Ek Saal Baad एक साल बाद

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Kadambini's review of my short story collection titled "Ek Saal Baad" is brief yet heartening. You can find the link to it below. The Unadorned: Thank U Kadambini (ramblingnanda.blogspot.com) The review praises the eponymous story, "Ek Saal Baad". I am considering sharing this review on my blog. Additionally, I invite you to read the story and share your thoughts with me.

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एक साल बाद

               आशीष को आख़िरकार शादी पारंपरिक तरीक़े से ही करनी पड़ी। वह चाहता था, एक अच्छी-सी लड़की के साथ इशक लड़ाए, घूमे-फिरे, उसके इंतज़ार में पल गुज़ारे, लंबी-लंबी आहें भरे, जज़बात भरे प्रेम-पत्र लिखे, उसके माँ-बाप को शादी के लिए मनाए, फिर शादी करे। पर ये सब कैसे होता जब उसमें ज़रा भी हिम्मत नहीं थी। किसी लड़की को पटाना कोई बच्चों का खेल तो है नहीं। हर सुंदर लड़की चाहती है कि उसका चाहने वाला कुछ ऐसा पहने, कुछ ऐसा कहे, कुछ ऐसा कर गुज़रे कि उसकी तबियत मचल जाए। तब लड़की अपने चाहने वाले को अपने प्यार का ख़ज़ाना सौंपती है। आशीष वह सब जानता था, पर वह किसी को ख़ुश न कर सका। करता भी कैसे? न उसको गाने-बजाने का शौक़ था, न खेल-कूद में महारत। न वह किसी अमीर घराने का लड़का था, न ही फैशन परस्त।

               यार-दोस्त बेचारे को बढ़ा-चढ़ा कर तरक़ीब बताते, लेकिन उनमें से कोई भी काम न आई। उल्टे, वह एक बार घोर मुसीबत में आ गया। तब वह मरते-मरते बचा। घटना कुछ इस प्रकार की थी---आशीष को फ़ोन मिला कि उसकी एक सहपाठिनी उसके साथ फ़िल्म देखने जाना चाहती है। "अच्छी बात, आख़िर कोई लड़की मेरे मन की बात समझने के लिए तैयार तो हुई!'' फ़ोन पर आवाज़ लड़की की थी, सो शक की कोई गुंजाइश न थी। बात तय हुई कि आशीष उसके घर तक जाएगा और उसे मोटर साइकिल पर बिठाकर फ़िल्म दिखाने ले जाएगा। फिर, आशीष ने दोस्त से मोटर साइकिल माँग ली और उस सहपाठिनी के यहाँ पहुँच  गया। वहाँ पहुँच कर गेट के सामने हार्न बजाया। एक बार, दूसरी बार, फिर कई बार। अंत में वह गेट खोलकर अंदर आया। गेट खुलते ही उसका कुत्ता आशीष की तरफ़ दौड़ पड़ा। वह लगातार भौंकता रहा। अरे बाप! कितना भयंकर था वह। लगता था, हार्न सुनकर वह सचमुच चिढ़ गया हो। आशीष को तुरंत नौ दो ग्यारह होना पड़ा। पता नहीं उस दिन कौन उसे इस क़दर बुद्धू बनाने पर तुला हुआ था!

