Run Out - II

I had to reach there well in advance to book a spot for myself. A lot of folks had already gathered at the Boylston St. I wanted to be there for my mom.

Boston – This is the city I grew up in and having lived here all the 16 years of my life, the city had become one of my good friends. I am a second-generation American-Indian and I have been brought up being lectured about the Indian family values and how I should be well knit with the family. This would mean I wouldn’t get to move out once I reached college too. Both my dad and mom hail from Calcutta. Well, my mom is from Calcutta, but my dad is from somewhere around there. Both are true blood Bengalis. I can barely speak a few words of Bengali, but I do understand it quite a bit. My mom says I used to be fluent, but then I was too lazy to continue learning the language. They had decided way earlier that our lives will be lived here in the states and did not force me to learn my mother tongue. Someday I would like to though. I like the Bengali songs that mom keeps playing.

I remember my mom being this sad soul. That’s one of my first impressions of her. We were never a great mother-daughter combo. I somehow feel I have all her traits. At least I have inherited the writing genes from her. She would be home all the time doing pretty much nothing but taking care of me. I seldom got to spend time with my father, except for when we were travelling. He would buy me whatever I wanted though. I guess that’s the trade one gets. Things changed when I was 12. I was in my 7^th Grade when I accidently pounced upon my mom’s journals. I was searching for something in the dresser and came across an old notebook. I couldn’t keep bounds on my curiosity and ended up reading it. I was sure that it was going to be a sad love story which had turned her into this melancholic robot. But what I read in those few pages was a woman’s tale. Many a woman’s tale, may be…

1999

I had made up my mind with much difficulty that this is a good thing. It’s every other Indian girl’s dream. To make it to a land far away from the choking land of idols and devils. To America – where dreams become reality. Where liberation found it’s true meaning. It wasn’t that my Bachelor of Arts in History was going to make me a high-flying journalist. But that’s one of the trains that I did not take, so I wouldn’t know if I would have reached anywhere. I was forced into another train where I was married off to a software engineer working in IBM. I got married between my semester holidays during my masters. It was supposedly too good a ‘Samparka’ to let go. And my ageing dad wanted to hold his head high in the society. The same society which would have looked down upon him if he remarried after my mom passed away young. He used the single dad blackmail pretty well.

Sujoy was a good guy. But we had nothing great going. Even before I finished my masters, Sujoy got an opportunity to travel to Seattle. He decided to take it up even though he knew I wanted to take up journalism once I finished my masters. He said he will not force me to join him, but he said he can’t let go of the opportunity. He said he will “allow” me to complete my masters and join him later. Once I finished my masters I had two choices – Be the family woman and go make a home in the United States or aspire to have my articles published on The telegraph.

I liked the rains in Seattle. They reminded me of my home, the poetries about rain, the songs of rain. I kept telling myself that I should start writing seriously. But I ended up puking out all my frustrations into my journals and used them for my fire place. This one has survived so far. Maybe, I even asked Sujoy to steal one of the computers from his office. Why do they need so many anyways? All I did during the day was to stare out of the balcony into the woods. Luckily the balcony was facing the woods and not the other apartments. I could see the other apartments though from my living room window. The ladies gang used to get together exactly at 11, on a bench. Two of them carried the children and the other one was young. Maybe she was pulled out of her Master degree too. Sujoy would come back from work, have his tea, change to shorts and get out again to play volleyball. Most of the crowd were South Indians. Sujoy used to take me to house parties where the women cooked and the men would drink. There would be a meet up to plan the dishes the men would like to have while they booze. Sadly, there was no fish cooked any time.

Every week the women used to get together for potluck. I went to a couple of them, but I couldn’t relate to any of the ladies. Most of the conversations surrounded their husbands and more importantly their in-laws. Nothing too wrong about them, but there was this one time I referred to Rabindrananth da and a lady asked me if that’s the guy who wrote Janaganamana. I don’t get offended very easily, but when someone poked around my Tagorism, I flipped. He is my faith. I decided that day that I wouldn’t go to another potluck. That lasted for 2 days. Sujoy couldn’t leave his reputation for my discomfort.

My days would stretch so long that I could fit years into them. I would be up by 6 to make breakfast and lunch so that Sujoy could carry it. I hated it when the clock struck 8. There would be so much silence in the house that I could hear the trucks running on the highway. I tried listening to the CDs I had, but getting new ones was difficult. I resorted to the radio and eventually started liking it quite a bit. There were so many talk shows where they discussed their miseries. Felt good,, actually. My fear of roads didn’t help me either. I was so adamant that I wouldn’t learn driving. I found a library a few miles away and brought in some courage to walk to it. I had to return half way through since the pedestrian walkway ended. I stood in an island which had a no pedestrian crossing sign. I wish I had wings. Maybe they got chopped off when I boarded the plane from Calcutta. I so badly wanted to go back to India and live there for a while. But the flight tickets were too expensive and moreover my going away would mean that Sujoy would struggle for food. All he has cooked in his life was Maggie. This one time, I almost tore apart the dependent visa page from my passport. The “H4 housewife” tag was weighing heavily on me.

I tried the shopkeeper jobs too! But the negativity around there made me feel more depressed and that didn’t last too long. By the time I had spent 2 months in the job, there were 4 different ladies who worked alongside me at the counter. There was one thing that connected them - the complaining! I should’ve taken them to the slums of Calcutta. I finally told Sujoy that I will do another Masters degree in the US. But it wasn’t to be..

2000

Dia came as a great relief. I must be a horrible mom to say this, but her arrival gave me good ‘timepass’. I now had her to attend to. Since Sujoy’s parents were sick, I was left to figure out how to take care of a baby by myself. It was fun though. She would make me laugh and cry at the same time. I used to sing Rabindra geet for her. It at least put her to sleep. I would wake up and sleep with her. I could see a lot of changes in Sujoy once Dia was born. He would never let me get up in the night, if dia started crying. He used to pamper her like crazy. Once Papa came home, Dia wouldn’t bother even looking at me. But outside the house, it was a different story. Once we were in public, it was understood that Dia is my responsibility. Of course, I am not going to write here about all the maddening fights we have had on why he couldn’t attend to her more. I sometimes wished that I was like one of those girls on the bench. Everytime I hear them speak, they spoke as if it’s understood that the mother is responsible for the upbringing of the kid. I guess it was difficult for human beings with mustaches & beards to bring up a baby and to do the other household chores.

