, during my now infrequent visits to the village, sad but helpless to influence the events.

Some lucky and progressive villagers, thirsty urban areas and even some government agencies are rediscovering the wonders of water harvesting once again, but will the magic of the village pond ever be recreated , if at all?

[bls31]

THE GENERAL’S WIFE, ME AND THE BIRD FROM THE BUSH


October 1957. I find myself trailing the convoy of the Chief of the Army Staff, Gen Thimayya, on to Manali via Yole, that I had joined at Pathankot.

My onerous task was to keep the General in touch with the world through a mobile wireless detachment. It was the high point of my service life as junior officer-a Lieutenant with just two years of service. The reputation of my Regiment back at Jlandhar and that of the Signal Corps itself rested heavy on my young shoulders.

I had the privilege to see his much faceted personality at close quarters, his compassion for a junior officer, the pretended hen- pecked husband, the obviously doting father, enjoying being the butt of jokes from the two of them. The same person changing to the steel main of a Chief of the Army Staff, the moment we arrived back at Pathankot, where he was to address the Garrison troops, the aura of the personality, so visible that I felt the impact even from afar. Seeing him now, from such a distance I felt lost, having been so to say, part of the family for a fortnight.

Although I was independent administratively, I was fortunate to be invited, rather ordered to sit at the table with the General, his gracious wife and vivacious daughter.

How I got inducted in the family merits telling.

On way to Manali the General’s caravan stopped for tea. Each one of us selects a boulder on the banks of the fast flowing River Beas to seat ourselves. Naturally I had selected the one farthest from the General’s group. Possibly that was the reason he noticed me, the only officer present who was not part of his group.

Beckoned, as I approached, he shot a question at me ‘ Are you in contact with SPUTNIK’?

Sputnik, the Russian Satellite, launched a few days earlier and beeping , as it orbited around the earth, was those days the talk of the town.

I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind ‘Sir, you provide me the frequency and I will make contact’.

Mrs. Thimayya kindly offered me a couple of sandwiches, with what I thought were Tomato fillings. A few bites later. being a vegetarian, I felt that it tasted different. Though I was not aware as to how Ham tasted I did realise that it tasted different from a tomato filling... Totally confused with the turn of events I just did not know what to do and the best course appeared to somehow gulp the lot down.

The Generals wife, being a perceptive lady, had sensed my predicament and throughout our stay at Manali she ensured that there was a dish for the vegetarian on the table.

During the stay at Manali there was not much to distract him from the holiday, my main task being to listen to the 9O’ Clock News and brief him with the gist.

One day I found myself the sole occupant of the breakfast table; the General and his entourage having left for Rohtang pass early, leaving me and the Radio detachment behind. I did fee a bit distraught though little realising the consequences of a need occurring to contact him or some mishap en route. By hind sight the consequences are not too hard to imagine, still giving me shudders.

On the return journey, we once again stopped on the banks of River Bias this time for lunch. Now it was Mrs. Thimayya’s turn to feel embarrassed; the packed lunch consisted of Roast Chicken and Potatoes. However, by now I had been fully domesticated and was quite happy to pick the Roast Potatoes gingerly from the Chicken and somehow push them down, one at a time, at the same time managing not to show my dilemma. This was the least I could do for all the consideration shown to me all these days.

This was my last and only willing encounter with non-vegetarian food. Somehow, I have managed to remain a vegetarian during the 30 years in the Army, even at times when I was with-out food for days together especially during the Sino -Indian conflict in 1962. Possibly there was no General’s wife to offer me the Khichari prepared by my Jawans to which they had added a bird from a near-by bush.

[bls31]

34 The Message Of Life
Beauty, continuity and finality


S



TANDING ON THE THRESHOLD of the decade of eighty, come evening, there is a visit by a family of friends: father, mother and daughter. I am pleasantly surprised, overwhelmed and falling short of words, in how to thank them for the thoughtful gesture: the present and the effervescent ‘Happy Birthday’ wish proofed in unison, mumble some thing... file:///C:\DOCUME~1\BLS~1.OMS\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\cl ip_image002.jpg The box, containing Black Forest and Pineapple pastries, the pastries to be savoured slowly, is destined to the fridge, the basket of the Orchids to be admired at leisure, to the centre of the dining table. BLS31
As the days pass, one by one, the pastries, slowly, dwindle in number, enjoyed in small bites and pieces, the orchids on the other hand, strangely, day by day grow by millimeters, both in height and beauty.
Somehow, in the growing Orchids and dwindling Pastries I discern a subtle ’Message of Life’: its beauty, continuity and finality.