               ऐसा नहीं कि हर एक मामले में वह नाकाम ही था। पढ़ने-लिखने में साधारण रहने के बावजूद उसको एक दिन किसी बैंक से साक्षात्कार के लिए बुलावा आ गया। आशीष ने देखा कि उससे और तेज लड़के लिखित इम्तहान में फैल हो गए हैं। पहले वह इस पर विश्वास नहीं कर पाया। सोचा, फिर कोई उसके साथ घटिया शरारत तो नहीं कर रहा है? लेकिन चिट्ठी को बार-बार पढ़ने पर उसे सब कुछ सही लगा। साक्षात्कार देने के बाद जब नतीजा निकलने की बारी आई तो उसे नौकरी नहीं बल्कि खेद-पत्र नसीब हुआ। दु:ख तो ज़रूर हुआ, पर आशीष को मालूम था कि कैसे अपनी औक़ात में अविलंब लौटना होता है। फिर दो महीनों के बाद उसे किसी दूसरे बैंक से नियुक्ति पत्र मिला। इस बार आशीष बिल्कुल हैरान था, आख़िर यह पत्र आया कैसे? उस बैंक की चयन परीक्षा में वह बैठा तक नहीं! फिर आहिस्ता-आहिस्ता बात साफ़ होती गई। वह सरासर सच निकली। यह बैंक एकाएक विस्तार-प्रक्रिया में जुटा था और उसके पास पूरी चयन-प्रक्रिया के लिए समय नहीं था। फिर उसने और बैंकों को पत्र लिखा कि अगर वहाँ हाल में कोई चयन-प्रक्रिया पूरी हुई हो और असफल उम्मीदवारों को खेद-पत्र दिए गए हों, तो उन लोगों का नाम-पता सूचित करें। बस, इस प्रकार आशीष का खेद-पत्र दो महीने के अंदर नियुक्ति-पत्र में तब्दील हो गया। कहते हैं न, खुदा मेहरबान तो कमज़ोर पहलवान!

               फिर शादी करने की बात आई। माता-पिता, जात-कुटुंब, सब लग गए दुल्हन ढूँढ़ने में। एक बैंक अधिकारी को अच्छी यानी हुनरमंद लड़की चाहिए, दान-दहेज़ के साथ, रिश्ता संपन्न परिवार में होना चाहिए, ख़ानदान भी मशहूर, कुंडली भी तदनुरूप---बस, लड़की साक्षात् लक्ष्मी हो; किसी फ़िल्मी नायिका से मिलती-जुलती। जब इतने सारे लोग एक ही काम में लगे हों तो नतीजा आशाजनक होना ही चाहिए।

               और नतीजा ठीक वैसा ही हुआ जैसा सब लोग चाहते थे।

               लड़की का नाम था मानसी। वह देखने में गोरी थी। सुडौल चेहरा, लंबे-लंबे बाल, ऊँचा क़द, और रूपरंग का क्या कहना। वह तो अँधेरे में भी दमकता था। एम.ए. तक पढ़ी-लिखी। गाना-बजाना भी जानती थी। सुरीले कंठ से वह साधारण बात में भी मधुरता भर देती थी। आशीष बेहद प्रसन्न था। उसने सोचा कि मानसी को अपनी पुरानी सहपाठिनियों को एक बार दिखा दे, ख़ासकर स्निग्धा रानी को। "अरे बाप, कितनी घमंडी थी वह! अब वह आकर मेरी पत्नी मानसी को एक बार देख तो ले! उसका सारा घमंड एक ही पल में काँच-सा चकनाचूर हो जाएगा!''

               शादी का पहला सप्ताह, पहला महीना, पहला साल जैसे गुज़रना चाहिए, आशीष दंपति के लिए ठीक वैसे ही गुज़रा। मानसी आहिस्ता-आहिस्ता अपनी क़ाबिलीयत, अपने हुनर के नमूने प्रस्तुत करने लगी। उसे शाकाहारी, मांसाहारी दोनों क़िस्म के व्यंजन बनाना ख़ूब आता था। केक, पेस्ट्री बनाने में तो वह किसी जानकार हलवाई को भी पछाड़ देती। घर की सजावट में उसने किसी प्रकार की कोर कसर न छोड़ी। कोई भी महिला पत्रिका की संपादिका मानसी से लेख पाकर अपने को धन्य महसूस करती। ख़ास बात यह थी कि ये सब करने के लिए उसे बजट से बाहर जाना नहीं पड़ता था। असल में मानसी बिल्कुल ख़र्चीली न थी। माहौल को मनोरंजक बनाने के लिए या आशीष के अनुरोध पर वह कभी-कभी गाना गा लेती थी। उसका सकारात्मक रुख़ बातचीत से भी पता चल जाता था। "चलो, ऐसे करते है'', "कोई बात नहीं, इसे फ़ुर्सत में कर लेंगे'', "दो-चार गुलदाउदी लगा लेते हैं और इस साल नुमाइश में भाग लेंगे'', "टहलने के लिए सुबह के बदले शाम का वक्त कैसा रहेगा?''---इस प्रकार अपनी सूझबूझ, कल्पनाशीलता के सहारे मानसी वक्त को और अधिक दिलचस्प बनाने लगी थी।