2005

I was disappointed the day Dia was starting school. We moved to a bigger house, but the damn trucks were there too. The silence was back. By now, I had made acquaintance with silence. I used to sit and cry for no reason for hours together when I had started living in Seattle. But now, I just smile. My mission in life had become giving Dia whatever she needed. I had made up my mind to fight Sujoy to not bring up Dia with "Indian traditions". Sujoy also had started adapting himself to the American way of life after having lived there for over 5 years. He knew that Dia wouldn’t grow up like an Indian Nari. Infact I had great pleasure in poking him, when I tell him that Dia is going to have a boyfriend by 16 and probably will lose her virginity by then too. It was too much for him take, with his Indian Protha.

When I was 12 years old, I had confessed to my mom that I had read her pages. But she was chill about it. And from that day, she opened up much more to me and I saw another side of hers. I even offered her that she could be the co-author of the novel I planned to write. I stole a look at her online diary few months back to see if she had updated anything.

2014

I have read about those interview questions asking where you see yourself in 5 years from now. Make that 10 years and I am damn sure I wouldn’t have answered that I would (still) be a housewife weighing 170 pounds. The fact that I spoke in pounds made me less of who I used to be in my past life. Even the rains stopped reminding me of Calcutta. I guess time is the best healer, but it’s the best killer too. But I was so glad that I developed the habit of sitting at the park observing people. It was an active atmosphere with people running/walking/playing with their dogs/kids. I did my stroll and that was about it. Until one day when I saw God. He was running in the form of an autistic child. He ran all over the place, but run he did. I ended up chatting with her mother and she said the running helped him keep his outbursts in control. Everyone needs a spark in their lives. I had misplaced my matchbox a long time back. But out of nowhere there it was - The spark – I started walking.

Soon enough, I started walking at a good speed. I started with making a couple of rounds of the park and then it slowly increased to 4 rounds. But I wasn’t happy just walking. I wanted to run. Run like Forest Gump. I would wake up at 4 for preparing the parcel service and would be done by 6. Many a day I wouldn’t be there when Sujoy woke up. I left him to prepare Dia for school too. And slowly I could jog. The first day I tried to jog, I could see stars after 3-4 minutes. But as with anything, with practice things start looking easy. I could run 3-4 minutes on one leg. And before I knew I could run around the whole park in 15-20 minutes. I could see that I was slowly fitting into some of my old clothes again. I made a few good companions at the park too. One of them suggested that I should try to run a 5K marathon. I got kicked about it and started targeting the marathon. When I first told Sujoy, he was quite surprised. He couldn’t believe that I could run. But he knew he couldn’t say no. Not when I have threatened to walk out of the marriage a few many times and he knew if he restricted me more, I would end up doing it. I was an American Citizen by then, you know. I found the dead me wake up from my twenties.

I ran the 5K marathon quite easily. Even though I was amongst the ones who came last, after long I felt content. I came back home and checked my weight. It had gone down to 140 pounds. I was on a roll. After a few months, the only reason I woke up was to run. Dia could take care of herself now and Sujoy finally decided to eat healthy – the cereals, salads and stuff – which meant I didn’t have to do too much cooking. One of the days, the weather was good. I wanted to try my new shoes that I had bought and ventured out running. I do not remember the roads I took and after a while I didn’t care. I think I was racing a car at some point, luckily the driver hit the gas and I was left behind. But I noticed that I was fast. I initially thought it’s the shoes, but then when in a few days’ time, I could do that again, I knew it was me. Wings started growing in my leg. I wanted keep running. I should prepare for longer runs.

Prepare for longer runs, she did. As I stood near the finish line of the Boston Marathon, I just hoped that she would finish it. I knew she had practiced enough. But I was fearing that she would be intimidated by the other runners. I knew that Marathon was a big deal and runners from around the world would participate. I was only hoping to see her come running towards us. The contestants started crossing the line one by one. I knew I had to wait for few more minutes before I see her. I readied my ‘Proud of you, Mom’ placard. My dad was holding a ‘Proud of you’ sign too with my mom’s name on it!

Dharani Bhattacharjee finished 20^th in that year’s Marathon. She was the 4^th woman to finish the race. From being a boring soul, my mom became my idol. I saw this Bollywood movie, the other day, in which the hero wins a Gold for India. I am sure no one is going to make a movie on Dharani. Or the thousand other Dharanis living out there. But all of them are heroes, nevertheless. 

Square Drive

'How come you haven't got a car yet?' Pete asked me on our way to the cafeteria.

'I do have one', I replied, 'but a pretty old one'

'So you don't drive it to work?' He inquired

'I prefer taking the bus', I said. And Pete replied with a "Oh. Ok. That's cool".

I knew he meant to say, "Oh that's weird", but the American politeness came in his way. Even when it snowed, I liked to walk the mile and board the bus from Frederick transit center and board my Route M. There were a few regular co-passengers too - not many who could afford a car. Some of them eventually became good friends with me. The driver of the bus had become a special friend. He didn’t know me by my name. He knew me as Maha's son. My dad and he had a special bond.

My Dad was with me last summer. He had come to visit me. More than wanting to see me, he wanted to see America. The great things he had heard about the country from his nephews and nieces. I think one of his brother still lives somewhere here in the U.S. He was one of those uncles whose name we often heard, but never got an opportunity to see. He was always 'Siddha from America'. I asked him once about him and my dad told me never to ask about him again. I never did. From the day he landed in Washington Dulles airport, he was in awe of the country. He loved the roads, the cars, the downtown and almost everything about the country. He wasn't impressed by the bus service in the city though. I had warned him about it before, but then he came and saw that spotting a bus is in suburbs is like spotting a shooting star.

Within a few days of being under house arrest, I could see that he was becoming highly frustrated. His evening walks couldn't keep him happy. I decided to take him with me, twice a week, when I went to work. He would ride the bus with me, and sit at the library reading his books. I would meet him for lunch and then he would take the bus back. I was reluctant at first to let him get back by himself, but then I trusted the man's sense of direction. It was like a GPS fitted in his head. It took some time for him to get used to the exits in the freeways, but otherwise, he could've gone around driving my car all by himself. Just that he never drove a car in his life. And I imagined that cars were not his thing.

The first day I took him on the bus ride, he was a child all over again. He was excited, to say the least. As we boarded the bus he went straight in to take a seat. "Woah, where do you think you are going?" Shouted the driver. 'He is with me', I said and put the coins in the slot. I took the seat next to my dad and his first question was - "There is no conductor?". I explained to him that the bus driver doubles up as a conductors out here and lets you in only if you pay or have a pass. He was surprised. 'Wouldn't that slow the bus down?'. I just nodded and let him enjoy the ride. The next ride of the week, as soon as he got into the bus, he looked at the driver and said, "Good Morning". 'Mornin' replied back the driver. And as we took our ride, he told me that he had seen the other day that everyone getting into the bus were wishing the driver. He was getting used to the American way of life.

