SOAP AND WATER-

All you need in life is soap and water.

I am a keen observer of people and they continue to amaze me all the time.

The chappal bears the crescentic dust shadow in the front just facing the toes, This shadow is seen in people who may have dressed impeccably but are too careless about their feet. The sparkling nailpolish on the toes fades in the company of the lunar dust shadow.

The shoes resemble as if they belong to a nuke infested war zone.Layers of dust and grime adorn them and they had the misfortune of being polished only at the time of manufacture. The socks with holes smell hellish. Sometimes, I have had to leave the room in a state of nausea,me furiously sniffing my eucalyptus oiled hanky.

The toe nails are clawed like demons and apes and they grow without the fear of ever being snipped. A black brown line can be seen sub surface.

People have a weird fixation about scratching their crotches and axillae all the time. It is their favourite pastime. They follow up with a firm handshake and smelly hugs.

I have seen people using their belly button as a storage receptacle. Balls of cotton and hair frequently hide there.At times, I have seen grains also.

People also advertise what they have consumed for meals. Garlic, Onion and Tea flavored breaths are a rage in our town. Nocturnally, meat and cheap whisky rule the roost. The brush and the tooth paste are used seldomly, if at all.Communication with such people should be done with our backs facing them and their putrid assault.

The shirts and the trousers are used again and all over again till the salt layers accumulate like those of a salt pan. They smell like a mix of napalm and tear gas.The less said about the inner garments is better. They would alone merit a single blog.

The face bears so much oil so as to put the gulf nations in a worry. A once white hanky is rubbed repeatedly to polish the face. The eyes and nose are badly in need of a cleaning too. Boogers are blown and wiped on the poor betel leaf spat red walls.

Hairwash is a weekly affair for some and on the other days the smell of sweat,oil and anti dandruff conditioners loom large on us if we have the chance to get that close.

Supersonic farts and burps are fashionably blared by some people regardless of the emotional and olfactory damage caused to the innocent bystanders. Indiscretion is a definition for their valour.

I recently treated a bed bound millionaire lady who was left to die all alone in her home. The sons came to cursorily ask about her well being. She had a bad maggot infestation in her festering bed sores. She was a helpless lady and all I could do is to point my fingers of accusation were at her sons and their wives.

I saw their shoes and chappals and shaking my dizzy head walked out of their room.

I have a healthy disregard for such people in life. I never hesitate to show my displeasure and point out their hygienic shortcomings.

I feel like gifting them soap and water.

GOD.

God.

A single word, yet means so much to our world.

People spend their entire lives searching for him and when death approaches mortals, they see a bright light and claim to see and reach God.

I never saw God in temples,mosques or churches. All I saw were his poor children begging for their daily slice of bread. Had God been present in such proximity, would he have tolerated such poverty and filth around him?

Some fake people who claim to be Gods exist as leeches in our society. I had the unfortunate pleasure of meeting a few with medical problems,an affliction of us mortals! They were Gods and they behaved like Gods too but their bodies were made of the same human flesh and brittle bones.

They were all frail humans with the same anxieties and insecurities which were carefully hidden from their blind masses of followers. Their so called healing hands seldom and never cured themselves.


I am yet to see his physical form but have felt him in all walks of life.

I hear him in the innocent cackling laughter of my kids,the chirping of the birds and the sounds of nature.

I feel him in the blessings and wishes of my parents.

I sense him in the love and care of my wife and my siblings.

I see God in eyes of my patients,filled with tears of gratitude.


God is everywhere. God is in every form. He is infinite.

You cannot lock him in domed or spired buildings.

He cannot exist in mortal bodies.

My dad who is no more with us, had a near death experience 2 years back.

He described a sense of levitation along with some dazzling lights during that entire
experience.

Maybe God exists somewhere beyond our reach, in the afterlife.........

A FIGHT WITH GOD.

I was a heart broken person last year after my dad's demise.

I began to doubt the existence of God. A cascade of unfortunate events, resulting in multi organ failure had brought about my dad's downfall. He fought valiantly but God had already made up his plans.

During his mid life, he endured diabetes,heart and kidney ailments with an ever smiling face. In USA, a couple of years back a doctor called him a superman. He was a charismatic person and had his fan following wherever he went.

Why God could not give him an extension for a couple of years started eroding my mind. We all needed him, always by our side for his reassuring support.

I was upset with the almighty. All my prayers and beliefs came to a halt.

I was a devout believer but now I became an agnostic.

I just stopped praying.

After a couple of months or so, I got a home visit call.

A 80 year old man was languishing in the bed for the last 6 months. He had a series of brain strokes.He had become like a virtual comatose vegetable. He had become totally dependent. He had stopped speaking and only uttered indecipherable grunts.

At times, he used to open his eyes and stare at the ceiling. I saw the man and his poignant eyes just begged for salvation.

His soul desired liberation.

I went home and thanked God for not letting my dad suffer. He was a fiercely independent persona and such a state would have tortured him.

I closed my 'now open' eyes and resumed my prayers all over again.

God always has the best plans.

We realise it too late.

TREADMILL OF LIFE.

It was a very uncomfortable day for me yesterday.

The day began with excruciating chest pain which radiated to my left arm and shell shocked me into believing that something was wrong with my heart. I am 40 years old and not growing younger everyday. The stresses of life and genetic factors would catch me up one day.
The echo and the blood markers mercifully came up normal. A treadmill test was planned during the latter half of the day. My family got worried and began crying. I too became a bit worried with their behavior. My thready pulse started soaring to new highs but my spirits were on a all time low.

The morbid fear of heart disease and the resultant disability gripped me lke a python.

My life had just begun and I needed atleast another decade to settle my kids who were still young. They also loved me and started crying.

I began running on the treadmill like there was no tomorrow with a prayer on my lips and a steely resolve to put all the doubts to rest.

The attending cardiologist, after 12 minutes begged me to stop running on the treadmill. He told me that I had run enough to pass the test. I refused and told him to max out the test. My pulse reached a dizzying 170 beats per minute yet I had neither chest pain nor any fatigue. After the test, he congratulated me on my stamina and heaved a sigh of relief. The graphs of the test were normal.

I was overjoyed and my family was mightily relieved. They started breathing again.God existed for me yesterday. When I got down from the treadmill, I sat down quietly in one corner and started crying. The cardiologist was surprised and rightly so.I should have been happy with the results of the test and my tears had a different reason for their origin.

It was a hot summer in 1997 when I was a MD resident in KEM hospital when my dad was seen in the opd for similar chest pain episodes. He was 55 years old, diabetic and a hypertensive smoker with a strict temperament to boot,thus fulfilling all the risk factors for germination of a heart disease.