               साल भर आशीष दंपति गुफ़्तगू करते रहे। कभी घर के मसले तो कभी बाहर की ख़बरें, कभी फ़िल्म संबंधी तो कभी क्रिकेट से जुड़ी, कभी कुछ करने की योजनाएँ तो कभी समाप्त हुए कार्यों पर चर्चा। पर जो बात आशीष अक्सर करता, वे थे उसके तजुर्बे पर आधारित क़िस्से। उसे विश्वास था कि ऐसा करने पर बातचीत ख़ूब जमेगी। वह बातों को कभी बढ़ा-चढ़ा कर नहीं करता था बल्कि वे सब स्वतः स्फूर्त होती थीं। पुरानी बातों को अक्सर दोहराने की आवश्यकता होती है और आशीष को यह भली-भाँति ज्ञात था। अतः, वह अपनी सारी बातों को सच पर ही आधारित रखता था ताकि जाने-अनजाने अगर किसी बात को दोहरा भी दिया तो उसमें अंतर्विरोध प्रकट न हो। मानसी को अपने पति की स्पष्टवादिता, सच्चाई के प्रति उसकी अटूट श्रद्धा अत्यंत पसंद आई। उसे वे सब क़िस्से मज़ेदार लगते थे जिनमें उसके तमाम दोस्त हमदर्दी जताने के बहाने उसे नसीहत दिया करते थे यानी उसे बुद्धू बनाते से चलते थे। आशीष सुनाता था और मानसी हँसती थी। हँस-हँस कर लोट-पोट हो जाती थी।

               बातों का असर मानसी पर पड़ने लगा था। वह मन ही मन खुद से सवाल करती, "मैंने आशीष से शादी कर उस पर कोई मेहरबानी तो नहीं की? परंतु मेहरबानी कोई भी लड़की कर सकती थी, यानी जिसके साथ बेचारा शादी करता, वह उसकी झोली में प्यार की भीख डाल देती।'' एक पल बाद फिर सोचती, "नहीं, यह नहीं हो सकता; हर कोई मुझ जैसी नसीब वाली नहीं हो सकती है कि उसे आशीष जैसा नादान पुरुष मिलता?'' अब मानसी का दिल करुणा से भर गया। उसे लगा कि आशीष का दिल निहायत ही नाज़ुक है और उसे हर कोई ठुकरा सकता है। उसे निरंतर जज़्बाती सुरक्षा मिलनी चाहिए। इसे मुहैया कराना किसी साधारण औरत के बस की बात नहीं, वह सिर्फ़ मानसी ही कर सकती है!