[bls31]

42 Reunion



N




o more an effective fighting force, the Brigade was ordered to Ramgarh a small Cantonment town, near Ranchi in Bihar, where we of the 7 Brigade, the “orphans” of the Indian Army, had been dumped for refitting. It had miles and miles of family accommodation lying vacant; a forbidden apple to our hungry eyes. Though a “family” station, we possibly still under the cloud of “to be punished for our misdeeds”, we were not allowed to bring the families to the station. We had also not been given a chance to contact our families until then. As for me, I had not had any contact with them since the last year.

Pending the sanction, I move my wife and child from Dehradun to Ranchi. There was still a twist in the tale. I, was waiting for the train bringing them, restlessly pacing up and down the small ill lit station of Barkakhana from where one connected with the train for Ramgarh. I looked again and again towards Gaya side from where the train carrying them was to arrive. It was past mid-night. The platform was bleak and the night cold. Yet I hardly gave thought to these small inconveniences as I was reveling in the excitement of meeting my small family. It was now almost nine months since I had last seen them.

The clanging of the bell announced the arrival of the shuttle from Gaya. The signal changed from red to green and soon the engine appeared chugging in, blowing its whistle and expelling large amounts of steam, the few train compartments, forming the train, followed suit. Suddenly the sleeping platform came alive with coolies, hawkers and the passengers all milling around. Before the train could even come to a halt, I quickened my pace, pushing my way through the multitude of local commuters, all in a tearing hurry to get away. I was determined to get to my family before they could alight from the train. Weaving in and out through the crowd, I rushed past the train searching for my wife, from the engine to the guard’s compartment end to end, but there was no sign of Jeet. Confused, I stood still, staring blankly at the now empty compartments. Soon the empty train also pulled-out of the platform to get ready for the return journey leaving me still standing with all sorts of dreadful thoughts brewing in my mind. Suddenly I could feel the cold and the bleakness of the environment that further added to my depression. The train back to Ramgarh was not due until some time later. Unsure of what to do with my time, I could only pace up and down restlessly with foreboding thoughts for company.


The bell at Barkakhana clanged once more, the Signal dropped, the light turned green and the station roused itself up again, this time for the Gaya- Ranchi Passenger. The train rattled in, the compartments rushing past, soon coming to a stop. Hoping against hope, I started move along the length of the train, peering into the first class compartments. Suddenly, there she was, framed in the window of the compartment, unconcerned and deep in an animated conversation with a lady co-passenger.

A quick range of emotions flashed through my mind in quick succession, relief, surprise, thrill, and also anger combined with the pent-up frustration of all the days of separation and the mental torture of the last few hours. There was hardly any time left for the train to leave, I just about managed to rushed them and the large amount of accompanying luggage out of the compartment before the train begun to move.


Jeet regarded me with enigmatic smile playing about her face. There was no embracing and kissing in public. After all it was the year 1963. No doubt like all Army wives Jeet was also convinced that nothing untoward could happen to her husband but there was still a hitch, possibly Dev Anand’s recent “Hum Dono” syndrome. I am sure that she was instinctively questioning whether it was truly her husband who stood before her or an impostor. Fortunately for me the matter was soon resolved. It must have been some familiar gesture of mine. Whatever it was, it remained a secret to me.


We caught the train back to Ramgarh and the mix-up in the travel plan was talked about at great length on our way. I was supposed to meet her at Barkakhana, a place she had never heard of. She mistook the word Barkakhana to mean the occasion of 'Bara Khana-a Special Feast'.She chanced to meet an Army lady doctor, en route, who was posted at Namkum Military Hospital Ranchi, who offered to guide her to Ranchi and Jeet had gratefully accepted it.


Even though my wife was finally close to me, we were still separated. It was still an unfinished journey. However, I could speak to her every evening on telephone, her melodious voice flowed smoothly over the wires, when we talked of nothing, was manna for my hungry ears. It was like holding hands across the chasm that separated the two pining souls for each other.