As he walked on the treadmill, after 3 minutes he had chest pain and breathlessness. His rhythm became awry and his ST segments started rising indicating an evolving heart attack. The test was immediately aborted and the entire cardiac team rushed to the treadmill to check on my dad. He was pretty cool after the termination of the test and was unaware of anything going wrong with him. The HOD implored him to get admitted on the ICU and undergo an urgent angiography.I too pleaded with tears in my eyes.

He was made up of sterner stuff. He asked the HOD to prescribe some meds for him and calmly walked up to Parel station,climbed the overbridges and came home by train. I was a helpless mute spectator. I could never convince my dad or go against his wishes.

He was our Iron Man.
After a week, we could manage to convince him and he underwent successful stenting to his coronary vessels.He later underwent CABG after 5 years in 2003 which gave him further extension of life till september 2011.

He lived like a tiger, enjoying his life fully, smoking and weekend drinking, seeing movies, playing with his grandkids.

His entire life flashed in front of my eyes when I began walking on the treadmill yesterday.

I went home, hugged my kids and cried even more. The tears just never stopped flowing yesterday.

EK DUJE KE LIYE.

It was a bright sunny day when my parents dropped me at the school at 12 noon. The campus looked empty to me as the secondary classes were going on. I was, a big one hour early to school. My primary mates were yet to arrive. My parents had to go see the movie, EK DUJE KE LIYE. It was a big hit those days and drove hordes of young cupid struck couples to fling themselves off cliffs.

I sat alone on the school steps vowing vengeance on my parents who hurriedly went to catch up the show. They looked so happy. I felt left out of the whole picture. I failed to understand the reason for leaving me all alone. I skipped my dinner in protest that day. I was a kid and behaved like one. After much cajoling and an ice cream candy bribe, I had a late dinner much to their relief.

I never understood what an adult movie meant and why we innocent kids were never supposed to even talk about, leave aside viewing them. I simply understood that my parents had left me all alone, even if for a small period of time. During that hour which I spent on the school steps, I plotted a future revenge plan when I would leave my parents all alone and see an adult movie.

When they came back to pick me up, I just hugged them and cried. I wanted them to never leave me alone.

Time passed by and I grew up to be a tall teenager and finally an adult. The past memories of the revenge had faded away. The movie was screened umpteen times on the tv screen and our country had liberalised from the pallus to the micro minis. The titillation threshold had progressed beyond imagination.

What was covert once had blatantly become overt now.

It was a black day for the city when in 1990 many commuters lost their lives in the train blasts. My train to my coaching classes ran during that ill fated schedule and I narrowly missed that train as I had left early that day. I was in the preceding train. We were unaware of the situation.

My parents had no clue of my whereabouts and as soon as they heard the news on their tv screens, they panicked helter skelter. Landlines got jammed and there was chaos.I blissfully was coming home and was surprised to see them on my building steps sobbing profusely. They just rushed at my sight and hugged me with all their might.

I saw tears in my dad's eyes for the very first time in my life.

The whole scene was like a flashback from the past. Me, hugging my parents on the steps. The only difference being that now I was consoling them about things being alright.I reminded them about the past incident of my revenge plot and we all laughed it off.
The common factor being fearful anxiety.

Last year, my dad took the greatest revenge of all and went far away into the arms of God.

As long as we are together,Let us all live for each other, i:e EK DUJE KE LIYE.

THE MALINGA WIG.

After much persuasion by Chaitra, I procured the pricey pavilion IPL tickets in black. This was our first time visit to see a live match in a stadium. Normally, I prefer seeing matches in the cool confines of my home with a refilling glass of scotch. This time, I had to go for my daughter. My wife came along with us leaving my son behind as the din would be too overwhelming for him.

The experience was like a festival of sights and sounds. It seemed that the entire city was trailing towards the stadium. The flood lights lit up the evening sky. We bought blue fluoroscent wigs and tees to support our home team. Vuvuzelas resounded in their glory. The entire crowd was in a state of intoxication. Film stars and Industrialists were seated in and around us to add to the excitement.

We were floating on fluffy clouds of unabashed man made entertainment. An ethereal luminous state.

The dirt laden lanes surrounding the stadium painted a different grim picture.A swarm of homeless had made the city roads their only abode with kids in tow.

As soon as the match got over and we were walking out, a group of feisty kids started to pester us to let go of the 'malinga wigs' and the vuvuzelas.They would sell them to the vendors who would recycle them back to the unsuspecting spectators.
The dishevelled kids knew little about 'malinga'. He was in a way,their sole wage provider during matches held in the stadium.

It was such a stark let downing contrast.

My eyes failed to adapt from such bright lights to the sad deplorable darkness.The eyes let down a stream of held back tears.

A normal expected reaction.

The blue fluoroscent wig covering the bare naked core of the city was torn apart. It revealed the apathetic tragic pate, fate of the cruel city.

The pretence was broken apart with a noise even more shattering than all the merry sounds of the packed bursting stadium.

I walked on with a heavy heart.

CITY OF DREAMS.

My kids wished to go SoBo yesterday.They wanted to sniff the sea breeze and explore the fabled Gateway of India,enjoy a motor boat ride and soak the sights of the city.

Nausea struck me as I alighted from the car.A strange rancid smell of diesel,dry fishes and horse manure wafted through the stagnant air assaulting my senses. The gateway is flocked by out of town desi tourists and a scattered group of foreigners.

Everywhere, you could see squatted hawkers selling cheap plastic toys and nuts. A guy sat with a weighing machine too. He was quite busy.Photographers with tattered albums in hand tried in vain to solicit us for backdrop photographs.

The motor boat ride was a scary one for my kids as the boat swayed wildly from side to side.A desi drunk tourist puked, showering some people onboard with his spittle. After a turbulent bawling ride, we returned ashore.The drunk desi slowly crept out of the boat, hiding his face.

The ill lit promenade was littered with plastic bottles, cola cans and peanut shells They crunched under our shoes..It was an ugly sight.A few couples tried to get cosy on the parapet adjoining the sea in excitement.Heavily made up desi folks scuttled for souvenir group photos.They wanted this slice of history, hung on their native walls.

As we were walking back to the car, my son got attracted to an illuminated spinning top being sold by a hawker. The wares were mounted on one sheet of a raggedy cloth and a naked infant slept on the adjoining equally dirty rag. He was oblivious to the onslaught of the buzzing flies and biting mosquitoes. I bought the top and walked away.

I took a snap of my family against the backdrop for the sake of posterity. The look on my kids' faces indicated that this was the last trip over here.

across the street lay one of the swankiest hotel of our entire city.A world of bright lights and liveried butlers. The lavish spread failed to activate my appetite. My kids ran about the place, amnesiac about the dismal time spent earlier.