It was fun watching him explore the small things by himself. I got the jolt when I started working here in America. There was this guy who would pass by me a hundred times on a given day and ask me, "Hey, How’re you doing" a hundred times. He never stopped to hear how I was doing though. Back in my home, the last time I had asked the question "how are you doing" was when one of my colleague returned after having met with an accident.

The second week was fun. My dad decided to sit in the front seat to take a look at how the driver was operating. "No clutch" was his first observation. I just nodded.

After the bus took the freeway, he stood up and went closer to the driver.

'You ain't gonna get down here man', the driver told him without taking his eyes off the road.

 'Just looking', my father said in his broken English.

He turned back to me and said '60 km/hr'.

'Miles', the driver said.'60 miles/hr'

'Oh. Ok Ok. Super-fast', my dad said nodding.

'I too drive', he said. 'You know SLTB bus?'

'The what?' The driver exclaimed.

'SLTB bus. I drive . Not so modern buses. Very old buses. With gears', my dad said

'You mean you are a driver too?' Asked the driver.

'Yes. Yes. I drive in Colombo’.

'Columbus?'

'No. No. Colombo'

'Colombia?'

'Noo. Colombo – Sri Lanka'

'Where the heck is that' the driver was confused. 'Is that a city?'

'You don't know Sri Lanka? It is my country'

'Oh. Never heard of that man'.

'You know India?', my dad wouldn't let go.

'Oh ya. I know India. There are a lot of people from India around here. I know India alright'. I smiled.

You don't get to hear pure cynicism very often.

'Yes. Sri Lanka – Near India'

'I see. What brings you here? Don't tell me you are gonna take my job away man' exclaimed the driver and he laughed out loud. Someone from the backside of the bus shouted back, 'mmmHmmm he's gonna take your job away alright. As long as the democrats are in there'.

'I don't know about that' the driver shouted back 'The republicans are assholes too'.

'All of them are', shouted another guy and the whole bus was buzzing.

My dad kept staring at the bus' dashboard. 'I drive old bus. Very old bus. This one like volvo bus'

The driver just nodded. I am sure he didn't catch much of that.

After a bit, it was getting slightly weird and I wanted my dad to come back and take a seat. When he got back to the seat, I told him not to keep asking questions. That the driver may not like it too much. And when he pretended not to listen, I shouted at him. He didn't talk much after that. I hate to see my dad go quiet. He is usually this live wire and I, quite the opposite. I wished my mom was around. My dad usually behaved better when she is around. She wasn't game to come to a different country and "struggle". The actual reason was that she was afraid of flying. And my dad happily took the chance to get away from her. Something about old couples - they take the first opportunity to take a break from each other.

The routine continued for a few days. My dad kept hopping on to the bus rides with me and he returned by himself. He said Dominick had become a good friend of his. Dominick was of course the bus driver. I couldn’t even understand how they could converse. My dad actually knew quite a bit about him in a short while. He knew his children’s name, his dog’s breed, where his ex-wife stayed amongst a thousand other things. It made me realize how different both of them were from each other, but yet so similar. My dad had spent all his life driving the bus in the busy streets of Colombo. Not the most enjoyable job by any imagination, but then the kind of passion he showed towards it and the content he had, made me think about the thanklessness people like me had for our jobs. I am sure Dominick was no different.  

Before even he knew, it was almost time for dad to go back. He was visibly sad about it. A night before he were to leave, I returned home to find that he wasn’t around. At first I thought he had gone out for a stroll. He does that sometimes when he gets bored. When he did not return for an hour, I started to become a bit worried. It was getting dark and his phone was not reachable too. It was the worst feeling ever. I was contesting calling 911, but then I was not sure if I should. I called up a couple of friends of mine who came over to my place. We decided to split up and look around the community. I kept driving around looking for him. The community was a pretty safe one. But then, it’s an old man with limited linguistic abilities roaming around the streets. I started missing my dad. I regretted getting him over to live alone in a new country.

I drove around and finally was about to give up. I was really close to the bus bay and I thought I should check in there once. I went to the bus stand and stared around. But it seemed to be empty apart from a bunch of homeless people trying to hang around. As I was about to leave, I saw a bus entering the bay. It was odd to see a bus in that hour. As much as I knew, the last bus operated only till 8 PM. I waited to see if my dad is in it. As it stopped, the door opened and I had the shock of my life. There sat my dad in the driver’s seat! Dominick stood behind him and waved to me. My dad got down from the bus and shook Dominick’s hand before he got out. ‘Take care of yourself, my friend. I will definitely make it to Colombo and you better get me a bus to drive out there in the busy traffic’, said Dominick as my dad alighted screaming ‘Sure.Sure’.

My dad told me that Dominick had offered a drink and he had gone with him. I was so glad that I had not called the cops. Apparently he left a note on the door, which must have disappeared. I was feeling furious and wanted to scream at him. But I didn’t. I smiled and we went home. I got a feeling that it was one of happiest days of dad’s life. Or at least, it was one of the happiest he looked.

Soon after my dad was gone, I got another job offer and moved to a different city in Ohio. Spotting a bus there was like spotting a meteor. But whenever I did, I remembered the international driver duo and their partnership.   

Retired Hurt

Chapter A

‘What’s wrong with him? He seems very weak’, my good friend subbu asked me while I was taking Lin for a walk. Subbu knew us pretty well. We have been living in the same community for years before he went to the US to be with his son for a while. I would see him daily while I walked Lin, my 8 year old dog. The question was very relevant and disturbing. Because that would mean all our fears were true. Lin was not the same anymore. I tried to take him to the vet, but the vet confirmed that there is nothing physically wrong with him. But then we all knew what the problem was.

“He has been acting a bit strange, lately”, I told subbu.

“I can see that. He would be all over me by now, otherwise”, ranted Subbu. Of course the enthusiasm in Lin was something anyone could notice. He was one of the most outgoing and aggressive dogs back then. He wouldn’t let anyone come near bittu, my 9 year old son. They were the best buddies. They still are. He likes him more than anyone else in this world. But things took a nasty turn one day last summer. At 35 degrees it was one of the cooler summer days.

Our house faced the beach. Thanks to my Granddad who had bought it in his good times. It thus became a center for all events. Family get together, Friends pop-ins, kids play area. All in a single storied apartment built under 4 cents area. And the terrace – The terrace was the most sought after place. The beach view from the terrace is something that everyone seemed to keep coming back for. But all of them were scared of one thing – Lin. It took a while before he became friends with anyone. May be because of the way we brought him up or may be because he was a German shepherd and he just likes to scare people.

I was inside our home, watching the India Australia test series. My wife had gone to her sister’s place and I was more than happy to watch over Bittu. More of cricket than Bittu. Bittu had invited his new found friend over. In the afternoon, Harsh came in with him and they started building their Lego blocks. I hate to see kids playing interiors. I kept quiet and let them be for a while. But soon after the constant chatter made me lose my temper. I instructed them to go out and play.