[bls31]

45 Magnet



E




xtra long weekend: all roads lead to Ram Lila ground. Food stalls , to counter hunger and appetite(immaterial if the object of reverence is fasting on the stage), water points to quench the thirst, live entertainment, Star singers and film stars, a sea of waving National flags, unending serpentine train of TV OB vans, satellite dishes pointing sky words, TV cameras seeking faces and eager faces seeking TV cameras. More importantly, an opportunity to be part of a Cause, dear even to some of the corrupt in the crowd: the pull of the magnet –Ram Lila ground was irresistible. BLS 31

[bls31]

THE AUDIO TAPE SPOOLING IN THE BRAIN

Admitted in the R R (Research and Referral) Hospital, for meningitis, lying in the bed I started hearing the cacophony of a market place from somewhere near.

Since no such source happened to be near-about, I was referred to the E&T department, where a battery of tests was run on me but was given no opinion or explanation.

I was back once again in the VIP ward, back on my bed, with the tape still running, in the spooling mode, a most disconcerting feeling.

No explanations came from any quarter in the hospital the best being “it happens”

Thankfully the tape, which was in spool mode, did get stopped over time, a big relief: with the phenomena, still, remaining unexplained.

Possibly, as I see, with the brain getting rattled by the infecting meningitis, some stimulus had triggered it to convert the memory of the experience residing in some corner into Audio.

However, it provides some food for thought: some times in future, with advances in Medical science and Technology, it may be possible to pull out from the memory past experiences: songs, music and speeches heard and love words exchanged and experience the same in Audio, once again, on demand.

[bls31]

SMILES, TEARS AND HEARTBREAKS(from the book of the same title)


IT WAS NOW TIME TO PART. ROSY, UNESCORTED BY any member of her family had spent the day with us, mostly with me. The rest of her family members had joined us only for tea and were now leaving.

Papa ji , Rosy’s autocratic father, as he was called, after a perfunctory ‘Sat Sri Akal’; impatient, already in the driver’s seat, Mama lingered a bit, slightly bent with both hands folded while taking her leave. Rosy casting a long and lingering look at me took her seat along with Ruby in the car, who also gave me a parting smile.

Bang, bang the car doors closed, the engine started and revved up with the clutch released the rear wheels spun and slipped on the gravel, finally bit and the beige coloured Fiat 1100D shot out of the gate on to the Circular Road.

And we turned towards the main house each one wearing a smile for different reason: my brother for a difficult meeting gone on smoothly, my sister in law for having retrieved a difficult situation by her quick and deft thinking by bringing Rosy from her home for us to meet and me with my head swimming in Dopamine with a dopish smile plastered on my face in a hurry to place a LP on the turn table, jack up the volume of the amplifier to share with the world my feelings.

On the other side as the car speeded up on the narrow roads of Dalanwala with Rosy’s miffed father keeping the accelerator pressed to the floor, Circular road, Lakshami road and it only when the car hit the slightly broader East Canal road that the three occupants of the car gave a sigh of relief.

Mama found her voice; “ Sardar Ji” that is how she addressed him, “ How did you like the boy. She enquired.
“Silence.”
“Han Ji.’ she prompted.
“How could you approve of him, he has no manners, no respect for elders. Haven’t they taught him to respect elders?” He hissed.
“He is unfit to marry my daughter.” He decreed with anger written on his face.

The charged atmosphere in the car ignited and exploded leaving every one stunned. Rosy seeing her new world collapsing even before it had seen the first dawn, broke in to silent tears. Ruby, had acquiesced to the relationship, trying to hold on to her status of the decision maker of the family who did not know how to react.

Mama, though taken aback, well aware of her husbands pressure points started planning the strategy as how to mollify his hurt feelings and bruised ego.

E C Road , Eucalyptus road, Rajpur road finally the car turned in to the gate of there house and breaking hard he brought it to a screeching halt.

Banged his door he hurried towards his room, with mama meekly following, to his bottle of rum, with the other two characters scurrying to their own corners with their own confused thoughts.

It was a clash of culture feudal versus urban and rural: one still tied to the past the other trying to break from the past. The whole crisis was due to the fact that I had not touched his feet:
de regour in their family and a taboo with us.

He took to his bottle, his incoherent ramblings, growing with each glass that he downed, that only Mama could follow and understand.

