JOHN JOHNY JANARDHAN.

JOHN

John came to me that day, in rigors and covered with a blanket to keep him warm. He was suffering from Malaria and after his treatment told me about his strange job. He was employed by the 5 star hotel in our small town. It was a matter of pride for his family. He had been given a small yellow racket in his hand to electrocute the mosquitoes and flies swarming in the posh lobby. He had to protect the dignified guests against such pesky pests so common in our small town. It was an odd job but met his ends. The crackling sound of a trapped mosquito in the electric mesh of the racket was accompanied by a hint of burning smell. In his small shanty when he was about to sleep, a hovering mosquito, which would soon give him Malaria did not bother him. He had killed many with his racket today , was tired and he dozed off.

JOHNY

Johny was a frail looking man in his early thirties. He used to work as a Mickey Mouse in birthday parties held in the party hall of our small town. All the children used to be happy seeing him but used to pester him through out the party. He used to dread them a lot. They used to playfully punch him, pull his tail and ears. The heavy suffocating mickey suit used to slow his waddling gait as he used to run away from the kids. The parents used to laugh at this sight and used to clap. Near the end, Mickey used to pose with the kids for photographs. One day, he accidentally brushed a lady while walking in view of his huge suit. It was unintentional. The parents in an umbrage beat him up. He hides his sad face beneath the smiling Mickey Mouse.

JANARDHAN.

Janardhan came to me with the complaint of loss of appetite. He was a traffic constable in our small town. On eliciting a detailed history, I realised his sorry state and arrived at the diagnosis. The traffic department had run out of breathalysers and he was employed to sniff the drivers of the cars for alcohol. Along with alcohol, he used to encounter the smells of garlic,onions and decayed teeth of the paan chewing population. No wonder, he looked at his food with revulsion. Pretty soon, a fresh kit of breathalysers arrived and Janardhan started to gain weight.

These people worked for their empty bellies. They never felt humiliated about their jobs.They could not afford to think that way. They had no other option in their lives.

SUNBURN-ROSEWATER.

She lay on the recliner chair at the sun deck with a small stringy piece of cloth to cover her modesty. The cloth left nothing for imagination as it resembled a small fig leaf. She was topless for the entire world to see. A pair of oval shades protected her eyes and probably, her identity.
Her tanned shapely body was drawing crowds to the beach shack. Voyeurs would laze around ordering beers and snacks, the shack owner would happily oblige with a grin on his pock marked face. Some would shoot her with their cameras on the sly and proudly show the images, back home. As the Sun set, the revellers would slowly depart and the owner would start stacking the recliner chairs to head back home.
Business had been good this summer.
He would buy a new home for his family.
I saw the same lady on a couple of occasions at the same beach shack and curiosity got the better of me. I decided to wait till the Sunset. I was eager to know her identity.
As the shack owner left for home, a lady, totally covered from head to toe in a dreary black orthodox dress emerged from the shack and joined him in his sojourn homewards.
The oval shades were still on her eyes.
She was the same mysterious lady. Nobody could otherwise recognise her. I waited, hence could identify her.
The owner rubbed soothing rose water on his wife's sunburnt body that night.
She never took her shades off,
She never wanted to.
She dreamt in the dark shades, The bright Sun gave her nightmares.

THE TERMINAL-THE PADDY FIELDS.

I saw them huddled in a closed semi circle at the terminal.

They looked so confused and lost. They were wearing traditional South Indian clothes, crisply starched white and carrying a small cloth bag with them. Probably, they did not have much weight to carry. They were being marshaled by an over enthusiastic airport security guy who was making the most of the opportunity to show his authority to these poor folks. Normally, he was tired of the snubbing he received at the hands of the high fliers through out the year. He bossed over the motley group and eventually guided them to their boarding gate. The relieved group was seen falling at his feet and profusely thanking him. His deflated chest swelled with pride. The group had never seen an air port leave aside a plane. Their children would run out from their thatched houses if a chance plane hovered over their native town.

All the lights in the air port could not match the sparkle of hope in their sallow eyes.

The hopes of the group,after take-off were soaring in the sky along with the plane. Each one felt on top of the world. They did not want to be awakened from this pleasant state.

Out of fear and anxiety, they did not even ask for water or the directions of the toilet to the accented flight attendants who anyway ignored the entire group snobbishly. The group had got used to such behavior by this time and quietly awaited their destination with parched lips and full bladders in the cold plane. The snobbish flight attendants were people like them who awaited their turns daily at the common toilet of their small decrepit chawls. Once, inside the plane, they forgot their ordinary life and pretended to be the all conquering angels in the sky. It was a make believe cosmetic world after all.

The group got down and were taken to the construction site in the Gulf region. They would work all day in the cruel Sun hardly complaining to their equally tyrant bosses. They felt light headed at times under the Sun but no one ever complained. The lure of the money to be sent back home kept them going.

The monthly cheque would be received by their smiling wives with moist eyes.

The tears of the home sick migrant workers had long,dried up in the hot Sun.

Someday, they would return back to their native towns into the arms of their loved ones with their tanned bodies and sleep in the shady coconut groves.

They would never leave their home town, ever again.

They hated the Sun.

The paddy fields looked green after a long time.

NAIL-POLISH. BLUE EYES.

I work at a cosmetic store at the airport terminal. I cater to the high flying ladies, helping them to buy the stuff to look more beautiful. I recommend the shades of nail colour, lip stick and other materials to enhance the beauty. We stock international designer brands for the elite class of the society. Our prices are double the usual to compensate for the steep rent at the terminal. People in a rush to catch their connecting flights hardly look at the prices and actually smile pleasantly while paying our bills. We also are happy to deal with such non fussy customers.

