GOD ALONE KNOWS.

We played a lot of Cricket in our childhood days, Our society had a big ground which used to serve the purpose of a cricket stadium for us naughty children. The pitch was prepared with the finest soil from the garden and a roller used to press it to a beauty. No children or dogs were allowed to trample on our holy pitch. We got the Cricket kit after small, yet generous donations from our parents. We used to play bet matches of one rupee per player with the neighbouring buildings, After victory, we would buy small ice cream cones to celebrate. Losses meant having to do, with plain lime juice at a near by vendor. The bats would be polished with oil to keep them shining and the balls dipped in a detergent to clean the dirt.
We would still have fun.
Our building had spoil-sport people, Mr Bedekar was one of them, he was our anathema! He stayed on the ground floor and was totally against Cricket as he was scared about the safety of his window panes. He was a typical guy with a short armed vest and a striped pyjama being his uniform.He used to seize the balls heading his home's direction and had collected a vast amount of balls. We never dared, to even look at them and would, with a heavy heart,buy new balls. He was a frustrated and a much despised person amongst us children. One day I threw a ball, which accidentally hit his buttock, the response was quick and his palm went smack onto my face. A palmist could predict his future by looking at my cheek! We decided to rebel and I secretly broke his pane with a stone, later in the night. He never came to know the culprit. I had taken my revenge.
Mr Bedekar went to the extreme and after connivance with the committee, built a big fountain in the middle of our pitch. He had the last laugh. Our cricket hungry, little hearts were broken by a heartless man. Fortunately, the coming exams distracted us from this sad event. Our vacations were spent on the nearby creek playing sunny cricket. It was hot, yet we played from morning till noon. We slowly grew up and stopped playing Cricket altogether.
Meanwhile, Mr Bedekar started reaping his own seeds of hatred, his sons usurped all his money and the flat also, was sold by them and he was shifted to a makeshift room in a far away place. He could not bear this trauma and slowly started losing his marbles. He used to arrive at our building sometimes, in a haggard state, only to be driven away by our watchmen. One day I saw him with torn clothes and a big jute bag on his back, like a rag picker.
We as children had always despised him and cursed him all the time as we used to spontaneously react to such unpleasant situations, but now as a grown up, I could not bear to see his plight. Tears welled up in my eyes. I gave him a tenner note for tea and biscuits, I could see a faint recognition glimmer in his sorry eyes but the shame of the earlier slap aborted the smile and he just walked away.
A few weeks later, he retired hurt to the heavenly pavilion. No one came to claim his emaciated body. We felt bad about the whole situation and some what guilty too.
Whether our hatred and ill feelings, as children towards him had resulted in his sad demise?
We could not answer this uncomfortable question.
Do you have an answer?
God alone knows.

SMILE- A LIFE CYCLE.

The newborn emerged, after hours of labour from the womb, He smiled for a moment and started bawling. His smile was instinctive, devoid of any expectation or expression. The mother smiled in relief after enduring hours of pain, with the oozing milk drops being sucked gently by her son. The father and his parents smiled in pride and amazement.

As the boy grew up,he used to feel happy when his dad came home, or when his mom used to serve him hot food lovingly,running after him. Also,when he used to show his merit grades of his school exams.This was his smile of acknowledgement, being cared for.

He used to smile blushingly when he used to see the cute girls in his school and his pink fluffy cheeks used to turn rosy red.

He got a college degree, a decent well paying job. Everyone in his family were smiling in a sense of achievement.

He married and his wife smiled coyly on the first night, the morning after when she woke up, had a smile of fulfillment of every woman's desire on her face. A few months later, they had a baby and the cycle of life continued there after.

As he neared his old age, his reluctant smile was of acceptance of his frail medical condition, he embraced death gracefully with the smile of a satiated life on his wrinkled face.

His wife, deserted by her very own children was eking out a modest existence of her own. She smiled wryly, looking at her deceased husband's photo-frame, with tears in her eyes.

5 STAR DAYS!

Back then, In the 70s, the first of every month used to be the most awaited day in the calendar of our childhood life. We used to wait on the balcony window, craning our necks to catch sight of our home bound dad. His arrival used to gladden our hearts and we would rush down to embrace him with expectant gaze. He was a salaried person and the first day of the month was more important than any other festival in his view, a thought which was shared by millions of salaried class of the country. The salary used to propel them to work harder for the next month and so on, the cycle continued amidst promotions and pay hikes.

My dad usually got hot samosas and jalebis on the pay day and 5 star cadburys' for me and my brother. We used to sit at the dining table and wipe the plates clean in no time. We were growing children and such oily, high calorie food, (there were no burgers or pizzas those days), used to be relished by us little devils. The cadbury would be stored in our individual secret places, to be savoured at leisure, independently and away from the public stares.