Bittu and Harsh ran outside and I went back to my cricket. It was tea time and they were analyzing how India should approach the third innings. That is when it happened. I heard a loud scream. I wasn’t sure if it was Bittu screaming or Harsh. I ran outside and saw Bittu gasping for breath, tears pouring down his face as he shouted, “Papa.. Harsh.. Harsh” pointing towards the back. I ran to the backside of our house and I saw the most horrible thing ever. Harsh lay there in a pool of blood. Lin was standing next to him sniffing him, barking at me. He had fallen down from the terrace. I froze and couldn’t move. I gathered myself up. Being a selfish father, I rushed to Bittu and sent him inside the house and locked him up. I took Harsh in my arms and ran to the road. By the time I had reached the hospital, Harsh had passed away.

The following few days were the worst days of my life. I had to lie to my son, first saying that his friend was in hospital and he will be OK. And then after a few days I had to tell him that they had moved to a different city for better treatment. But the anguish in his mother’s eyes is something that will haunt me throughout my life. I had to take sessions after sessions with my Guru to get myself to believe that it was an accident and none of us had anything to do with it. But Lin did not have that luxury.

The day after Harsh died, I was looking for Lin and he never came down from the Terrace. I thought that he sensed the things that had happened and was feeling sad. But then Bittu told me what happened the day before. Harsh was not aware that we had a dog. He was terrified of dogs. As they started playing catch-catch, Harsh had ran behind Bittu with full energy. Lin saw this and he started chasing Harsh. Harsh thought that Lin wouldn’t follow him to the terrace and hence ran up there. And when Lin stood right in front of him at the terrace and he had nowhere to go, out of panic, he jumped. 

Lin went into a depression post that. He wouldn’t come down from the terrace for days together. He wouldn’t eat at first and then he stopped drinking too. We brought a vet who came in to see Lin, but Lin was not cooperative. Even the injections that the vet gave to make him feel hungry wouldn’t have any effect on him. His mind was locked on the spot where Harsh jumped from.

I narrated the story to Subbu and he suggested that I take Lin to a different location. It meant that I had to leave my house and go stay elsewhere.

It was a tough choice to make. We all loved him with all our hearts. But the love was not enough to bring him back to being the cheerful guy he was. Finally we had to let go of him. The vet suggested putting him to sleep. But I couldn’t have lived with myself if I had done that. We left him at an adoption center. I just prayed that he would heal someday and I could go back and get him. Harsh’s mother had lost their son. But we lost someone in our family too.

Chapter B

“Ms.Mehnaz, do you plead guilty or not guilty”

She kept mum in the court. The prosecutor stood up to register his protest towards the time the accused was taking. But before she could say anything further, Mehnaz collapsed to the floor. She did not faint. She was not crying either. She just kept looking at the clock that was hanging in the court room and did not utter a word. The judge adjourned the session and asked the accused to be taken back to prison. The court for juvenile was adjourned until the next Monday.

Mehnaz was being escorted to the police vehicle through the court’s corridor. A good crowd had gathered in front of the court holding banners, “Mehnaz – We are with you”. Most were her friends.

The trial went on for a year. After a year Mehnaz was sentenced guilty. But since her lawyers were able to convince the court that she had done it in self-defense, she was let go with a 1 year sentence. She had already spent the year in jail and walked free from the court. She was pressurized later that month to give an interview to one of the more influential news broadcasters. Threatened would be a more apt word.

“Did you do it? Or were you being framed? No one from your family have spoken ever since the incident”, the broadcaster asked  

Mehnaz looked away from the anchor to her uncle who stood beside the camera gesturing her with folded hands to speak up.

“Yes. I did it. In my full consciousness. I killed my dad”.

“Why? Your lawyers stated that you did it in self-defense. What did he do to you?”

“He did nothing to me”

“Then why did you shoot him?”

Tears rolled down Mehnaz’s face as the images rolled in front of her eyes. “I shot him”, she kept repeating those words.

Finally when the anchor had almost given up, Mehnaz spoke.

“I came back from my painting classes around 3 PM. I had actually bunked the class since I was in no mood to sit through a lecture on art. The house was locked. My mom had gone to the college for giving some special lectures that day. I usually have a spare key, but that day my dad had taken it from me saying he lost his key. There is usually a spare key at my aunt’s place. I walked up to my aunt’s house two streets away and got the keys”

“When I entered the house, I heard noises coming out of the master bedroom. I ignored it at first, but then the noise seemed like someone was trying to scream for help. I pushed open the door and saw my dad lying on top of someone. I first thought he was having an affair and I started closing the door. But then I noticed that it was not an elderly person. It was a girl and she had her face covered by a pillow. My dad pulled up his pants and he stood there confused. He started threatening me to keep mum about the whole scene. By that time the girl gathered herself up. And to my horror, it was my friend. I don’t want to take her name. She was sobbing her lungs out trying to cover herself up.

I knew my dad kept a revolver in his drawer. I pulled it open and took it out. He stood firm laughing at me and smirking at me. But when I pulled the hammer, he realized I might fire. My friend kept screaming to me to pull the trigger. She shouted at me to hand over the revolver to her and that she will shoot. She said he has been raping her for months now. And threatened to ruin her future if she told this to anyone. I sat down on the floor crying with the gun in my hand. My dad walked towards me to take the gun away from me. He held on to the gun and tried to force it out of my hand. I wriggled and got it out of his hand. Then I fired the revolver. It was the first time I ever fired one. I had seen him shoot it once though. I lost aim and it hit the wall clock. I pulled the hammer again and fired again. This time I hit him in his ribs. Once he fell down, I shot 4 times in his groin. I did not want him to die. I wanted him to live and tell the story. But he died”

Chapter Z

Mehnaz was sent to rehabilitation center later that year where she spent all the time with fellow inmates. But she was not able to get out of the rut she was in. She would stare at the wall clock for hours together and cry. As soon as she turned 18, the family tried to marry her off. Finally she broke free and went off to live by herself. To a new city.

Once she got to the new city she started working at a BPO where she could earn her living. But the loneliness was killing her. She couldn’t trust a guy after what had happened to her. She decided to do something about it though. One of her colleagues worked for rescuing animals and she told Mehnaz that there was a dog at the adoption center which was undergoing chronic depression.

She met Lin and the sorrow in their eyes connected them instantly. For the first time Lin responded to someone’s call and went near her. She bent down to pet him.