               शादी की सालगिरह एक सप्ताह बाद आने वाली थी और उस मौक़े पर आशीष दंपति कुछ ख़ास करना चाहते थे। अब वे जिस शहर में थे, वहाँ मानसी दो साल पहले पढ़ती थी। उसे मालूम था, किस होटल में एक अच्छी-सी पार्टी का इंतज़ाम किया जा सकता है और किस तरह मेहमान अधिक ख़ुश होंगे। तदनुसार वे तैयारी में लग गए। दिल की आकृति में एक चाकलेट केक बनेगी और वह आकर्षक तरीक़े से सजेगी। और डिनर के लिए क्या-क्या चुनना है, मानसी से बेहतर कौन जानता? शादी से पहले यार-दोस्त अपने-अपने जन्म-दिन पर मानसी से ही सलाह लिया करते थे। ख़ैर, सजावट के लिए ट्यूलीप, ऑर्किड जैसे महँगे फूलों की आवश्यकता थी। पार्टी में मेहमानों के लिए कीमती शराब और मृदु पेय दोनों का इंतज़ाम करना था। गाना-बजाना भी होना चाहिए। सो, मानसी ने इस दर्मियान अपने पसंदीदा चार-पाँच गानों का रियाज़ कर लिया। मेहमानों की फ़रमाइश तो टाली नहीं जा सकती, बेहतर होगा कि पहले से ही तैयार रहा जाए।

               आशीष मन ही मन ख़ुश था कि इस पार्टी में वह अपने तमाम दोस्तों को बुलाएगा और वे लोग अपनी-अपनी बीवियों के साथ उसके यहाँ तशरीफ़ लाएँगे। फिर सबको पता चलेगा कि आख़िर में किसका पलड़ा भारी है? वो दिन भी याद करेंगे, जब आशीष को वे लोग प्यार के नाम पर बुद्धू बनाते थे, उसे कैसे-कैसे उपनाम दिया करते थे। अब वह मानसी के प्यार की कशती में अपनी सारी असफलताओं का दरिया लाँघने जा रहा है। अब वे लोग किनारे बैठकर टुकुर-टुकुर ताकते रहेंगे।

               आशीष ने अपने आप एक सूची तैयार कर ली कि वह किस-किस को बुलाएगा। वे सब सिर्फ़ उस शहर के ही नहीं होंगे, कई लोग दूर से भी आएँगे। आशीष को विश्वास था, वे लोग ज़रूर आएँगे। अब तक उन्हें पता चल गया होगा कि कल का बुद्धू आशीष आज शहर के सबसे सुंदर औरत का पति है। जो लोग जलते होंगे, उन्हें उन लोगों का कौतूहल खींच लाएगा।

               आशीष मानसी के पास गया। "लो, देखो, मैंने तक़रीबन सारे दोस्तों की लिस्ट बना डाली। अब तुम अपने दोस्तों के नाम जोड़ दो। आज से कार्ड बाँटना शुरू कर देंगे।''

               "मैं तो किसी दोस्त को बुलाने की नहीं सोच रही हूँ,'' मानसी बोली।

               "पर क्यों?'' आशीष ने पूछा।

               "कोई ख़ास वजह नहीं। बस, ऐसे ही,'' मानसी ने उत्तर दिया।

               आशीष अपनी बीवी के निर्णय पर और प्रश्न करना नहीं चाहता था। उसको तो अपने दोस्तों को जलाने के अलावा और कोई मक़सद दिखाई नहीं पड़ता था।

               पार्टी बेहद सफल रही। निमंत्रित मेहमानों ने छक कर खाया, पिया, गाने गाए और मानसी की सुंदरता, संगीत प्रतिभा, सजावट की तारीफ़ करते गए। आशीष सुनकर ख़ुश हुआ पर थोड़ा-सा चिंतित भी। "यह कैसी बात है कि तमाम दोस्त सिर्फ़ मानसी की ही तारीफ़ करते हैं? अगर सारे के सारे दोस्त मानसी की तारीफ़ करने लगे, तो क्या उन लोगों की औरतों में से किसी को भी ख़्याल नहीं आया कि तारीफ़ का एक और हक़दार भी वहाँ मौजूद है?''

               ख़ैर, ये सब दिमाग़ में रखने वाली बात नहीं थी। साल भर प्रतीक्षा के बाद पार्टी आख़िर में हुई और बख़ूबी निपट गई। यह आशीष के लिए कम बड़ी बात नहीं थी।

               पर उसे एक बात भुलाए नहीं भूलती थी, "इतने बड़े शहर में जहाँ मानसी का बचपन गुज़रा था, क्या पार्टी में बुलाने के लिए उसका कोई दोस्त न था?''