A small dust filled road separated two different worlds like day and night.

Welcome to the city of dreams.

FORGIVENESS.

A painted lady was sitting next to me with a girl child aged 7-8 years or so. She began her loud sob interspersed story to the uninterested yawning lady constable.She complained about a strange lady calling her daughter in the middle of the night on her cell phone. On further enquiry, the strange lady was the mother of the girl who had accompanied her. She was her husband's ex wife.The lady constable told her to switch off the phone in the night and berated her for wasting her time.

A bawling dishevelled lady strode inside the room with her equally tattered husband in tow. It was a case of domestic violence. The poor lady melodramatically cried and the inebriated husband just stood picking some precious stuff from his bulbous nose trying hard to suppress his laughter. He was taken to another room and bashed up by the itchy cops.His cries sounded like the laughter of a trapped hyena. The couple went home soon promising to mend their ways.

The on duty cops were busy greasing tobacco and lime on their dirty palms to be alert for the nocturnal onslaught. It was a busy police station and nights would always be heavy in view of the nearby slum locality. The insides were bustling like a public hospital.

A group of huddled boys were rounded up for creating nuisance in their locality and looked worried as they sighted the gleaming belt buckles on the paunches of cops which would be used on them. I could see local fly by night self proclaimed white clothed politicians trying to use their non existent clout and influence the cops. I saw a couple of reporters sniffing around for any print worthy scoop or scandal.

Some people had come to report losses of cell phones and other trivia. A solitary sad dog guarded the entrance of this police station.

Under the most bizarre circumstances, I had to enter this police station. An addict had color zeroxed my prescription sheets and was merrily forging addictive'ketamine' injections for his consumption. I had already made an official complaint to the cops regarding the same a few months back. The chemist association had also been informed and they were on his trail. Last week, I got a call from a chemist about this forged prescription and he had managed to nab the offender who incidentally was a maid working for the accused. Soon, she was joined by her lady 'memsaab' to rescue her. I rushed with a team of cops to catch them.

I was shocked to see that the 'memsaab' was one of my old patients who was abusing my prescription to fuel her ailing son's addiction.

She begged for forgiveness under the garb of crocodile tears.

I wanted to punish her but at the same time sympathised with her. She had an old mother to look after and an equally ill addict son. A defamation suit and a charge of forgery would land her a couple of years' time in the grind.

After the submission of official apology letters, I decided not to pursue the case further.

The doctor in me always wanted to help the helpless.

I could not over ride my 'samaritan' conscience. I even suggested local deaddiction centres for her son's treatment. Besides, my head was reeling, just sitting in the police station listening to the tales of debauchery and other assorted evils.

I walked out of the police station, head held high.

'Forgiveness is the sweetest revenge'.

CHEAP LABOUR.

My cook is a 30 year old lady with an alcoholic husband and a 7 year old kid named Prem. She comes twice a day to cook meals for us, working folks. She liberally opens the fridge and offers pricey swiss chocolates and biscuits to her son followed by a glass of milk. Prem plays around with my son and lazes like a tiger cub on the upholstered sofa. He runs around the house, playing with Prithvy's toys. We gave him a brand new bicycle this year on his birthday.

My maid is a middle aged tiny lady who scampers around the house like a mouse as she is busier than me. She hurriedly goes about her work. She moistens my ebony wooden flooring despite repeated warnings to use a dry cloth. My hankies often go missing and require replacements round the year. A good number of divorced socks have accumulated in my drawer. They are single, desperately searching for their matching partner. Sometimes, she destroys my shirts by soaking them with multi coloured petti coats and other colour running items. The shirts become designer stained then. They are carefully hidden by my wife then till I lose memory of them. The fruit tray is showered with special attention by her. She likes exotic fruits. They disappear within no time.

Prithvy had a lot of maids in the past. They were young not so innocent girls who chatted on the phone with their boy friends rather than pay attention to him in the garden. Some had special affection for cheese cubes and slices while others only ate dry fruits. Some used to steal Mansi's designer dupattas and still have the audacity of wearing them with their faded non matching dresses.Little do they know that we know everything. We are like fools for them.

Monetary needs are just around the corner.

Festivals and feigned illnesses of their relatives rule the roost. Last year, our maid asked for a flat screen TV.I refused flatly. I do not know how she got it but she worked with a renewed vigour in our house after the acquisition. My wife and my mother keep me in the dark when it comes to such things.

My driver had a baby girl this year who was premature at birth. We footed the entire private NICU bill, no questions asked and no answers given. We gave her a chunky gold pendant and silver trinkets for her feet when she came home.

A few days back, my driver started cribbing about his pay. I obliged, quietly.

Everbody in our house acts in a hushed manner when it comes to the maids.

They are indispensable.

Whenever we travel abroad, we see everyone working with their own hands and feet. They are happy doing their house hold work. Labour costs are prohibitive.

In our country, Its a different story.

Hey! Hey! Where's my pudding??

A burrp from my maid says it all.

HOT SUMMER NIGHTS.

The scorching sun used to heat up our top floor flat in the summer of 70s. The concrete and steel retained the radiated benevolent warmth late until the night to stifle our souls. ACs were an unheard of luxury, those days.The poor fans ran in a tired circular motion, relentlessly to offer respite. All they could do was to throw the warm air back at us. I did not blame them. At times we all would take our mattresses and rush to the terrace to sleep, hoping to inhale some cool breezy air. The small insects would buzz around our ears threatening to enter them. Some friends would tell ghost stories to amuse us.The pepsi colas in their thick encased plastic sheaths would be sucked furiously by us to keep cool. The ice gola wallah would do brisk business till the wee hours of the night.The early light would awaken us and we would go back to our houses to escape the glare of the sun and catch some more lazening sleep. Tempers used to run foul in the summer months amongst our parents as they had to endure more of us because of vacations.The heat used to induce some chemical changes in the brain lowering its resistance threshold. Our young bodies were flexible and adapted to the change in the weather. Our vacations meant playing all the time regardless of the heat. Our mothers used to make lime water in water bags and forcibly make us consume it. The water bag was an essential accessory of the playing kids. A few slum dwellers resided near our building,who incidentally were our hard working sweaty maids and their huge families.The brick colored mangalore tiles and asbestos over their heads would heat up like an oven and compound their misery. A certain knock in the afternoon would be from them with a dull huge utensil in their hands asking for cold refrigerated water. We happily used to comply. Humanity existed, many decades back. My dad one day had a brain wave and he rushed to the nearby grocer to get jute bags. The jute bags were stitched by our maid to make a big sheet. The sheet was placed on the terrace above our sleeping hall and in the night time we used to pour 2 buckets of water on it. The fibrous jute used to trap the moisture and cool down our ceiling. The AC like effect used to amaze us and keep us calm. The sleep was more peaceful and we used to dream of the cold breezy snow clad mountains pictured in our text books. Also, a wet brick kept in one corner of the room brought down the ambient temperature of our room. The 80s brought about a lot of changes in the middle class household. An AC was installed in our bedroom and we marvelled at the frosty air generated by it. When the AC was on, all measures would be taken to leak proof the room.Not a single waft of cold air would escape our room. All of us would sleep in the AC room and snore away to sweet glory. An AC was a luxury those days and a status symbol too. Our electricity bills started to ascend as the temperature descended in our room but hot summers were pardonable for the same. I have sweet memories of hot summers during my childhood. 2012AD- All the rooms except bathrooms have ACs and kids sometimes even ask for an AC to be on in winters and cold monsoon rains.They belong to a different era.They have never been on our terrace. The ACs now silently run, round the clock oblivious of our early struggle filled times. They will never understand our jute bag times.