Linesman

I rushed through the crowded roads. It was raining, and Chennai in rains has the worst of the traffic. The bus was at 10 and it was 9.30 already. ‘Not a bad bus to miss’, I said to myself as I navigated through the sea of vehicles. Finally I reached the parking lot and left the bike there rushing to catch my bus. Finally I made it to the bus at 10.15, the bus showing no signs of motion.

I stepped into the bus, hoping that seat number 21A would be occupied by some hot chic. I took my seat, 21B. There was no one in the adjacent seat. I would have settled for that. It would have given me a bit more space to get through the trip. But just as the thought was leaving my brain, a gentleman came in and occupied the seat next to me. He looked calm and composed. “Would you mind if I take the window seat?”I asked the gentleman who agreed immediately without even smirking. Finally I settled down into my window seat.

After a while the clouds started clearing away. The sun was beating down on my face and I could feel a sense of relief. Away from Chitra, away from Chintu, all by himself. I was excited about taking a trip alone. I had always wanted to do that. But a married man seldom gets a chance to take a leisure trip alone. Even if it were for a day, I thought the outing would inspire me to take up more such trips and more importantly make me believe that I can take a trip all alone and not bore myself to death. I knew it could be bit of a challenge. Especially given the fact that I loved to talk.

“So, you going to visit the temple?” I inquired to the gentleman sitting next to me. He looked to be in his forties and was in his pale green shirt and black trousers. I could imagine him to be one of those white color workers sitting in a cramped insurance office building doing a 9-5 job.

“Ya. Been long pending - the visit”, said the man.

“Jeevan. Hello”, I said.

“I am Sheshadri”, the gentleman said.

“I am going there to click some pictures. Wanted to explore this new camera that I had got”, I said

“Oh. Great. It’s always nice to have a hobby”, said Sheshadri as he opened the newspaper that he had brought with himself.

I felt a bit stupid when he said that. Honestly, I had no clue how to use it. I desperately wanted a hobby. Everyone around me had one. In fact some had much more than one. Music, Photography, Trekking – I could take to none of those. Of course, I heard a song here and there in the radio, but nothing beyond that. I realized I don’t have a hobby. I mean NONE. I did watch TV and was used to going to the movies. But those are hardly hobbies anymore. Those are routine. Buying a SLR camera was an attempt to ‘create’ a hobby. That tactic seldom works, I guess.

“I don’t pray that much these days. I would rather appreciate the art in the temples than the God”, I told Sheshadri.

“Well, for each, his own”, he said.

“Anyways, I don’t want to get into the GOD conundrum now. Have enough of it at home with my wife. It’s tough to keep her away from the fasting and poojas, you know”, Sheshadri listened patiently to my rant.

I gathered that I was forcing myself into the conversation a bit too much. And I resisted asking the next question. As the bus was screaming through the highway I sat thinking about life and within minutes I snored off. I was woken up by a sudden jolt and the murmur in the bus went heavy. The tire had burst and the frustration level in the bus was starting to grow. I stepped out of the bus for a smoke. I stood there looking at the endless road. I always loved the highways. May be I should have taken a road trip, I thought. As I stood there gazing at the sand kissing the newly tarred roads, I noticed Sheshadri walking towards my direction. Before long we were chit chatting about the big nothings.

“I so needed the break”, I exclaimed, “I mean, I cannot complain much about my life. I have a decent job and a nice family. But then it all becomes mundane. We become like those fishes in a tank”.

“That’s true. But then we have to find our own way of getting a tour outside the tank”, said Sheshadri.

“I need the tank to burst. That’s what I need”.

“You seem to be stressed. Good that you took the break”, replied Sheshadri as he walked towards the middle of the highway”.

“Oh ya! I mean, I love my kid. No question. But then, simply put, he’s a pain in the ass. Got to keep watching him as he runs around. Stresses the hell out of me”, I replied.

“Ya. They tend to have that effect on you. How old is he?”, asked Sheshadri.

“He will be 6 this year. He is a good kid. But the questions! Oh my God, the questions! They never stop. That put along with the concerns of my wife dearest. I tell you. Men are under rated”, I said while taking the camera out to see if I can get some good shots of the highway.

“I know what you are talking about”, replied Sheshadri smiling in acknowledgement.

“You have kids?”

“Ya. Two in fact”, said Sheshadri.

“Oh boy. That’s double the trouble. You need the break more than I do”

“Not really. I have gotten used to it by now. Once you know that your life is going to be in a certain fashion for a period of time, you tune yourself to accept it. Acceptance is the key”, said Sheshadri.

I was going to dwell more into it but Sheshadri excused himself and started making a call. All the passengers were wandering near about the bus and I stood there wondering what to do. I kept telling myself that I am doing the right thing by taking the trip alone and promised myself that I wouldn't get bored. I tried to imagine standing under the sun, near a broken down bus along with Chitra and Chintu. That gave me some relief. I was sure Chintu would have had at least a thousand questions regarding how the bus tyre had burst. And Chitra would have blamed me for choosing this bus. I felt a bit better after those thoughts entered my brain. I took out my camera and tried to figure things out in it. In a matter of minutes I shut it up and went back to my seat.

When Sheshadri returned, I re-started the conversation with him. We spoke about how difficult it gets to handle kids among other things. Sheshadri briefly touched upon Philosophy but then that did not last for long. Those things are better off discussed under the influence of alcohol, I told him and he agreed with a smile.

I reached the town and checked into the hotel and got freshened up. The daylight had faded already. Once I had settled in, like any good man would do, I checked with the hotel people for the nearest bar. They suggested a restaurant which would serve liquor. They said that the restaurant would show the cricket match in the lawns too on a big screen. I went and sat inside the restaurant, avoiding the lawns. I was going through the menu, when I noticed a man and a woman sitting at the table at some distance. The man had his back turned to me and I couldn't see his face. I had a feeling that he resembled Sheshadri. And I was not wrong. It was Sheshadri.

I walked up to him and said hello. He was acting all sheepish. He introduced the lady with him as a ‘friend’. That’s some spiritual journey the man is taking, I thought to myself. I told myself not to make any judgment about the man.

“Alright. I thought it was you and I was not mistaken. Thought I would say a ‘Hi’. Will leave you guys alone. Have a good dinner”, I said and in the process I scanned her completely. There were no signs of her being married. She looked to be in her thirties. I sensed a flavor of Kannada in her English. Later in the night I saw them checking in to the same hotel as mine. They did go in the same room too. I couldn’t wait to tell this story to Chitra and score a few brownie points highlighting how genuine her husband was. The events that followed in my brain was stressful. I had to keep sheshadri out of the picture while I fantasized about her. Also a moral war was going on in my brain debating for and against Sheshadri. And thankfully, the alcohol took over and knocked me over.

