THE GHOST HUNTER.

"I see dead people".
This was the line in the movie 'Sixth Sense' by Harry Joel Osment which stuck with me for a long time.I came across many people in life who made the same claims, although unsubstantiated but with such conviction that I tried to search their faceless entities.

The earliest memories date back to childhood at the cremation site just outside our old building which shared a common boundary wall.We were warned by our elders not to set our tiny feet on the haunted precincts where a couple of bodies were cremated on a daily basis. We were misadventurous kids and never hesitated to fetch our cricket balls from the cremation grounds. A scattered bone here and there never frightened me. The blowing wind would smear the ashes in our curly hair. I was yet to see a ghost.
A tamarind tree outside our bedroom window also served as a hotbed for ghost sightings by our maids. I used to study at the window awaiting any flurry of paranormal activity. The tamarind tree used to be like a still painting in the night much to my displeasure.The nesting birds also slept calmly. A faint rustling sound also evaded my senses. The spirits ensured that my study was undisturbed.
A young lady who had died of burns haunted our steps as claimed by the gossiping maids. She also made it a point to elude my sight.

I grew and became a doctor. Death became an accepted bitter fact of life. We could not change destiny. The patients who were destined to die could not be saved despite heroic sustained efforts and vice versa. Death was the eventual truth in life. Life began after death.

My search for the netherworld spirits came up a big nought. The dissection rooms as well as the mortuaries were all normal places where we would sit and gossip like in a play park.Their presence eluded me. The ICU ward boys who slept in the intermediate ICU beds complained that some entity used to slap them in the night but not when they used to sleep on the floor.I slept like a contended baby with unusual sweet dreams on those beds.

A spate of untimely unfortunate young deaths in our building also triggered a mass hysteria of ghost sightings by maids and night duty watchmen. The elevators and the swings in the garden would trigger spontaneously after midnight.The empty elevators would automatically skip floors and the creaking swings would scare the daylights out of people.I am a frequent night crawler and still somehow they evaded my sight.

I have reached an inevitable conclusion in my life.
Ghosts do not exist for me atleast. My fruitless search for their existence has ended. Any further claims are often greeted by me with yawns and a stare.

I see so many sad souls in my practice, some suffer physically and some emotionally.

An estranged lover or a grieving parent for whatever reason, their lives are lifelessly static.

A reforming drug addict or a child abuse victim who is grown up now, their lives have no direction.

A battered wife or a hassled husband, wake up to see the sun set into their lives daily.

I see the dying souls in such 'alive' people.

Their bodies just act as hollow shells.They lead a lack lustre mechanical life devoid of simple pleasures.

I try my level best to help them out.
I go out of my way to revive their dying spirit.

I attempt to exorcise their inner demons.

'I see dead people'.....

THE BIG BANG THEORY.

I was a very curious child. My inquisitiveness never bothered anyone as I was a shy child.

I used to observe and make my own inferences.My world was made up of my own concocted theories. I stood by them and they formed an important pillar of my rich imagination filled childhood.

The earliest mystery I solved was of our black and white TV set.The celluloid stars either dancing around trees or fighting with the bald villains were not of our size. They were small midgets who could fit in the TV screen. They were born differently from us. The cinema screen disproved all my theories when the same midgets became larger than life sized giants. The world was truly an amazing place.

The fighting doves with their ruffling feathers and the mysteriously stuck dogs yelling in agony drove me up to the wall. How could the messengers of peace fight with each other? Why would the best friends of human race get stuck to each other? Our efforts in separating such fight mongers succeeded with sticks and stones.

With the birth of my younger brother, I was drawn into intense debates with my friends about his origin. We later summarized that God made babies and put them in the protuberant bellies of our mothers. It was a simple logical explanation which solved our problem temporarily.

A class teacher in my fourth grade took a particular disliking towards me. I could not understand her at all. She liked my fellow class mate who was my arch rival. She spared no efforts in belittling me. When I topped that year, she dejectedly handed me my mark sheet. My arch rival came second but we were cool with each other. The reason for her biased favors towards him later dawned on me as I grew up. The wars and the riots based on religion perturbed me a lot. I had seen a movie in which three brothers belonged to different religions.They loved each other despite their religion. The world was getting more and more intriguingly complex with every passing day.