Dinner would be generally at the nearby Udipi restaurant with our finest clothes and polished shoes. The adjoining theater's night show would be enjoyed by the entire family, munching popcorn and licking raspberry candies. We would crash on the bed as soon as we reached home. On the pay day, the mood and the ambience of our house used to be pleasant and bright.

We would eagerly await the next payday, more than our dad !

Time gradually passed and my dad retired, we grew up and started earning.

The first of the month is no longer fun for me like my childhood days, I dread it's arrival as it blows big holes in my small pockets. The steep hospital rent, car and home loans, salaries to my driver, house-maids, nursing staff and junior doctors, building maintenance and grocery bills all combine to depress me and my cheque book. A lot of money goes to places I have never known and will never understand.

Its too complicated!

It's really amazing, that once, I eagerly awaited this very first day of every month.

They have a song "Khush hain zamaana, aaj paheli taareekh hain!" Really, to translate this song, ' The entire world is happy on the first date of the month ' ..

But on this day, I am unhappy.

I wish for my childhood 5 star days!

EGO-DAVID V/S GOLIATH.

He was a strange patient of mine, a politician who made it a point to visit me every month for his non existent diseases and highly imaginary ailments. His sycophants and body guards made it a point to proudly announce his arrival at my clinic, oblivious to the rush of the existing, patiently waiting real sufferers. He demanded priority and used to barge into my clinic with his coterie who were very much concerned about their provider's health. Their lives depended on this man's well being, such was the parasitism.Of course, he never paid me to add salt to my wounds. Also, he used to waste a lot of time with his carefully prepared questionnaire. But I used to endure him as it generated my good will amongst his followers, my future patients.
One day he came into my clinic with a wedding invitation card in his hand, his daughter was getting married and the venue was a nearby five star hotel. It was a vulgar display of his ill acquired wealth and power.He requested my attendance as I was an important cog in his big ferris wheel. He asked me to come with my whole family.
I went alone, there was the usual crowd of the boot licking cops mingling with the white clothed, gold laden people of the dark underworld. It was a dazzling affair. VIPs were welcomed with a bugle, beating drums and a speaker announcement, they were personally escorted to the stage by the gleaming politician. I was fading into oblivion in this pomp, nobody acknowledged my existence. Despite seeing me, he ignored me, May be I was not wearing enough gold on me to attract his attention. Also, my dark clothes suggested my less glorified and dignified existence.
I am imperturbable normally, but this turn of events really upset me.
I walked out of the venue and headed to my clinic, my own kingdom. I was a king and my courtiers were eagerly waiting for me, suffering in silence. My arrival brought smiles on their tired faces.
Few weeks passed, the politician and his cronies arrived at my clinic.
It was my turn to extract revenge.
I made him wait for an hour, as he entered inside, he was seething with anger and demanded an immediate explanation from me for the delay in letting him inside. He missed the lack of priority, normally given to him in the past.
A small fish cannot fight with the crocodile, if he has to survive in the murky waters.
I told him that he was spoiling his reputation amongst his voters by barging in and walking out without paying me. I told him that the waiting patients were his voters and he could not risk antagonising them, with the elections just around the corner.He was a dumb, hare brained person who immediately got convinced, thanked me profusely and while walking out, reluctantly paid all my pending fees in full view of the waiting crowd.
I felt victorious.
David had slain the Goliath!
My shattered ego heaved a sigh of relief.

RED.SHIRT..

He was a broad shouldered man, his only possession in this world was his cart with two wheels in which he used to carry 2 passengers to their destination in the humid city of Calcutta. It was a humiliating job, but ends had to be met. He earned more than others in view of his athletic body which used to pain in the night. There was no one to soothingly massage his aching bones or give a hot water bottle.He longed for a companion, She was a maid who lived in the neighbouring slum, was squint eyed but had caught his fancy. The only communication used to happen when they stood in the morning queue, awaiting their turns patiently, near the common overcrowded toilet.She loved him, as he looked the earnest and sincere kind.
The passengers sitting in this human rickshaw had no shame of being pulled by a fellow human being, such was the callous attitude in this heartless city. It was a blatant violation of basic human rights. The fat lazy people in this city used to be a burden for these human mules.
A day was fixed for the girl's parents to see the guy.
He was all excited, but did not have decent clothes to impress his would be in laws. A red shirt, hanging in the window of a clothes store had been selected by him to wear on that day, was running short by some rupees, hence postponed the meeting by a week. On the day before, he arranged the money in his dirtily stained, once white shirt pocket, carried the day's last load of passengers speedily, unmindful of the red light. All he saw was the colour of his red shirt in those lights. Nothing could stop his racing heart and the tired feet today.
The speeding car with a red light on it's roof collided with this unfortunate man and just sped away, as expected. It was on official government duty!
People stared at this injured, gasping man with their unconcerned eyes. He breathed his last shortly. The stains on the street would dry down and be erased by tread marks tomorrow.
The shirt was all red in colour, as he had wished for, all this week.
She mourned him for a week and later, married a tea stall owner in the vicinity.
Life had to go on in this cold hearted humid city.