HYDROPHOBIA.

It was a strange feeling for my toddler son who walked bare foot on the white sands for the first time in his life.The grains of sand were probably tickling his tiny feet as he struggled to walk on it.After a few shuffling uncertain steps he found his rhythm and started to catch us up. It was a new experience for him. He scanned the cloudy blue horizon and was amazed at the vastness of the infinite universe. The gentle waves beckoned him and he eagerly lapped them up. He sat on his mother's lap and faced the waves with a palpable fear and thrill.The waves rocked them to and fro much to his wide eyed amazement. The salty brine water swallowed by him was promptly purged by him.He enjoyed this first time beach experience and was reluctant to leave the shore. A ball carried by him was lost to the sea. It was an orange plastic ball which would float and maybe, traverse oceans to reach some destination unknown.He looked dejected as we brought him back to our hotel room. Through out the remainder of the day, he would point at the direction of the white sandy beach and urge us with his eyes to take him out there to play. Mercifully, our hotel had a large pool to satiate his hydrophilic pursuits. He and Chaitra would laze at the pool for hours together blissfully, regardless of the blazing overhead sun.He had a dragon float which became a part of his body for the next few days. He would walk with a float around him even in the hotel lobby and rooms. Some kids just love water. I think all of them do. They would play, splashing around water in the shallow kiddie pool.At times,Chaitra would be busy in the deeper waters practising her butterfly strokes. I used to enter the knee deep shallow kiddie pool then and play with my son till our bodies tanned. It was the best experience for both of us. An invisible bond was developing between us as a result of time being spent together which was a rarity in our day to day busy life. Our building complex has a oly sized swimming pool which is a much favoured haunt of the kids.It has been 5 years since I moved in here but my feet are still dry. I have never stepped inside the pool so far. I am a hydrophobic person who hates water.I do not like water on my skin. I maybe allergic to chlorine. I am afraid of water. My fears may have no basis but I am scared of drowning. A panic attack occurs as soon as I visualise deep placid pools or stormy oceans.Any water above my knee level send shivers down my spine.The kiddie pool is the most I can venture out. My wife gets visibly upset when I disallow her to take part in water sports or para sailing. I see inherent risks and dangers fraught in any aqua sports. Some fears are so deeply imbibed in us that it may take several lifetimes to overcome them. I am a happy person outside on terra firma when I take care of the cameras, phones and clothes of my family who are indeed happily enjoying in the pool.I click their pictures and enjoy the scene. I order drinks or juices for them and am glad to serve them.I run around fetching floats and towels for them. I may be scared of drowning in water but I look forward to drowning in their happiness and love...

A LAZY BOY.

He had indeed become a lazy boy. He used to sleep all day on his couch watching TV when awake. Reading was given up a few years back by him. His eyes used to droop and fail to focus on the fine print. The day used to be spent watching wrestling and cricket matches. He used to admire the rippling muscles and the athleticism of the players. With a weakened body but a strong steely resolve he used to imagine himself playing cricket and wrestle fighting with God. He was 22 years old and only one question bothered his mind. Why was he still alive? He remembered his sprightly school days when he used to run around and play with the kids with gay abandon. The memories used to fill his sallow eyes with tears. Life had been cruel to him. One not so fine day, when he was 10 years old he realised a difficulty in climbing stairs. His attentive parents immediately sought counsel and the doctor after a battery of tests arrived at the dreaded diagnosis of muscular dystrophy. He would live upto 18 years and mostly a dependent life confined to the bed or a wheel chair. A horde of healers were tried to restore power to his muscles but all to no avail. The parents slowly accepted their fate. The poor sad boy, his life, whatever was left of it. The parents withdrew him from school and focused all their energy and time to be with their boy. The muscles soon started their incessant march of atrophy. He was reduced to a skeleton with some skin on it. He never looked in the mirror and became a recluse. After he became 18 years old, he and his parents would daily look at the calendar and cry, fearing that his time would come soon now. God had planned further misery for him and further agony filled 4 years passed by. He gave up eating solid food as his pharyngeal muscles failed to swallow. He was admitted a couple of days back in my hospital for IV fluids and nutrition. Seeing his plight, tears rolled down my cheeks. His parents too joined me however their tears had dried a long time back. They were praying to God to end his misery. His breathing also had become a strenuous laboured exercise. When death would come, he would not put up a fight and lazily embrace it. He had no strength left in him. 'He that is down need fear no fall' I sometimes wonder about the existence of God. How can he bear such plight of his own children?

KANYADAAN.

It is under the most pathos filled yet humane circumstances that we have decided to bless a solemn union of two souls.

My daughter had fervently wished for our maid's marriage last month when we had visited the temple.It was a noble innocent thought from her side.When the children pray, God has to listen.He has to bow down to selfless wishes. He exists for them.

Shubha was Doogloo's best maid ever.She took care of him like an elder responsible sister.She had become like a part of our family. Doogloo used to run behind her all the time and she, behind him. He was happily looked after. Mind you Folks, he is a very difficult kid to discipline as he has naughtiness oozing out from every pore of his body. She used to feed him and make him sleep singing lullabies of her native town. She used to play like a kid in the garden and the play park. Taking care of him was her only priority in life. If he fell sick and refused to eat she would also sleep without eating. An invisible bond had been established.

Shubha had seen a guy around a year back and had expressed a desire to settle with him. He was salesboy in a mall and distantly related to her. They both liked each other but her parents were a thorn in the flesh. They consistently objected to their union citing illogical and absurdly weak reasons for the same. I knew their sad poor hand to mouth background but I kept quiet.

Their 2 daughters worked and sent money back home. Their survival depended on these earnings. Marriage would mean an abrupt cessation of the flow of money hence they resisted her marriage. The cash cow would stop giving milk to them.