A strange phenomenon occurred when I ascended to the fifth grade. I used to get episodes of flushing, palpitations and breathlessness when a particular girl walked in front of me. It was a pleasurable sense of discomfort.It was a thrilling experience but I did not know anything about it at all. As years passed, I got used to such episodes, albeit with different girls in the walk of my life. After marriage, the sub conscience shut out such now pleasurable phenomena.

I used to hop often to the grocer or the vegetable market to fetch stuff for my mom. I used to wonder with wide eyes about the basis of such businesses. They procured stuff from other people and passed it on to us.
What was their purpose? The difference between cost price and sell price eluded my naive child like mind. The money banks used to be thought of as giant piggy banks just storing our money. They too had a purposeless existence.

Time has changed now.

I am an ageing 40 year old doctor with a family to look after. My hair is grey and they have seen many shades of summer and winter. I have mellowed down my inquisitiveness. I hardly get time to think over things. Each and every activity is in a form of a pre-programmed act. There is no more enthusiasm about knowing more in life. I have reached a stagnant plateau phase in life. I no longer ask questions or wonder with wide eyed gaze about the ever changing world.

Yesterday, my daughter came up to me and asked me a simple question.

'Why were we born?'.

This question rattled my senses and I shook my head in a state of disbelief.

Her question was beyond my realms of imagination.

Evolution had caught on and obliterated the child like innocent questions of the past. The kids now asked philosophical and meta physical questions.

I could not answer her question at all.

I have spent 40 years chasing the answer.

May be in death, I will answer the most important question plaguing mankind and realize the purpose of my life....

GURU DAKSHINA.

The ageing bespectacled lady walked into my room the other day as any normal patient would do and sat on the chair.

Her face bore a mask of pale gloom and her sallow eyes implied a lot of pain. Her sari was crisply ironed and the gold rimmed specs gave a semblance of dignity in her plight.

She called me "Appu! How are you?". I got startled and sprang up from my seat.

During the early 80s, any plump child was nick named Appu after the mascot of the Asian games which were held in our country with pride in those clean non corrupt days.

This lady was none other than my old primary teacher. I saw her after a gap of 3 decades and immediately nostalgic tears welled up in my eyes. I offered her coffee and we began chatting about my school and the good old days.

The purpose of her visit was gradually revealed by her in the next few minutes.

She had fallen upon hard times and was currently estranged from her husband since the last few years. She had retired from school and sustained herself giving home tuitions to primary students.She used to stay at her brother's place and contribute whatever she could to run their household.

She along with her brother had run into some bad debts to the tune of few lakhs of rupees.

I noticed that she was in grief but somehow there were no effects of poverty seen, she clarified that the tuitions used to give her a sustainable income for her livelihood.

She showed me a small diary which had non decipherable names of her debtors in scribbled writing. Her writing was so impeccably legible a few decades back..

She asked me for a sum of 20K rupees which she would return after 6 months. How she would gather this amount to return was a big question mark staring at me.

I assured her that I would revert in a day's time.

By evening I came to know that she had approached many of my class mates with the same request.

I was baffled and began to wonder about her state.

It was not a big amount for any of our class mates or me either but we had no idea about the fate of our money. She was earning for herself and the reason for her need of money was a bit of a mystery to me and just about everyone else.

There were no signs of illness or any disease in her, she appeared otherwise healthy.

I work hard and each and every penny counts.

I do a lot of charity for my poor patients. My native town relatives depend on me for their expenses. Our maids and drivers frequently borrow partially recoverable and returnable money from us. I have sponsored school fees of the children of our maids, driver, sweeper and a few watchmen along with ward boys. Many a times,I have let poor patients walk away scot free from my hospital.

I badly wanted to help my teacher but at the same time was not genuinely convinced about her need.She was not at all clear as to why her husband had left her and how she ran into such huge bad debts. I did not probe her further.

A round table meeting was held with my wife and mother. The ladies were in the favour of me giving the money on a non returnable basis. They told me to give the money and just forget about it.

The teacher called me the next day and I just could not muster courage to answer her call. When she called again, I bought time from her. I told her to give me a few days to decide. I can never say no to any one. Its my weakness. I will vacillate but never say no. Maybe a fear of over committing myself rules my heart and at the same time I do not want to outrightly deject someone.