She looked lost and lonely in the huge terminal, her blue eyes were beautiful and expressive. You could never forget them. Her face was a milky smooth runway where our gazes would just glide away. The lips were juicy red, of course without any added colour. She came to our shop and started to look around. She soon filled her hamper with a host of cosmetic products making us all glad. She flushed out dollar bills and walked off. One thing amazed me, that she did not buy any nail polish. I rushed behind her to offer her complementary nail polish bottles to her but she flatly refused saying she had no use for them. I came back to the shop,disheartened.

I saw her heading towards the changing room.

She came out a different person. I could have missed her, but for her eyes. She was clad in a black burkha from head to toe and all you could see were her blue eyes.

Seeing me, she told her sad story, Her fingers were once slender, shining with gloss and polish. She used to teach in a girls' school in her native country.

The wicked rulers, who were vehemently against female education raided her school and chopped her fingers.

She, now was fighting a lone battle with the oppressive rulers with the help of international aid agencies.

I bade her good bye as she boarded the flight to her dreaded war torn destination.

A few months later, I read about her untimely demise in the papers.

Her cold blue eyes still haunt me.

ROBOT.

2010-The Reality.
I wake up at 7 am and go to play Tennis for 2 hours daily. I consume 3 liters of BMC water and half a liter of Gatorade in the mornings. I come home, tired and have my milk-muesli -dry fruit breakfast.
I shit, shave and shower.
I head for my rounds at around 11am, I do my opd from 1-4pm and come home. I have a non interesting reheated lunch. The food just goes in without me savouring any taste.
I sleep for an hour amidst phone calls, somehow.
I wake up, shower and head for the evening rounds and opd. I reach home late at mid night and have a reheated dinner. My half awake wife gives me company during dinner. She yawns, I chew and swallow the once appetising,morsels.
I see movies in the night or write a blog depending on my mood.
I sleep off at 1am amidst disturbing phone calls, all through out the night.
I wake up again at 7am and head for the Tennis court.
Sundays are stereotypically lighter as there is no opd business.
I take my willing family out, for a dinner on Sundays.
Festivals do not interest me, neither do the weddings of relatives and friends. My presence and attendance in such frivolous activities are dealt with raised eyebrows. My absence has been long taken for granted. I never mind this thought.
I hardly recollect the last time when I saw a movie in a theatre.My family sees them without me.
I am hardly at home so I have never seen my neighbours. My building members know me by name but I do not know them.
I have never attended my child's parent teacher interaction meeting. She has been forced into thinking that it is a maternal job.
I do not get emotionally affected by my patient's woes and cries as I have been experiencing them for the last decade. I do the assigned job of treating them with a stoic non expressive manner.
I never laugh or cry. My face is like a mask.
Nothing moves me.
Nothing excites me.
Everything is pre ordained and mechanical.
I have been robbed of my emotions.
I live my life day in and day out, on the whim of the ticking clock.
Am I becoming a Robot?

2050AD- A Dream.
The Robots had come to rule our lives, The machines had overpowered the human beings. They would just extract the soul of the human and transplant it in the assembly line of Robots. My soul was in a Robot too. He was named 25091972, my birth date obviously.
He was a different Robot though,
He showed emotions.
My suppressed soul during my human existence was finally aware about life and the pleasures it offered.
I woke up smiling, from my slumber.
At least, I would live a life in my after life.

NO ANSWERS.

I heard a soft knock on my car window that fateful day.
We were driving to a swanky new barbecue restaurant, all decked up in our finest attires and were in a good mood. The music was softly playing on our ears when I heard the knock. A young lady with a small cachexic baby in her arms was asking for money, earnestly. The lady was in tattered rags and the baby was just in a small cloth wrapped around his privates. It was a very painful sight to behold. The baby had dried up kohl lined tear marks on his innocent face. The lady had only pain and anguish written on her face. I think tears of despair had long dried up from her sallow eyes. Her hands were slender but the unkempt nails were full of grime.
I gave a tenner note to the poor beggar and drove away from the signal.
I felt less guilty by this action.
We often do this without thinking, It has become a sort of reflex action for us. We feel that some loose change in our inflated economy will solve the problems of the poor.
We headed for the restaurant and as soon as we were about to lavish the sumptuous spread, My daughter Chaitra asked me a question innocently.
She asked me "Papa, Who were the lady and the child at the signal?"
Why they were on the road and we in the car?
She was sad, while asking these uncomfortable questions.
She was a small girl of 7 years but her compassion and concern for the beggar overwhelmed my senses. I tried to distract her from this state and I gave her my cell phone to play games with.
Soon, lunch was served on the table and we started to eat.
She asked me for the answers again. I kept quiet. The lavish spread was suddenly becoming an emotional exercise for me. The food just stuck in my gullet. I lost my appetite too.
We left after some time and on the way back, mercifully, did not encounter any beggar at any junction.
During siesta time, I told Chaitra. I have no answers for your questions.
She, while crying accused me, I had failed in her test exam. She would complain about me to her class teacher about my inability to answer her questions.
I slept,not peacefully though and thought about the plight of the economically deprived people in our democratic country.
A fancy hotel bill could run the entire family household expenditure of these families for a month.
I may have dejected my daughter.
The government had dejected the entire nation.....
My Chaitra would soon grow up and stop asking such questions.
But,One day in the future, her child would ask the same questions.
There would be no answers.