Shubha is almost 26 now and not growing younger by the day. The guy had waited for over a year now. Nothing could stop this union now. She decided to take the plunge and is going to get married after 2 days. She is happily shopping, going to the parlour and applying henna to her hands.

I salute her guts and independence. Her parents have decided to boycott the event. They are in a state of shock and denial.

Doogloo and Chaitra look forlorn and sad nowadays as they have realised that Shubha is no longer gonna stay with them now on. A new maid has already walked inside our house and is strongly attempting to be friends with them.

Shubha's farmer parents live in a drought struck town. Last year, her father had even contemplated suicide. We had shipped some cash urgently to avoid the crisis. Their fears are justified to some extent.

I do not know whether they are right or wrong. God has not given me such powers to be judgmental.

From Shubha's side, We are the only guests.

Kanyadaan will have to be carried out by us.

Shubha Mangal Saavdhaan!

A DEBT OF CHILDHOOD.

It was early in the morning when she arrived at our home looking frail and tired of her long journey from our native town. Savita was our new caretaker. She was a very distant relative of my dad. We were small kids and my parents were working so it was a necessity to have one.Savita came in a floral dress which looked weather beaten. She came from a very poor farming family and this new job would help her family back home.

Savita stayed with us for nearly a decade and took good care of us. She was a strict maid who insured discipline in us.We would consider her as a part of our family.She became a metamorphosed person with new dresses, lip stick and powder on her dark face.She also was growing along with us and soon wedding bells rang for her. She settled in the city. We were very sad kids that day. After all,She had been a part of our growing up years.

Time flies away and people get busy in their own enmeshed lives. Her visits became very sporadic and soon a solitary annual phone call was the only means of contact with her. I always remembered her fondly.

Yesterday afternoon my door bell rang and I was pleasantly surprised to see Savita with her son. She had come to invite us for her daughter's wedding.

She was as excited as a small child. She was very happy for her daughter who would now settle in a building flat and move out of her shanty chawl. The bride groom was a bank employee to boot. She was on cloud 9. Her unfulfilled dreams would come true for her daughter atleast.

Savita's husband was a watchman who earnt a paltry sum which he wasted on alcohol every night.She used to cook at a couple of houses to sustain her household. It was a sad struggle for her everyday and everynight. Her current enthusiasm and happiness belied her abject status.She had only her daughter's marriage, uppermost in her mind.

She waxed eloquent about her wedding plans, the hall, the menu and the sarees and the decor. She had saved every penny for this day.The marriage would be conducted in a low budget. There would be compromises and cut shorts.

I went into my room and cried, hugging Mansi whose eyes also were moist.

Her child like enthusiasm despite her shoe string budget really made me sad.

She also mentioned that she had just come only to invite us without any monetary expectation.

I did what I could do best. I had to repay my debt of childhood.

We spend so much on luxuries without batting an eye lid.

My act of kindness would atleast mitigate her current trouble.

Seeing the red notes amounting to nearly half her wedding budget, she just hugged my mother and cried in sobs.

We all cried yesterday.

TOY STORY..

We have a small room in our home behind the hall. We store stuff over there.

The attics have long disappeared from current homes by the greedy builders who try to build as many floors as possible in the given space.I have been to places where an odd out stretched yawn would hurtle my hands towards the ceiling fan.

My store room is crammed with an exotic collection of all the available toys in our town. Birthdays and pampering relatives have helped the cause further. There are soft toys, hard toys, cars, trains,doll houses and various board games too. If a new toy is desired by my kid on a daily basis, the room would never be tired of providing them. The toys sing and dance regaling the kids. Some jump in the air. My store room looks like a toy shop. The very act of entering and removing a toy also requires a lot of dexterity and care in the stuffed room. They keep on replicating exponentially like rabbits.

A curious incident happened that day in my place which set my bells ringing. My kids were playing with a toy G I Joe soldier who could fly in the air for a short distance with the aid of a rotating fan attached above his head and a battery powered generator. I had bought this toy only looking at the incessant pleas of my daughter.The soldier set me back by an astronomical figure which was the monthly income of our maid, sustaining her family. The kids were playing and suddenly the soldier flew out of our window. The soldier crashed down on the floor and a car just ran over him. I went down to look at the dismembered toy. I felt bad for him.

When I went home,the kids were merrily playing with some other toy. They had no guilt or remorse over loss of the soldier. They casually asked and moved on. If one toy went away there were others to take their place. This incident alarmed me and I thought of some action with its resultant consequences.The kids had to be taught a lesson which would make them value their possessions.

I remembered a small plastic car which was my sole companion during a part of my childhood. I used to eat, sleep and even shower with the car. It was a sturdy companion and break proof too. The car had become an extension of my body and at no times would I be seen without the car. I treasured it.I valued it. My brother too had a similar car and we would play racing games. We had the best of times. We would enjoy even the smallest niceties in life, those days.

We were not spoilt with many choices.

'Take it or Leave it' was the mantra chanted by my parents.

I still thank my parents for inculcating a sense of value in early years of life.

Last Sunday saw a massive exodus of toys from my place. The store room now contained only a handful of toys. The kids were allowed to keep only their most favoured toys. The orphanage authorities were flabbergasted with the number of packed and unused toys donated last Sunday. Each and every orphan would at least have a couple of toys to play with.

The kids were happy that day. They felt a hitherto unexperienced joy in sharing their toys with the unfortunate ones in the society.

I see them now more attached to their toys, taking good care of them.

Maybe, they will thank me in the latter years of my life.

ABSENT HEART SOUNDS.

Mr Gopal happily walked into my consulting room the other day to share some good news with me. He was a NRI, settled abroad for the last few years. His trips to India were infrequent and only materialised when either of his parents fell sick.He in a relieved tone mentioned about the admission of his parents in an old aged home. His business was expanding and that meant fewer trips to India.His heart was abroad and getting smaller, day by day. I knew that his parents were not happy with this decision but their whimpers and grumblings failed to move their son.
I was perplexed by the son's happy demeanour. He was washing hands off his parents in an aseptic acceptable manner.

I revered my parents,always sought their company and counsel. They were just another part of me. Their mere presence in the house instilled a sense of security in me. My kids loved to play around them. I used to feel blessed by their auspicious presence.
As they withered with age, our duty was to love them even more. Sending them away to some old age home was a sacrilegious act.

The young couple had happily decided to send their 8 year old child to a boarding school. They claimed that it was a good thoughtful decision ensuring a better future for their child. They were displacing their responsibility. I wondered about their problems which made them take this drastic step. I pitied their pseudo satisfaction in this horrific decision.