Maybe, years of seeing people exploiting other gullible people like me for their own selfish motive has immunised me from empathy. I refuse to melt down like before.

The GURU-DAKSHINA will have to wait till then....

MAGIC TRICK.

It was a rainy Sunday evening that day.

The trees swayed rhythmically and the leaves rustled with an air of excitement. The atmosphere was a surreal one.

My dad had a small bottle of whisky for company along with peanuts and chips. We would just watch him sipping slowly while munching on the starters. A small glass of chilled Thums Up used to give us a high those days. After the last drop of the bottle was poured, an oft performed magic trick awaited us.We used to just sit besides our dad to see him perform the trick.

A lighted match stick was inserted through the narrow mouth of the now empty bottle and the flaming stick would just whoosh down to the base with a bigger flame.My dad now would just seal the bottle with his palm and voila! the bottle would stick to his palm. He would then lift the bottle with his palm amidst our claps and cheers. It was a simple science phenomenon of vacuum but we were small then to comprehend such stuff.

After the bottle got over, my strict dad's demeanor would change magically.He would become cheerful and soon music would start on our player. We would sing,clap and dance. It was indeed a wonderful sight to see my dad dance.He would then have his dinner and doze off with a smile on his face. Sunday evenings were bliss for us as the mood in the house used to be real light and easy. The stresses used to vanish. Weekdays were busy with our school and the demanding stressful jobs of our parents.

The earliest impression of alcohol was imbibed by me as a magical one. The magic trick kept on playing in my mind as I grew up.The spirit was regarded as a spiritual potion by me.


Till the age of 20, I never came in contact with alcohol. Boozing was a taboo then and we were scared of our parents. We began with beer and much to our surprise could no palate the sour taste of it. Whisky, Rum and Vodka were no better either, bitter in taste and gut burners.I was surprised to see how could people lap up this stuff.

After many attempts, I learned to appreciate the taste of whisky and could tolerate the bitterness.

The bitter drink used to sweeten my soul.

I used to float and my worries would temporarily vanish into thin air.

It was indeed a magical potion.

I recollected my dad's little magic trick and realised that it was just a precursor of the main act to follow.

The real magic was that it made you forget your worries and sadness.

It uplifted us.

I just smiled and wiped the tears from my eyes.......

DRY FEET--WET EYES.

It was a hot summer evening like every evening in our humid perspiring town.

The kids had all gathered together with their ever concerned parents at the sparkling cool swimming pool.The fluorescent trunks and sun tan lotion applied bodies glistened in the tropical sun. The reflection of the sun rays created a sweet sparkler like effect in the pool.

The wet kids swam across the length of the pool like dolphins to the sounds of their intermittently clapping parents who simultaneously managed to click their snaps with their ubiquitous cell phones.Some chubby kids lazed around the shallow corner like lazy hippos.

A colourful ball was splashed around the water amidst the cheerful laughter of the kids.

A small kid stayed at the fence of the pool with an anxious look in his eyes and a slight anticipatory tremble in his skinny knees. His clothes were non fluoroscent and faded with repeated usage.His sallow eyes expressed an intense desire to immerse himself in the pool.

The swimming coach stared at him sternly and shooed him away from the pool. He got a nod of approval from the concerned parents. The coach proudly ambled around the pool with a swagger. This action was probably uncalled for and certainly a bitter one in my eyes.

The small kid at the fence was the son of a maid who used to work in our building. She always mentioned that her son had an avidity for water and would love spending hours in the small aluminium tub in their shanty. The maid tried to console her crying son that one day he would swim too, probably in a larger pool.

The kid left our building compound with dry feet and wet eyes.

The rains followed soon swarming their shanty with dirt and filth.

God answered his prayers in a cruel way......

LOVE- A LOSING GAME....

Some memories just do linger.
A ring on her slender finger.

Some people break your heart.
They love,meet only to depart.

The hugs and tender kisses.
The promises and near misses.
The sighs and fatal hisses.

The divine hand, plays spoilsport.
A princess locked in a caged fort.

He looked for her, far and near.
She was the only one, so dear..

They found him in a plightful state.
A tragic death,destined by fate.

There is only pain,
Love is such a losing game......

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.