Her pleadings and cajoling were to no avail nor did her streaming tears have any effect. He calmed down only when she agreed, to gain some time, to break the engagement.

Rosy could not sleep, twisting and turning in the bed, struggling with the storm brewing inside her. Was it a mirage, she wondered ?

It was unsettling and confusing to her young mind: the positive impression I had created on her, the know each other stage was yet come, the mild attraction combined with the rising desire for my company was a strange new feeling difficult to cope with, love was yet to bloom but not too far away.

All these new unfamiliar and strange feelings combined with the fear of the whole dream collapsing, especially being aware as to how difficult and resolute her father was creating havoc inside her.

Some how, the mother and the daughter prevailed and assuaged the hurt feelings of the old man and cajoled him to give up his opposition to the proposal.

But that is a different story, sad and sordid better left untold.

Unawares of what had transpired on the other side of Dehradun in the last 24 hours every thing appeared normal to us when we landed at their place the next afternoon: even Rosy came and sat next to me, proud of her new status.

I still shudder to think as to what would have happened to me if the wish of the peeved father had prevailed. Possibly no tears would have shed by me but I would have been saddled, without doubt with a permanently um-mandible broken heart.

[bls31]

Reading my books many friends complained that I had not made Rosy Talk. How could I , she had talked of her feelings only once and that to I came across by chance.


Rosy's Talk

Wonder as why you have not completed it, (referring to the entry in my diary after my first encounter with her-first day first time) possibly you left it for me. I do wonder if I will be able to complete it or not, however I will make an effort.
As it was, many a times the issue of marriage did came up, many a times I dressed and decked up but without any enthusiasm or curiosity, on the contrary, I felt sad and sorry, a bit for myself and some on my people, wondering why were they are so much after my marriage.
Sadly, right from my childhood none of my wish was ever fulfilled I could thus never decide an aim for my life. Regardless kept on doing what had to be done but could never express my desire. Many a times I felt like expressing my desire - what I wanted, take out what was in my heart but did not know as how to put it across. My aspiration were taken, by these people, as a joke and they made fun of me, it left me full of remorse as to why I had opened my heart. Not knowing what to do, I retreated into my shell and began to remain contented in my own self.
After this, I never could build-up courage to talk of any of my dreams and aspirations, even If ever I did make an effort the result was the same. This made me realise that I had no right to say or think any thing about myself. Seeing this change in me they labelled me as having become emotional , I would listen to this ,the remarks bringing a wry smile to my lips. I knew that these people would never be able to discovery me by passing such remarks; they will never be able to reach me. However, what is it to me; they will never be able to distance me from my self. How could they distance a person whom till this day they had not give a chance to come near. I understand, but can't make them understand, also can't say. It is good in a way, otherwise I would also not be fit to understand myself. (All this, fortunately could not effect her transparent honesty, affectionate nature and sense of loyalty even towards those referred to as 'these people')

Any way this time also the talk about the marriage was on and one day a photo came to the house. I looked at it, somehow I felt that I had seen this person some where, some time ( she may have been right in her surmise, when she was in school in Dehradun I was in college ,cycling up and down on the Rajpur road, I would some times com across the procession of the girls from her school including her on an outing , she may have looked at me in passing as I would be looked at the procession possibly passing my eyes even at her possibly lingering for more than a moment.) and, then I tried to imagine, just as a thought, how I would be if I got married to this person, somehow I could not reach any conclusion; nothing happened. Seeing me looking at the photo so attentively, they passed some remark, that made me laugh which pleased them more, possibly on their success, little realising that I had lost all interest in this matter; poor chaps.

After a few days, of talks possibly the proposal progressed further and then we came to your house. You were returning after skating, as you entered the room I lowered my eyes, knowing fully well that every one would be looking at me and that is exactly what happened. I looked at you the moment I got a chance and saw you looking at me. I was not scared ,but the very thought that you must be wondering as to why she is looking at me I let my eyes remain where they were but removed my attention. Once again I tried to look at you, unsuccessfully, three or four times and then when you were busy showing me the photos, from your collection, I looked at you. Once again I felt that I had seen you earlier-but where I could not fathom. Till now I had not reached any conclusion in my mind, I clubbed you with the others; now the wish of this person will rule on me! (Never, it never did happen)

Then once again I looked at you, I wanted to know that if you really did like me, although from all your talk and actions the proof was there for me to see, yet I could not believe it. I was looking at you in surprise, wondering as to what was in me that you had found faith in me and accepted me so quickly. I was finding it difficult to understand the situation as to why you had done this and also why nothing was happening to me; And when you told me about your going back, I wondered and failed to understand as to why you had mentioned that to me. Possibly your act was over and you wanted your reply from me. I did not know how to give and what to give (reply).