FAVRE LEUBA...

It is a very old watch, Favre Leuba, an imported one belonging to the 60's era but still running like a steady horse with the seconds' arm ticking accurately in this 21st century. It is a steel grey automatic watch which is regularly worn by my proud dad. The dial has luminous hands which glow during the nocturnal power cuts.So far, it has never failed us and makes us complete all our tasks punctually. This watch is treasured by our family as it has its own story to tell. It was bought by my dad with his first salary.

It was the summer of 1984, we kids were playing monopoly in our sunny terrace enjoying our vacations, my dad was the chairman of our building and was supervising the pre monsoon cleaning of the water tank. The contractor was petrified of him as he was a hard balled task master. Even,we kids used to be afraid and in awe of our dad. There was some problem with the valves in the tank and my dad climbed the ladder to look for a possible solution. The tank was about 6 meters high and an imposing structure. While trying to descend, he lost his footing and fell down with a crashing sickening thud like sound. I thought as if someone had thrown a massive gunny bag on the ground, such was the intensity of the sound. But as we came to know that our dad had sustained this fall,we rushed towards him. Seeing him with a big bleeding gash on his forehead brought tears to our eyes and we rushed him to the hospital. He had sustained multiple fractures in his knee, thigh bone and the wrist of his right hand. He never cried and was surprisingly in a relaxed state of mind. He did not wince with such poly trauma also, may be he did not want to express his grief in front of his small sons. But I never saw him cry. He was discharged after a month and a couple of surgeries, slowly he made complete recovery and was again busy with his life. A walking stick accompanied him for a couple of months which was discarded later, sorta like Forrest Gump by him.

He walked and ran like a normal man.

When he sustained the fall, the wrist watch in his left hand sustained the impact and protected that wrist from trauma. The entire watch broke with the springs and levers running hay wire on our terrace floor, my friend had collected the parts and gave them to me when my dad came home. The watch was repaired by a glass eyed man in Mumbai and was restored to its original pride and shining glory. The watch recovered, with my dad and became symbolic of our dad's survival. He wore it the day, he resumed, going to the office.

It was a protective amulet for my dad. Till date, that watch has been revered by us.

I have a collection of Swiss watches, including a Rolex also. They reside in my special velvet lined drawer. They are arranged in a neat row by me and regularly polished with a moist muslin cloth with some tooth paste.

But, my dad's Favre Leuba ousthines them all.

It is not a mere time telling watch,

It tells us the story of hope and survival.

REST IN PEACE.

I was returning from a late night show, was pretty dark as it was a moonless night. I stayed on the third floor and climbing the flight of stairs was the biggest nightmare for me as I surely believed in ghosts and demons lurking , in our staircase. To worsen my panicked state, the lights also had gone out. It was pitch dark. The pack of dogs in our building were also nowhere to be seen, their recognising bark followed by a whimper used to reassure me on such dark nights. The ascent to my home was the toughest hurdle in my life at that moment, I was shivering inside and with a prayer on my lips, slowly began my 'upward' journey.
There was a reason for my paranoid behaviour.
A few days earlier, a young bride had just poured kerosene on her body and had burnt to death in our ground floor flat, probably it was a dowry death or so , but we were too small to understand such moral implications.I had seen the charred body lying lifeless on their kitchen floor, believe me folks, it was a very ghastly sight for a young school boy like me. Her black shrivelled body used to constantly appear in my nightmares during my childhood. I used to wake up sweating and hug my mother, who would protect and shelter me. It was a trying time for me at such a tender age. Her husband had sustained the customary burns on his hands while trying to save her. I never came to know the legal course of this incident, soon he was out of the lock up and roamed freely in our society.
Back then, Dowry laws were not very stringent and the brides or their grieving families never used to get justice from this oppressive system.
I had other reasons also to justify my fears, A funeral centre was just adjoining our building where the fires used to burn daily and constantly. Also, my bedroom window was flanked by a tamarind tree, which used to harbour spirits in the night, along with the blind bats who used to frighten me and my brother to our bones.
Fortunately, nothing happened to me as my prayers overpowered the dark spirits and I safely reached home. I decided to buy a small torch, the very next day with my pocket money.
A few months later, I came to know the sad plight of the widower in our ground floor flat. He had turned into a schizoid person who was jittery through out the day and never slept a wink in the night.His life had become a never ending nightmare. His thoughts were constantly about his deceased wife and drove him mad. Soon, he was shifted to a mental institution for better care and treatment. I heard that he never recovered and still can be seen chained to the steel bed, screaming for mercy. The spirit had possessed him and taken over his soul. So, the elders said. His wife had suffered in death and he was suffering in life, if you could call it a life. He never publicly admitted his role in his wife's demise.
But, you could see the guilt in his red sleep deprived eyes.
The wife's spirit never allowed him to do so.
She was extracting her revenge.
I was happy for her soul.
It would rest in peace.