I finished the visit to the temple. I took a few snaps, to show Chitra that I had indeed gone to the temple. And more importantly to show that I am enjoying my new ‘hobby’. I should chose a beach or something the next time around, I thought to myself. The return journey was even more boring. There was no Sheshadri either. I reached back Chennai and settled into my cycle of life.

A few months later, I was at the Bangalore railway station to take a take the train to reach back Chennai after a weekend at my In-laws place. Contrary to the women, a guy’s ‘sasural’ is much better. You are fed, asked to take rest, fed again and asked to sleep, again. The only low point was my Father in law asking about my finances. Almost implying that I am good for nothing. I stood there at the station ignoring Chintu’s chatter. 

As the train was about arrive, I noticed a kid, about 8 to 10 years of age, lying on a stretcher on the platform. His mom and sister were by his side. The kid had his legs broken. But that was not the worst part. He was mentally ill too. The kid kept shouting out loud and everyone in the circumference were glued to him. I took a deep breath. Chitra saw it too and was already in tears. As much as I tried, I couldn’t look away. The kid kept shouting, ‘Amma Train Amma Train’, in a loop. The lady called out to her husband who was buying something in the nearby stall. The man turned around and it was a familiar face. It was Sheshadri. He walked towards the kid and gave him some water. The whole family was smiling throughout the scene. They were more normal than anyone else around. He kept patting the kid saying, ‘train train’ too. As the train pulled in, they carried him into the compartment. 

I asked Chitra to board and told her I will join her in a minute. I could see them put the child in one of the berths with much difficulty. But the smiles never faded.‘Acceptance is the key’, kept ringing in my ears. As I looked through the window of the train, I couldn’t hold back the tears. Sheshadri came out to grab his luggage and he noticed me standing there. I guess he gathered how I felt. He smiled at me and said, “Go ahead, don’t miss the train. May be we will meet in another journey”. And he rushed back to his kid. I rushed towards mine. 

Out of the Park

It was a rather uncomfortable summer day. He peaked out of the shed and examined if there was a glimpse of a cloud cover. There was none. Bangalore usually had it’share of it’s 4 o’clock rain during the summer. But on that day it wasn't to be. On one side it helped his business, since more people would tend to buy the tender coconut from him. But on the other hand, it would give him an excuse to wrap up early. He went back and switched the FM station and took his seat on the wooden stool. He hated to stand. It felt like a rather long day for him; longer than usual, possibly because he had gotten up early to drop his wife off at the bus stand.

The point of sale for him had shifted. He had to move out of his earlier location since he couldn't afford the increase in the tip that the policewala was demanding. The sort of thing that usually happens in India. He was lucky to get another spot closer to the park, and at a much lesser tip. He got the discount since the hawaldar monitoring that area was his Brother-in-Law’s brother’s neighbor. The sort of thing too that usually happens in India. For some strange reason, the number of customers on that day was less. Probably because it was a Friday evening.He had noticed the maximum crowd building in the park on Monday evenings for jogging. He never understood why so many people came to run. When there were no customers, he would sit and look at the park, observing the joggers. They were funny – The cane stick walkers; the fat joggers who mostly just walked around the park; the aunties who wore shoes like men usually do - they walked in groups chit-chatting. And there were the odd runners, who would come behind the old uncles and wait for them to clear. Most of them had their headphones on. He wanted one of those too for long. But then he could never fit it into his budget. He saved most of the money he earned for starting a shop of his own. The shop that his dad always wanted to open, but never could. He spent the next fifteen minutes thinking about his dad. The easiest memory that came to him of his dad was that in the hospital, where he sat beside him hoping that he would remove the oxygen mask and speak to him. But he never did.

It was getting dark and he was planning to wrap up earlier than usual. His friend had promised to bring a quarter of Old Monk that day. As he sat there looking at his knife, he noticed that something was lying on the other side of the road. It was a hand bag. He crossed over and picked it up. The initial reaction was to check if it had a bomb in it. As he opened it he could see that there wasn't much in it. It had a hair clip, a few papers, an envelope and a few receipts. He returned quickly into his shed making sure no one noticed him picking it up. He ignored the papers lying inside it and reached for the envelope. He opened it up and for a second he gasped for breath. He could see a few 1000 rupee currencies inside. Many in fact. He again looked around to check if anyone had noticed him picking up the bag. He closed the shed with the huge coconut tree leaves, which acted as his door. With the help of twilight, he opened the envelope and took out the cash. He slapped himself to make sure he wasn't in the middle of the dream; but he was actually experiencing one his many day-dreams. He started counting the notes. After a 50 he lost track and started counting again. Finally after recounting a number of times, he figured that there could be over a 100 of those. He sat there with his mouth open.

Over the next one hour he sat there deliberating what he should do. He couldn't  hand it over to the cops since it would mean that the hawaldar would take his family on a holiday and may be buy a few gadgets for himself. He thought of asking the Pharmacy across the road if anyone had come looking for the bag. But then the green painted envelope would not let him do that either. He thought to himself that may be God was being kind to him. May be it is the result of the trip that he made to Tirupati last month. Back then he thought that God might not have heard him since he did not shave his head off. His hair-style was very important to him. He couldn't blindly keep the money with himself either since his dark side, the conscience, would kill him. It would make him go against the principles that his dad had taught him. Finally he struck a deal with God. He would wait till 8.30, half an hour, more than the usual, and see if someone comes looking for the bag. If they did, he decided that he would gracefully hand over the bag to them. He waited there in anticipation and fear. He promised to make another trip to Tirupati if he gets to keep the finding.

He started to wrap up proceedings for the day at around 7.30. He identified the coconuts that could be carried over to the next day and that those need to be carried back home and sold to the restaurants. He closed the shed with his work around door and stood there waiting. The clock hanging in the pharmacy showed 8.00. He looked around to see any seekers. He had carefully kept the envelope in his inner pocket and he kept the cycle ready, balancing the coconuts on the carrier. The clock was ticking as if it had a snail as the needle.

At around 8.15 pm he noticed a female, may be in her late twenties, walking across the road. She was wearing a Saree and was walking on high heels. She was looking carefully at the road as if she was looking for something. Something which she had lost, may be. He threw his head back in disappointment. The next 30 seconds saw a battle inside his head - the worst of its kind.Right side compelling him to take the cycle and flee and the left side asking him to stand still, even asking him to go talk to the girl. He stood still. The lady after examining the road slowly stared at the pharmacy for a while. She then crossed the road and walked to his side. He could see the shop-dream shattering into pieces. She approached him and asked in Hindi, ‘ Did you find something from the road here?’  He gave a confused look as if to suggest he did not understand Hindi. She inquired again, this time enacting along, ‘I am looking for my ring. Did you by any chance happen to see it’?  He tried to recollect if he had seen a ring inside that bag. But he was sure he did not see one. He shook his head side to side vigorously.  She gave a suspicious look and walked away from there. He let a huge sigh of relief and promised God that he will shave off his head this time at Tirupati; Just to be sure. He saw the clock strike 8.30. He took his bicycle and started towards his home.