A growing child needs the loving comfort and shelter of his parents all the time. To teach him rights and wrongs of life. To pamper him. The parents had missed this vital fact, glaringly. Their myopic stance would distort the long term vision of their innocent child. I miss my kids even when I am off to work. I call them up frequently, just to hear their sweet jargon.The mere thought of my daughter's marriage in the future brings tears to my eyes. Sending them away would indeed break my heart.

We work day in and day out to seek comfort for our elders and a secure future for our young ones.

Some people fail me.

I think they fail themselves too.

When I auscultate their chest to listen to the heart beats. My ears fail to detect any sounds.God never gave them hearts.

SPARE THE ROD.

We, as kids used to be petrified of our disciplinarian dad. A stern gaze at us would send us shivering to our rooms to hug our compassionate mom. She was a kind, all encompassing umbrella of solace for us.Dad used to love us a lot but expected a lot from us. We had to adhere to time tables and study rigorously under his watchful hawk eyes.Play time was also rationed for us. Movies and Dinners at a restaurant were fixed on Thursdays. Friday was an off for him.

We rarely failed to abide by his rules. A smile and a pat on our heads used to send us kids to seventh heaven. We used to play truant at times ignoring the schedules in his absence. Our bedroom window was adjacent to the road and it offered us a view of his arrival time.As soon as his familiar figure ambled by with a newspaper in his hand and a brief case in the other hand, we would scamper and tidy up our house and sit on the study table as if we were trying hard to crack some hard laws of Quantum Physics.He usually saw through our lies and used to smile slyly at us.

I, an elder son, understood responsibilities and the reality of a middle class hardship filled life at a very tender age. My younger brother was a pet and shielded by me as well. The fear of displeasing my parents motivated me to drive myself to greater heights. I was a diligent student and never let them down. Their pleasant faces used to fill my soul with happiness.

1980-It was Diwali time and I was wearing a velvet corduroy trousers with a shimmering shirt. The dress had cost a princely sum those days. I went to play cricket in our compound. I was batting and as I ran for a cheeky single at full speed, my gallop was broken by the falling bat and I tumbled badly scraping my right knee badly. I saw a big gash on the new trouser and began crying. My friends thought I was hurt and gathered around me. I said that I was fine. An even bigger laceration on my skin hid beneath the velvet trousers.I was oblivious to pain and the wound on my knee. I was worried about the tear in the trousers more than anything else in the world.I went home and immediately hid the trousers in the ward robe.My wound was glaring at everyone, saying hello to my dad. He personally dressed up the wound for me and asked me to be careful. My mom later, went to her tailor and darned the tear in my trousers. I was saved by her that day. I was somehow,subconsciously afraid of my dad's reaction.

2000-I was driving in my new car on the highway, listening to loud music. A lost truck suddenly cut corners and attacked the left side of my car. The grill tore through my doors like a hot knife through butter. It was an accident but I was not at fault at all. The shining car looked pale and sad with one half of its side ripped off. I went into an immediate panic attack. I was at a loss of words to describe the mishap to my dad.

Mustering some courage, I dialled his number and described the accident in a hurried manner. He asked me just one question, "Are you okay, Ajay?" I was relieved and said that I was fine. He asked to me leave the car at the side and return home. As soon as I reached home, He hugged me and cried. He thanked God for saving my skin.

All throughout my life, I was wrong in interpreting his actions. He cared for me and loved me utmostly. His discipline meant only one thing.He wanted me to be the best in life. His strictness was only superficial,like a hard kernel of coconut but soft from within.

2012-I am a doting father for my children.I am relatively mild when compared to my dad but I too ensure discipline for my kids. Low grades in school elicit an unpleasant response in me. The TV goes off cable for a few days till the grades are restored to their high glory. My son's tantrums are sometimes dealt with 'time outs' when we keep him alone in the balcony for a few minutes till he becomes quiet and cheerful.

Discipline is necessary in Life.

A few days back, I encountered a friend of mine who was doing odd jobs to make his ends meet. He had squandered opportunities all his life, right from school days.He blamed his dad along with himself for his current plight. He lamented that his dad never corrected or disciplined him. A firm slap would have aborted his vagrant ways in the early budding years of his life.

I read my newspapers in the wash room. It saves time.I fold them properly and keep them on my dad's table.He would yell at me if I wet the papers with the basin water which I used to, at times.

My dad passed away 5 months back. Yet, the newspapers are always neatly kept on the table by me.

I do not want to displease him.

GERMOPHOBE FINGERS.

I pride upon my neatly trimmed manicured finger nails.I hydrate my fingers with soft moisturising creams to keep them supple.I am a germophobe and do not readily shake hands with strangerly hands which could have been in any god forsaken places.I wash them after their persistent enforced hand shakes.

The white clothed, yet nakedly ambitious ingrates came at my door to clamour my support for them. They bragged about their various achievements over the last 5 years which were probably conjured up by them.The suburb was as decrepit as ever with the overflowing sewers and expedition worthy, pot holed roads. The once green parks were stripped of the grass tops and lay barren. The suburb was in a state of anarchy. The power cuts regularly crippled us and the rising prices of essential commodities were shooting through the roofs day by day. An air of dissatisfaction lingered around the suburb.The rich rode in their cool over sized vehicles while the hoi polloi walked in a heated disgruntled state.The entire populace were in a state of impotence, unable to react at all.

A thought of rebellion germinated in a small percent of the crowd. The clean white capped ones got support in the initial movement but slowly were marginalised and eventually fizzled out. Nothing could stand the might of the corrupt rulers. Days would come and go but things would remain the same.

Everyone in the electoral fray had their own axes to grind. The parties never mattered, all that they ever wanted was their own slice of crumbling pie. They were the cyclic marauders and ravagers who had the official right to strip the city's naked core.
They had our permission.
They had our votes.

I live a guiltless life, I dont blame myself and never live in a denial mode.

I have never entered a voting booth.
I understand the futility of that entire process.

My manicured nails are clean as ever.

They do not bear any ink of guilt,submission or any 'germs' of corruption.

My opinions and beliefs may be open to protracted debates.

Last week, my son rushed to greet me at the door proudly showing an ink tattoo on his index finger.He had been immunised with a vaccine, was happily prancing around. The vaccine tattoo would 'protect' him through out life. Today also, some gullible adult folks will show off their inked fingers as if they have laid their lives for the country by voting.

Little do they know, their future is 'unprotected' as ever.

LOST CHILDHOOD.

She was a middle aged lady who was the cynosure of all eyes in our old society. In the 80s, She was considered too advanced for that decade. She was always dressed in dazzling sarees and sleeveless blouses, hair cut short in auburn brown colours. Red lipstick oozing out from the lips and a lily fragrance left by her in the air wherever she passed by. We were kids and overheard our peers calling her 'sexy'. We never knew the meaning of the word. She spoke fluent accented English and walked tall with her high heeled shoes. The shabbily dressed ladies of our society secretly admired her but used to scorn her. She was the embodiement of their unfulfilled middle class dreams.She was a bold lady,They naturally used to avoid her.