Throughout the night I kept thinking but without reaching any conclusion, but as and when your face came in front of my eyes I felt that you wanted your answer. I did not want you to be able to get out any thing in this regard from me ( I do remember asking her in no uncertain terms if she would marry me and she replying in affirmative exactly when I am not sure) .

That is what happened the last day that you were going it appeared all so strange. I was wondering as to why all this was happening and in this confusion you left. (Possibly that is why she had not replied to my query if she would write to me) Once you left, I developed some courage and started thinking, even felt your absence. I wished that you would repeat your question. Yes, now I may be able to say some thing. I felt bad as to why I let you go empty handed, why I did not say any thing earlier, but then whenever I had looked at you I forgot every thing, I do not understand as to what I was thinking at that time. I feel I will never be able answer that.
Translated from Hindi- Unfortunately this entry is not dated.

[bls31]

91 CANCER OPD



I



t is not an easy drive from Noida to Batra Hospital; with the heavy traffic and some major repair and construction work going along it, especially in my present mental state. Noida to Kalandi Kung, crossing over the river Yumna to Sarita Vihar, taking the left turn on to Mathura Road, passing through the chaotic traffic of Badarpur town, we reach the T junction with Badarpur Mehrauli Road where people, animals and mobiles of all varieties and genre are milling and fighting for the nonexistent slot to move ahead. I somehow manage to get ahead, turn right, through the under-pass on the Badarpur- Mehroli Road, by the narrow and congested Vishkarma Colony, finally a short breather with the road, through ruins of Tuglagabad Fort, now broader and a chance to speed up, we arrive at Sangam Vihar with the entrance gate of Batra Hospital across the road. All the way Jeet, worried but sanguine in demeanor; both of us with an inner turmoil raging unabated, of the uncertainty of the after-effects of Chemotherapy and the dread of the pain from the innumerable pricks, essential part of the treatment to follow, in her case real in mine vicarious. Both remain quiet with the thoughts finding it difficult to find expression.
I drop Jeet at the entrance to the hospital lobby and drive to the parking-lot to rush back to where she waits alone and a bit forlorn. We enter the chaotic world, the lobby, once again I leave her to wait patiently: ‘patience’ has become a way of life with us by now, and joins the long and crawling queue at the reception. With the registration card, finally, in my hand and with Jeet following, we are permitted to the entry the restricted Oncology OPD. Jeet takes a vacant seat in the front row; strangely the rear rows are full, leaving the front one’s vacant. I with her papers, approach the OPD reception for registration. I keep glancing back at her as the line moves forward; Jeet is looking straight ahead eyes unfocussed, deep in her own apprehensions and worries; possibly she gives me a wane smile as I approach. I come and occupy the seat next to her and await our turn with Dr Ghosh with whom I have already fixed an appointment on phone. I look back and around at the sad spectacle: the affected toddlers in laps of desolate looking parents, the elderly in wheel-chairs with, disinterested paid, attendants and also fit looking young of both sexes men and women; fore lone and in no apparent hurry, patiently waiting their turn with glum continence, possibly trying to postpone the diagnosis or the treatment as long as possible. There are no smiles on the faces of those around and very little talk, if at all, it is in whispers. A near silence is prevailing; a silence of a morgue. The grim scene confirms once again, if one is required, of the cruelty and viciousness of Cancer, it has no consideration for age or gender. Cancer can and does hit any one, at any time and without any warning. At last our number comes, the sister on duty beckons and I in lead with Jeet closely following enter the inner chamber and knock on the door of the cubical with the name plate of Dr Ghosh. How strange that once again I am going to trust and place the well being of one, who matters the most to me, in the hands of some one whom I am yet to face.
The question, if I am taking the right decision, is still haunting me, even as we enter the doctor’s chamber.