THE TERMINAL-THE PADDY FIELDS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They would never leave their home town, ever again.

They hated the Sun.

The paddy fields looked green after a long time.

NAIL-POLISH. BLUE EYES.

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

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

I saw her heading towards the changing room.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her cold blue eyes still haunt me.

ROBOT.

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

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

NO ANSWERS.

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

THE TAMARIND TREE.

The sweet chirping of birds used to awaken us daily from our sleep during our childhood days. The Tamarind Tree was a huge structure providing shelter to them all round the year. It was just outside my bedroom window, obstructing my view of the road. A few gaps in the foliage however gave us clear view at times during autumn. The crows used to build their nests with all the available twigs and babies used to be nursed by the happy mothers who used to feed them small morsels of food brought by the father crows. During this time the cawing used to be less shrill and melodious. Soon the baby crow would fly away and the cycle used to continue so on and forth. The sweet sparrows used to flock in groups, but never nestled here in view of the dangerous thieving crows. We used to sprinkle grains for them on the window sill. The squirrels used to play hide and seek untiringly on the large branches of the tree with their usual gay abandon. The meek doves sadly avoided this tree.
The kids would come armed with their sling shots and aim for the mouth watering sweet n sour tamarind. A stray stone would often break window panes of the members, which would be repaired with news paper and adhesive tapes.

The spirits always preferred this tree in the night and we used to shut our windows tight. The fear used to quadruple during stormy rainy nights. A couple of bats used to hang upside down at dark scaring us. We would shiver and sleep in the comforting arms of our brave parents.
The tree used to be a magnetic attraction for all the paper kites which used to entangle and soar in the air but with their anchoring thread firmly rooted with the small branches.
It was a vibrant and a colourful tree, full of life.

One rainy afternoon, I heard sobs of an elderly couple beneath the tree. They were sitting with all their belongings wrapped up in small cloth bundles. A small kerosene stove was getting wet under the steady downpour. Their clothes suggested a lower middle class status and their faces were sullen, with the tears matching the flow of the incessant rain. As the rains held up, a few people inquired about them. The wrinkled father in a slow staccato manner revealed their sad story.
Their son was an unemployed rogue who had promised them a bigger home and made them sell their small one. He had asked them to wait under The Tamarind Tree where he would pick them up. A day had passed and there was no trace of their son. He had duped them of their money and shelter. They had nowhere to go now. Soon, a crowd gathered and a plan was made to shift the aged parents to the old age home in our town. The samaritans in our town got them tea and chapatis which were devoured by the hungry couple in minutes. Slowly, they ambled to the old age home. They accepted their tragic fate, cursing their only wasted son.
A few months later, a new sad spirit joined The Tamarind Tree.
He was destined to stay there for a long time, like the entangled kites.
The devil would never liberate him.
It was the spirit of the rogue son who had died in a strange mishap, unheard of, in our small town.

THE COIN COLLECTORS.

RAJU
The hit movie was playing to full houses all over our small town. The cash registers were jingling with money. The songs were always accompanied with the disco lighting on the side of the faded white screen. Probably, years of cobwebs had gathered on the screen to give the hue. Each song elicited a shower of coins and the whistling jeering crowds would dance in the aisle. Raju was a very happy man. This movie meant a lot to him,especially during the festive time. He would buy his grumbling wife and runny nosed kids some shiny clothes. He felt relieved. Raju's pockets were full with loose change by the end of the show. He had to, unwillingly partake a small share for the usher. He was a sweeper in the theatre and was grinning from ear to ear. When a curious somebody asked him the plot of the movie, he replied casually shuffling the beedi in his mouth, he had hardly seen the movie! He was busy collecting coins.
SANJU
The procession was a long one with everyone dressed in their finest white linen clothes. A great industrialist had expired and along with his dead body rode his entourage of well wishers and family. Sanju lived in a slum along side this posh road full of sky scrapers. A death in this locality meant good news for him. He would wear his only pair of white faded clothes and accompany the funeral procession as a concerned mourner. Nobody had time to stare at him. As the relatives marched, the prodigal son leading the procession was spraying the path with flowers and coins which he had carried in a big plastic bag. Sanju was a busy man, crouching all along the road collecting coins for himself and his poor family.
MANJU
Manju was a small girl outside our town temple who used to sell small flower beads kept in a small wicker basket for our town ladies to adorn their henna coloured hair. The flower beads used to cost 5 rupees each and by the end of the day, her small cloth purse would jingle jangle wih the coins. She worked hard and was tired by the time she reached home. Her mother had passed away after her birth and her father along with her little brother used to stay in her small shanty of a house. The coin purse used to be promptly snatched by her father who would buy booze to fulfill his addiction. Her beatings were inversely proportional to the amount of coins. A new day would see her perched outside the temple ready with her basket and empty, once coin filled purse.