Her husband was an alcoholic whose sole purpose in life was to fight with her day in, night out.He worked at some place for a pittance which hardly used to fuel his liquor budget, leave aside food and clothing. They had 2 dysfunctional kids who were in a runny nosed,perpetually dishevelled state.Their maternal uncle, settled abroad was the only saviour for the family. He used to look after the family.

Every evening was a fashion parade for the lady when she used to go out. Where she went was a matter of intense speculation and a hot topic of discussion amongst the members of the society. They doubted her character and labelled her as a 'loose lady'. Tongues wagged freely in that era.People used to bother about others,a wee bit more than themselves.But, no one had any evidence to back their accusations.

We never bothered them and got accustomed to their daily brawls.The kids grew up to be real pests who had no social norms and cuss words flowed from their mouths like water from a sea. They hardly attended school and were frequently seen loitering in the streets. The seeds of void in their lives were carefully sown by their good for nothing parents.They were the victims of a disturbed family. I pitied their docile decent neighbours who bore the maximum brunt and spent sleepless nights.

A decade passed and a few things changed. The lady aged and lost her marbles.She too became an alcoholic and sank into depression. The kids grew physically but with shrunken brains. The brawls were more vociferous as the kids too joined in. Fist fights and a free for all ensued in this mayhem. The deprived kids vented their fury on the hapless couple. Their father would disappear for days together. The lady had grown frail and virtually stopped eating. She would sit at the window sill and abuse for hours together. They had become an unbearable nuisance for the society.

One day after the yelling and yelping got out of hand, I along with my friends pushed open their door to see a ghastly sight. My blood curdled and hair stood out of every pore of the body. The lady was sprawling on the floor and the kids were jumping on her abdomen repeatedly from a substantial height of a stool. Why this satanic depravity? was the question lingering on my mind. We berated the kids and took them to the police.They shrugged their shoulders and pleaded helplessness. After a stern warning, they were let off.

One quiet afternoon, we were playing cricket in our compound. Yet, more was in store for us,We were flabbergasted to see the lady descend the stairs wearing nothing at all. We were scared to see her in such a plightful state. We did react by swinging our bats at her to push her back into her first floor house. The situation had gone out of control now.We were deeply affected by this episode.

Some newly formed social group got a call from our committee and promptly put her in a nearby mental hospital. The kids were taken over by child welfare foundation. Their father was nowhere to be seen.

PRESENT-

The kids are all grown up now. They eke out their living doing okay jobs. They have lost their parents. They look decent and behave in a well mannered way. They have attempted to catch up with their lives.
They do not recollect any memory of their parents.
They have buried their past.
Tears stream down their cheeks as they gaze at their photographs on the wall.
One question is uppermost in their mind,
God! Can you give us back our lost childhood?

STRAYS.

Last week was the coldest week in our city. The temperatures were reaching sweater worthy in this global warming era. We had just finished our dinner and just about to hit the bed. Chaitra who keeps her packed school bag in the hall just before bed alarmingly called me out of my room. She drew my ears to a soft whimper outside our main door. It was late and She wore a worried look on her face.I opened the main door and found a unfamiliar brown stray dog pawing our safety door.He looked pretty well built for a stray dog.There was no collar around his neck. He probably belonged to some other building and had wandered off to search for food. He looked lost. His soft bellowed whimpers brought tears to my daughter's eyes. He had climbed 12 floors just to rummage for food in the waste bins kept near the stairs of all the flats.

Chaitra immediately rushed to the fridge and brought slices of bread for the poor hungry dog. I had some other plan in my mind though. I told her to sleep, reassuring her that I would indeed feed the dog.

I just escorted the dog downstairs and once we reached the lobby, gave him bread and water. She asked me the reason for this action. I told her that had we fed the dog at our door step then he would have come daily as a habit. With my kids around, a stray could be a source of worry and anxiety. Besides, my notorious son has a perilous habit of pulling the tails of pets without being afraid of consequences.

The dog never came back. Maybe, he returned to where he belonged.
Our building dogs are all well fed by animal loving samaritans. They bark only at strangers and unknown vehicles. They are friendly with children but never get too close for comfort.

Many winters back,It was pretty late in the night when we heard the doorbell go ding dong sending us into a semi panic attack. Who could it be now? was the question lingering in my mind.I was still young and easily frightened by such incidents. My robust dad opened the door and called me out to identify the shivering teenager who kept on muttering my name in a fervent manner.I was shocked to see my ex class mate Haresh in a dishevelled state.

Ther was a look of desperation in his eyes. He had simply stopped coming to school since last few months. He was a fatherless child and belonged to a poor strata of society.He was a victim of crack addiction and lately, had resorted to ask money from the parents of his class mates. He was accompanied by a haggard looking lady, his mother who was a low IQ lady and did not know anything about their current plight. They begged for 50 rupees to buy food for themselves. They were incessant in their pleas with moist eyes, eliciting severest sympathy from our side. I was sad to see him in this state.

He had strayed out in life. He had walked on the wrong side of life.

My dad was worldly wise and he declined. I pleaded with my eyes silently but he was a stern man.

He called out my mom and asked her to pack grains of rice and dal alongwith biscuits and bread. Haresh's mother was pleased but Haresh was'nt. He needed money for his next fix of nirvana.He dejectedly dragged his mother along with him. My dad tried counselling him, but in vain.

I did not see Haresh after this incident.

A few years back, I saw a frail looking man with an elderly stooped lady begging for alms. They looked wasted. Looking at them made me cringe within.Haresh had lost his battle of life. They would not survive for more than a few months.

I had no courage to get out of my car.

I cannot change the writing on the wall.

Some strays always remain strays through out their life.

THE PIED PIPER.

We used to stay in a sleepy town in the late 70s. A stray motor car used to generate a lot of flutter in hearts of children. We literally used to run behind the car and force the hapless driver to slow down so that we could sit on the rear trunk and hitch a ride for a minute or so. We would be happy, just chasing cars.

One fine afternoon, we were playing bat ball(cricket term was unheard, those days by us) in our building compound and we saw a gigantic elephant ambling across our lane. A bearded mahout with a trident in his hands was astride the grey pachyderm who was stopping at the gathered crowds to collect fruits or coins offered by them. It seemed as if the entire town was on the road that day. The elephant represents Lord Ganesha and people were offering their prayers too. It was the first time we had seen an elephant on our daily walking sleepy road.