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

मुजफ़्फ़रपुर

    01-08-2009

My Lost Bet

______________________________

This one was a work-in-progress, waiting for me to revisit it and give it a shape. Finally, I  could manage to show some interest and retrieve it after a decade and a half. Here you are.

________________________________ 

My Lost Bet

 

It is unpleasant to have conflicts with neighbours, but sometimes we find ourselves drawn into them willy-nilly. Take, for instance, what happened to me the other day. My only mistake was I removed a cardboard box from my neighbour’s courtyard. But what choice did I have when I discovered a cobra had taken refuge in it?

 

The unforgettable episode occurred in one of the upcoming areas of Visakhapatnam towards the end of the last millennium.

 

It was a Sunday afternoon, and I was at home, immersed in Jim Corbett's My India. His books are full of delightful stories that never fail to entertain me. What he tries to emphasise again and again is that the world is not for humans alone; it is the abode for millions of living creatures that God has created to satisfy the fundamental need of the creation. For Him, variety is the hallmark of creation.

 

When I was so engrossed in my reading, Sonu, my neighbour's seven-year-old son, came running to report something he could not keep to himself.

 

‘Uncle, do you know something interesting happened this morning?’ Sonu asked, in his characteristic style of starting an interaction with a question, almost whispering. Like all males my age in his neighbourhood, I was an uncle to Sonu. Additionally, he would do me a special favour, confiding in me classified information. I didn’t know if anyone else was privy to his confidential reports.

 

I inquired, hiding my curiosity, ‘So, what’s up, Kiddo?’

 

Besides being a successful little spy, Sonu was insatiably greedy and used to extract many a thing in exchange for his information. Marbles, yo-yos, tattoos, superhero comics, hot wheel cars, darts—the list would run to a considerable length since I took it as my pleasant duty to satisfy the brat. Or else how might I know all those exciting things in my neighbourhood?

 

‘We’re soon going to be rich, you know. I’ll now have my Nintendo, my own Play Station, Frisbees, RC helicopter, and many things,’ Sonu just went into rapture as he read his wish list in mind.

 

‘That’s wonderful, but tell me, Sonu, how will you get rich?’ I was getting more curious as Sonu waffled on about his plans.

 

‘Yes, we’re going to be rich, and that’s certain. Don’t you know cobras visit houses where money is going to flow? It’s staying in our courtyard. Aha! How lucky we are!’ Sonu went on jabbering again.

 

I was astonished to see the little boy so thoroughly brainwashed. ‘It’s all the fault of the grown-ups,’ I reflected. ‘We, the adults, are so irrational that we imagine things with little thinking discipline. And children learn this before they absorb a trickle of scientific knowledge. India should learn to fight the evil: superstition is worse than starvation.’

 

Breaking my train of thought, I tried to impart some logic to Sonu. He was yet to come out of his elation. Was there a way to say that superstition is a bad thing? When I tried to articulate it, it sounded like a long, dull and far-fetched sermon: To be rich, one must study well. Sonu should go through many science books, invent new and mind-blowing gadgets, and sell them in the market to get plenty of money, like Thomas Alva Edison, the Wizard of America. 

 

The story of Edison absorbed Sonu’s attention, but just for a while; it was not enough to distract him from his pet thought of getting rich. Cobra would make his family rich—he was only too convinced. Getting rich through the study of science was a tall order for him. It was uncertain, arduous, and long drawn out, but money through a cobra was certain. Everybody in his family believed so.

 

‘Can you tell me, Sonu, what does a cat love to eat?’ I asked him, intending to start a roundabout course of education—the Panchatantra way. I hoped my second attempt should be more effective.  

 

Sonu took a while to find the appropriate answer, for he knew toffees were waiting for him, and as soon as he would utter the correct answer, they would come into his pocket just like that. Then he murmured Tom-and-Jerry, Jerry-and-Tom for three occasions as if chanting magic incantations. Then he answered, ‘A CAT likes to eat a RAT’.