She checked her watch as she approached the park and it showed 8.31 pm. She looked stressed and tired. Her brain was not listening to her anymore. The tears had dried up but her head was still aching. She had no hopes of finding her bag. She went into the pharmacy and inquired if they had seen a bag lying around. The guy at the pharmacy said he hadn't. She couldn't make out if the guy was lying or not. She remembered that she was rushing through the streets on her bike to make it on time to the hospital. She was wearing a skirt too which did not help her cause.  She might not have worried so much if the money was hers’. But then she knew the pain that she took for collecting the money, going from floor to floor in her office, urging everyone to contribute towards a noble cause. A 10 year old kid was dying and she had collected the money for the surgery. She looked up in despair seeking some divine intervention. There was none. She waited in front of the closed tender coconut shop without knowing what to do.  She knew she would be in deep trouble over the lost money. But she was praying for the kid’s recovery to God. She promised to visit Tirupati if the kid made it alive. As she was preparing to leave, she noticed something glittering on side of the road, under a pipe that was newly laid. She bent down and picked up what was a ring. She looked around and couldn't find anyone there. For a moment she thought that she can sell it off and give the money to the hospital, but then she knew someone else might come looking for it, just like she was looking for her bag. She didn't trust the pharmacy guy anymore and she couldn't wait there longer either. She stood there thinking about what could be done.  Finally before leaving, she carefully slid the ring through a small gap into the shed hoping the vendor would give the ring to the seeker.

Two days Later:

He sat in his couch glancing through the paper. He was not able to concentrate much as his mind wandered through the troubled thoughts. He had planned to work from home that day since he was lazy to drive in the maddening traffic. As he scanned through the paper, he came across an article about a 10 year old kid who died because of lack of fund for surgery. And that someone had swindled a hundred thousand rupees in the name of providing assistance. He started to think about the meanness o the person who could do this. After a while his thoughts again drifted towards the troubled waters. The engagement was not going that great and he ended up thinking about it every other minute. ‘May be she didn't lose the ring. May be she threw it away on purpose’, he kept thinking to himself. He folded up the paper and left for the park to take a jog. He stopped for his usual tender coconut near the park. As he tried to clear the cloud in his head, he noticed a beaming smile on the vendor's face, which made him feel a bit better.

Touch Down

“What’s wrong with Roosevelt? We have a music school here. Why can’t you pursue your music here?” asked Ralph. He did not want his son to fade away from his life so early.

“I can’t be like you dad. I cannot be sitting at the back of an orchestra and keep swinging my bow to the conductor’s directions. I wanna be go out there and see the world. There is a world beyond Roosevelt and the Salt Lake City, dad. You would not understand that” replied Steven.

Those words felt like pieces of glass which pierced through him. Ralph never lost his composure during a conversation. He was always known to be the soft spoken guy in his group. He slowly walked away from the room, picked up his coat and got out for a stroll. Even though he knew most of what his son told him was true, he would rather not have heard that from someone else; especially his son.

Ralph lived all his life in Roosevelt, studied music there in the early 60’s. He did well in most of the areas including music direction. In fact his professor had urged him to take up music writing more seriously. But he ended up teaching violin in a school in the neighborhood.  The students who came never took the music seriously. If they did, they would not hang around much in Roosevelt. The only satisfaction he got was from the music he wrote. He kept writing notes after notes, but never did anything about them. He never approached any labels; never tried to find an agent who would promote his music. Things changed a bit in the late 70’s when he was forced to take up offers to be a part of the Utah Symphony, in Salt Lake City, for financial needs more than anything else. He used to drive down 150 miles to reach the city, take part in the practice sessions and perform at the hall near temple square. But again, it became a routine and even though there was a good audience for the orchestra, most of the adulations would go to the music directors or the lead players.

He sat there in the park watching the kids play softball and recollecting what his son told him. His wife, Margaret, had told him the same a million times too, over the years. But then he just brushed it aside as the usual cribbing. But that day, it felt different. It felt like he had wasted his life pretending to be content with what he had. He never had the courage to take his music to the next level. The notes he wrote never saw daylight. He would shut himself up in his room and play them. He would not even record them since he thought he would be laughed at. And when he found his spot in the symphony orchestra, he was more than happy to just play what he was directed to play. He was not alone in there. All his contemporaries who were a part of the symphony were in the same league. He knew that he was only a drop in the ocean and preferred to just be a part of the waves. He did so for over a couple of decades. While the composers and the directors changed, he along with his set of fellow violinists stuck to their positions as backing violinists.

After that day, he never felt the same while performing at the Salt Lake City. The words kept ringing in his head and he just could not concentrate on the music. So at 64, he decided to call it quits. His son was long gone that day. He had moved to Boston to pursue music. His wife could empathize with him. She thought that Ralph would not be able to live without his music. And she tried to urge him to continue for a few more years, for his own good. But it was tough to convince Ralph on anything once he had decided to go with it.

On the day of his last performance, he had invited his wife and a few friends who cared for him. His wife had persuaded their son to give his dad a surprise by attending this concert since she knew it would mean a lot to Ralph. Ralph knew that there would not be any sort of acknowledgement from the organizers as such, but all his fellow violinists knew that it was a special day for him. The audience applauded as the stage was taken. Ralph took his customary left corner in the group of violinists. The violinists responded by waving their bows, which was a traditional way of thanking the audience. But this time around all the members in the orchestra were looking at Ralph while waving their bows. Ralph felt a bit of satisfaction and nodded in acknowledgement. Silverstein was to be the conductor and leader of the orchestra for the day. A huge crowd had built up in anticipation to watch the maestro perform.  But as soon as the stage was taken, the curtains went down. An announcement followed, “Ladies & Gentleman. We apologize for the stoppage. There has been a medical emergency for one of our performers and we will update you shortly on the resumption of the performance”.

Behind the curtains, murmurs started to erupt. Everyone in the orchestra was assembled together. Keith, one of the organizers spoke to them, “Silverstein seems to have a medical emergency. He might not be able to perform tonight. We cannot abandon the show. That would mean we have to make huge refunds for the tickets. The show must happen”.  The artists remained silent. “We have to look at alternatives”, suggested Keith. “I can conduct tonight’s performance”, said one of the young Cello players. Keith frowned under his breath but gently declined his offer.

Keith looked at the group of violinists and he walked up closer to Ralph. “Ralph, can you do it“?