Me and my younger brother blindly followed the elephant, shouting and cheering all the time with our motley gang of friends. It was like a procession. The mahout smiled slyly at the resultant response. I did not like his smile at all. The sinister smile was masking his inner viciousness. I thought so. By the time I realised this, we were pretty far away from home and a salty smell hit my senses. We were nearing the creek and my heart started racing.

The creek was a place which was strictly forbidden and off limits to us. We were repeatedly warned by our parents but the elephant somehow got us there. Of course, the water currents were dangerous but importantly the creek was a hub for small time smugglers who got their goods in small row boats. It was a shady place and we were at our wit's end. We were hypnotised,mesmerised by the mahout, probably. We were just 4 kids left and the mahout got down from the elephant and started to approach us. My brother started bawling seeing the fierce look in the mahout's eyes.

We were unaware of the perils of wandering out to such a place. What would he do with us? was the burning question in my heart. We were kids who had never seen the world without our parents. We were ignorant of evil people who would probably sell us to a 'Fagin' like character. Our futures were pretty dark at that moment in time.

The creek harboured a few people who went for fishing with their nets and small boats to eke out a living. I noticed a familiar figure coming out of a slum. I saw a glimmer of hope and yelled out to her. She was our maid and we kids just rushed out to her. The maid women folk are dominating and razor tongued. She berated the mahout and threatened him with unimaginable and unheard of words. Her folks just rushed out to help her out with the verbal lashings.The evil mahout and the innocent elephant began their escape from there with a brisk pace.

The maid was our saviour for the day.

She took us back home. We asked her to hush up the matter, solemnly promising never to stray out of the buliding compound ever. She was kind enough.

The maid worked for us for a decade or so and left work as her children grew up to be good fishermen,expanding their business. I still sometimes go to visit her. She is almost bed ridden now, counting her final days.

I touch her feet and take her blessings. Without her, My dark future would have been in the wretched hands of the pied piper.

EYE CONTACT.

I had to wake up early today to drop Chaitra to school. Her school's annual sports event was slated today and by 6.30 am she had to report to school.The cold season works like a hypnotic medicine and waking up early is one more pleasure denied in our daily life. She was full of beans as she was the lead announcer of the day. I dropped her and returned back home to pick up my wife. We were supposed to show ourselves at the venue at 8am.

Chaitra insisted us to wear sporty wear with shoes and all stuff. The event started off with the national anthem sung by the students and all the gathered parents. The games began and the kids started their races. They enthusiastically participated and were surprisingly not bothered about the results. They ran in their own styles and a healthy camaraderie ensued between the kids.They were enmeshed in joy. Their smiling faces warmed our hearts.Nobody was trying to out do each other. The losers patted the winners sportingly.

I noticed a searching gaze in the eyes of the participating children. Each and every child, oblivious to the ongoing melee was constantly scanning the crowd for his parents.As soon as the gaze locked with familiar faces, a hand wave followed by a cheer and a burst of energy propelled them to their races.The day was made for them. Everything else was just a formality.

They just wanted their minute of eye contact and a nod of recognition with their parents. This made their chests swell with pride.

Some parents skipped the event on some pretext or the other. Maybe, their children looked lost and forlorn in the field. Well,Maybe.

I wondered how they would face their children, A guilt would consume their hollow conscience and they would avoid looking into the eyes of their disheartened child.

We attend all our child's events despite our busy schedules.

I see God in my child's happy contented eyes.

Don't you wanna see one too?

A WHISTLE ON THE LIPS.

I remember fondly, the small blue round box with a cake of hard white soap firmly encrusted inside it. It was an ubiquitous part of the middle class houses.The shaving soap was symbolic of the struggle of our yester year lives. Times would change but the box would occupy a permanent place in our lives.

I remember my dad using a brush vigorously to work up a lather and apply it on his day old stubble. We used to call him old man Santa Claus and giggle. At times, he would playfully dab his soapy brush on our cherubic faces and we would spend time looking in the mirror wondering when we would grow up to be big like him and shave in front of the mirror. It was a matter of pride.

I do not recollect a single day when we saw our dad with a stubble. He was a clean shaven man and always took utmost care of his appearance. After the shave, he would splash his face with cologne. He would often whistle old songs with pursed lips while shaving. We would dance to his melodious tunes. We were his die hard fans.

Last year in September, I saw my dad for the very first time in a stubble.He was in the ICU and simply refused the incessantly pleading barber. He used to joke that the ICU is shaving off his wallet. One day, Chaitra and Prithvy came to see him and Chaitra reprimanded him for the beard, she said that she would kiss him on the cheeks as soon as he shaved. Prithvy failed to recognise him with the stubble. The very next hour, he was back to his clean shaven self. Children are miraculous in their convincing powers.

A few days passed and he lapsed into a comatose state never to wake up again.

We lost hopes and our prayers failed us. I lost faith in God. I had a premonition about his death.

On his last day, I called the barber and asked him to shave my dad's stubble.

I wanted my dad to meet his creator the way he would have wanted to.

Radiant smiling face, spic and span, with a merry song whistling on his lips.

The small blue round box and his razor blades lie untouched.

A faint whistle echoes in my now empty house.

REVERSE CONDOLENCE.

We had the toughest time of our entire lives when we lost our dad this September. Many people poured into our house, from far and near to offer their condolences.

A closely knit group of three members of our wing failed to turn up to console us. They were not expected to come either. We did not mind either.

After a period of a month or so, The group turned up at our place to offer their condolences. They sat for an hour wiping their tears. It was me and my mom who were consoling them in reverse. It was a strange sight for the guests in our house as they, like you all did not know the antecedents of this group.

Their plight was way bigger than our plight. Their degree of suffering was unmatched and most cruel.

Last year was a very bad year for our wing as we lost 3 young aspiring college students to the cold steel tracks. The Mumbai locals crushed their dreams, hopes and ambitions in one swift blow. The incidents were scattered over the year but a state of fear and panic had gripped our wing members. Some blamed the vaastu, some blamed the stars and soon a religious rite was performed to appease the angry gods. It was a remarkable coincidence. The local people in our small town were aghast.

The parents who lost their young children were in a state of perpetual shock and dismay.They had lost their faith in God. Their homes were empty and full of sorrow. Their loss was monumental and a life altering one. Nobody could fill their void. They suffered from depression and were constantly in a state of self denial.

I attended to 2 of them,unfortunate souls in the local municipal hospital.Their parents pleaded me to bring them back to life. A train accident results in instantaneous death and survival generally is not a thumb rule. Although a few survive with limb losses but head injuries usually result in death in a single blow. My visits were just formalities as they were dead on arrival.

Our loss paled in front of them.My dad had lived his life to the fullest and was a contented person at the time of his death.

It was a tragic occasion for all of us. We hugged the unfortunate parents and cried. The group slowly left our house with aching empty hearts.

Their wounds will never heal.