The coin collectors would collect and count coins, all through out their lives.
The jingle in their pockets,music for their ears, propelled their hard lives.

TOMATO-GANPATI. FORTUNE COOKIES.

My paternal granny was a typical Maharashtrian lady, dressed in a nine yard Saree with a big kumkum bindi on her forehead and a long mangalsutra with a cloth bag in her slender hands. An aluminium box with betel nuts-leaves, lime and tobacco used to be her constant companion. She used to walk very slowly and was addicted to her weekly dose of vitamin injection, which used to recharge her for the entire ensuing week. She was non pretentious and a happy go lucky person in life. Her favourite pastime was seeing old black-white Marathi movies while massaging a small copper utensil on her tiny soles of her feet. An evening barefoot stroll in our garden used to be her exercise. She had a pure heart, devoid of any materialistic longings.

It was the summer of 1985, She had come to stay with us for a fortnight or so. She, in a concerned tone mentioned that she had left the tomatoes in the cane basket while leaving her home. We told her to forget about it. Anyway, she left after a fortnight and reached home. A pleasant surprise awaited her.

All the tomatoes had withered, except one. The Tomato had developed a long snout on its body, starting from the top and deviating to the right at the middle portion like an elephant's trunk. She cried a lot in amazement and disbelief. Lord Ganesha had visited her humble abode. It was a miracle. We rushed to her place and found ourselves standing in the back of a long queue of devotees eagerly awaiting the darshan of the 'Tomato Ganpati'. The news had spread like wild fire and my grandparents' home soon resembled a holy shrine where people of all walks of life turned to pay obeisance to the lord with a small hibiscus flower in their hands.. The Tomato had survived intense heat of summer for a fortnight or so. The skin was shiny and turgid as if it was still an un plucked vegetable from a creeper. Of course, the snout was like the Lord Ganesha's trunk. We knelt and become prostate and took the Lord's blessings.

This Tomato survived for 3 months!

Later, with tears in their eyes, they immersed it in a nearby lake. There were no news hungry TV channels to cover the event. My granny did not want any commercial or social mileage for the event. She was a simple lady of humble means and needs.

This miracle bestowed a lot of blessings and good fortune on our middle class family. We got what we wanted. We gradually ascended the social ladder of life. My aunt got married, dad got promoted and we excelled in studies. The goal oriented focus was back in our lives. My granny was all smiles. She was a kind soul and the Lord hence, had graced her humble home. She had an indirect role in our prosperity and well being. Her good deeds and a selfless nature sowed seeds of success in our life.

We used to visit her house every Ganesh Chaturthi when she used to make the most delicious modaks for us. Each modak was like a fortune cookie with a small 50 paise coin inside it. She usually put the coin in every modak, so as to make all her eager grand children happy. We would carefully keep the coin in our study to give us good luck. It always worked for us.

A decade back, my granny passed away.

Every Ganesh Chaturthi, I miss her loving, caring and the fortune cookie modaks.

Her garlanded photo watches over me, in each and every step of life.