Ralph could not speak up for a few seconds. Things were happening all too sudden for him and he was not able to fathom the fact that he would be leading an orchestra. But then he felt like all the things in his life were leading up to this one evening. He nodded to Keith. The fellow violinists were elated. They called for one of the back-up violinists to fill Ralph’s place.

As the stage opened Keith addressed the audience, “Ladies & Gentlemen. We deeply regret to inform you that Silverstein would not be able to perform tonight due to a medical emergency. I hope you all would support me in offering prayers for his recovery so that he can come back here and enthrall you all once again”.

There was silence for a while in the audience. Many were preparing to leave the hall. Steven was forced to sit down by his mom. There was a hustle in the crowd.

Keith continued his address, “But, as they say, the show must go on. We have with us one of the members of the orchestra who would be leading the orchestra.  He has been with us for over 20 years now and has been an integral part of the Utah symphony. I wish you would join me in welcoming Ralph Morris”.

There was a delay, but soon the people in the audience were applauding. A few with skepticism, a few for obligation and a few with optimism. Margaret and Steven could not believe what was happening. Ralph took the center stage and bowed to the audience before he started playing his violin. Soon the restlessness in the audience started to vanish and everyone got into the groove of the music. Ralph performed Paganini’s Caprice No. 24 to start with, which was one of his personal favorites.  He followed it up by Tchaikovsky, Bach and a few others. As he drove to the end of the concert, he picked up the microphone and announced, “The final piece is one of my own compositions. I would like to dedicate this to all my fellow violinists who spent their life time in the shades of great musicians. I would like to call this piece, “Destiny”. And as he performed his last piece the audience was high on the music. They were captivated by the piece. Margaret cried openly while a few drops of tears rolled out of Steven’s eyes. 

As Ralph finished, the crowd gave him a standing ovation. And as he bowed out of the stage, he glanced one last time towards the left corner at the seat he was supposed to take amongst the violinists. A smile ran across his face and he bid good-bye to the crowd and to the symphony too.

Stumped

It was yet another work day. I dragged myself to the Dadar station. The crowd did not amuse me anymore. I was a branded Mumbaikkar now even though the Thackreys might disagree with me due to my ignorance of Marathi. I was putting my efforts towards that too. Three things I never forget while travelling to my office is my wallet, my dog collar or in other words my ID tag and my iPod. But it was one of those days. I did forget the third. I would have rather left my wallet home and begged for money. But it was to be a music-free day. I realized how much loud Indians could get in public places. The decibels would beat any rock concert, I thought. I had the longest 20 minutes of my life ahead of me, I thought. 

Two minutes passed and out of the corner of the train came a shrill voice. It beat all the noise levels. It was a kid, about 10-12 years old, singing on top of his voice. I had seen him before in the train, and I could gather that he was singing for money. The Floyds and the Benassis kept me too busy to unplug the earphones and listen to him. But that day, I had no choice. The kid sounded amazing. Everyone in the bogie had stopped talking. All were listening to the music that was coming out from his mouth. It was a old Rafi song, the kid was singing, which got immediate nod of approval from the older uncles in the journey. They had to follow it up with the usual dialogue, “Aaj kal ke ganon mein wo baat hi nahi rahi”. It is strange when the younger generation appreciates the Rafis and the Burmans, the older ones still hesitate to acknowledge the Vishals and the Shekars. The kid collected approximately 10 bucks before we both got down at Andheri. I am always caught in two minds when it comes to giving money to the kids who are begging. Would I encourage them or help them?! Before I could decide, he had vanished into the thick flow of human beings.

The day was moving as slow as the train journey itself. My team mate, and a new found friend of sorts had run out of smoke partners on that day and he asked me if I would accompany him to the Tapri. I was happy to do anything apart from staring at the incomprehensible codes. They always appear to me like cryptic crossword of the toughest category. We strolled down to the tapri and were cribbing about the project and giving some nice galis to our manager. We were running out of galis infact. My friend ordered tea and I sat there checking out the babes who were out there for a smoke. That is one proof I would take for branding women as a minority. That and the amount of female music composers.

“Bhaiyya, chai”, someone came from behind me and spoke. It was him – the kid from the train. I had just managed to take the figure of him singing in the train, out of my mind a while back. But, there he stood again with a couple of glasses in his hand filled with hot tea.

“Tum wahi ho na? Train me jo gate ho ? “ I asked.

“Haan bhaiyya. Aapko acha lagta hai mera gana ? ”. He smiled.

I guess he would rather be a trained singer than a train singer, I thought.

“Tum yahan Kaam Karte ho?” I enquired.

“Nahi bau. Ladka apna ich hai. Uska leave chal raha hai na ischool pe. Toh aa jata hai” The guy behind the counter interfered.

I ignored him and asked the kid, “School jate ho?”

“Haan Bhaiyya. I go to school daily. School bhi idhar ich hai. Apan daily train mein gaake aata hai. Pocket money bhi mil jata hai, aur mera riyaz bhi ho jata hai”. He ran in to pick up his next order.

He came back humming ‘Iktara’.

My friend asked him, when he is back, “Acha gaa lete ho yaar. Singer banoge bada hoke?”

“Mazak math udao saab. Hum kahan banenge singer. Nazeeb bhi koi cheez hoti hai”. Even his words had soul, like his songs.

“Sunte kahan ho gane tum?”, I was curious.

“Radio hai na apna. Lekin saale hamesha naye gaana hi bajate rehte hain. Wahi khisa pita Pritam aur Himesh. Ek baar movie hall se gayi, toh wo movie ka gaana bajana bandh kar dete hain. Phir wait karna padta hai ki gana kab aayega”. He could go on and on I thought.

I remembered getting frustrated about finding it hard to search a song in my iPod. I was finding it hard to swallow the tea. My friend gave me a smile which had helplessness written all over it. The kind of smile we all give when the general elections take place.

“Raat ko mast English gaane bajte hain. Kuch samaj nahi aata phir bhi mast lagta hai”. His eyes lit up everytime he spoke about music. “Main bhi Indian Idol mein gayega. Mast hai wo”.

“Haan Haan. Abhi keliye glass saaf karke de. Customer khada hai” The guy behind the counter shouted.

I called out to him and asked, “Naam kya hai tera?”. “Kishore” he said and ran away. Couldn’t be more appropriate, I thought.

I kept thinking about the whole thing throughout the day. The next day I went back to the tapri with a small mp3 player that I had bought for my dad, which he had used once in the last 3 years. I called out to the kid and gave him the mp3 player. His eyes couldn’t have expanded more. “Gaane hain kya ismein?”, he asked. “Thode bohot hain”, I said.

“Baaki mera friend bhar dega. Uske paas bhi aise ich iPod hai”. He said. I stood there watching him run inside the shop jumping up and down. I plugged on my iPod and walked back to my office praying that someday he becomes a trained singer.