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.