 

‘That’s right, Sonu boy, you’re a genius, and you deserve an accolade,’ I commented and proffered him a lozenge. Continuing my effort to educate him, I said, ‘A snake, too, loves to eat a rat. By the way, have you ever seen a rat in your house?’

 

‘Oh, they’re plenty in our house. The bad rats have chewed up my kites. I’m so disappointed,’ Sonu replied wistfully. I could hear echoes of frustration ringing in his tone. Sonu, as I knew him, loved to fly kites.

 

My young listener was now in a listening mood, so I continued. I emphasised that a snake also needed food and that its hunger brought the creature into the house. Sonu had no difficulty making sense of it, for he knew what hunger was like. Like all children, he relished eating and playing; it had no confusing science. 

 

‘So, the cobra is after its food, to devour the rats that destroyed your kite,’ I concluded my analysis. Discarding the point of getting rich, I continued, ‘Now you should remember that there’s nothing in it to make you rich. It’s just an old saying. You should take it from me: nobody ever gets rich this way.’

 

But Sonu had something more to reveal. According to him, some worship was necessary to make the cobra yield wealth for his house. At least, that was what his father would perform at night under the priest's advice.

 

Sonu’s father, Mr K. Jagannadha Rao, was a greengrocer, and he owned a shop in the neighbourhood. His business brought him a small income, barely sufficient to manage his family, consisting of his wife and two children. But that did not deter him from keeping pace with the current middle-class fad. His children were in the upmarket English-medium schools—Sonu in class three, and the younger one, a daughter named Rosalina, in a play school, preparing for admission to her nursery class a year later. Sending a child to school just after she was two was the trend that Mr K. Jagannadha Rao followed faithfully. His wife Rukmini knew some English, whereas Jagannadha did not. So, he chose to make her happy by promptly admitting her to the play school before it was late.   

 

I knew my neighbour Mr K. Jagannadha Rao, but his business was such that he had no time to waste on idle gossip. Occasionally we exchanged neighbourly pleasantries, though. A corpulent little fellow, he had twelve rings on his eight fingers. People used to taunt him about his quirks as he meticulously changed them as per the position of stars indicated in almanac. He would wear sandalwood and vermillion paste on his forehead from temple to temple. The paste had such a rich texture that his forehead remained shining the whole day until he washed it in the evening for a second round of embellishment. His shop was cramped, yet there was always room for the luck-boosting objects like photographs of Lakshmi and Ganesh, mascots of feng shui, masks of papier mâché Ravana, the garlands of lemons and so on. Mangat Prasad Tiwari, the priest-cum-astrologer, was a regular visitor to his shop, and Mr K. Jagannadha Rao used to receive advice from the priest on all matters of importance in exchange for three ripe bananas every day.

 

Sonu informed me that the cobra would get a milk bath at night, and the priest Mangat Prasad Tiwari would oversee the ritual. It would be all secret, for wealth would not flow in if anybody with envy in their eyes remained present during the paraphernalia.

 

The writing on the wall was clear. I visualized the scenario to come, everything that waited to befall them on the fateful night of appeasement of the snake god. Milky ablution could be okay for a shaligram, the sanctified stone collected from the river Gonduki representing the lord Vishnu, but how would a snake react dipped into a pot of milk? It would suffer asphyxia and grow violent in self-defence. It would bite Mangat Prasad Tiwari or K. Jagannadha Rao or both—who could discount that eventuality? If that happened, I would not be able to excuse myself. Something must be done to prevent the calamity and save my little friend from going fatherless.

 

‘Sonu, what if the snake bites your dad during the puja?’ I blurted it out. In fact, bringing fear into play was deliberate; it was my last plea to embrace common sense.

 

‘Oh yes, Uncle. I now remember what my teacher once said…cobra-bite kills people unless they get immediate treatment,’ Sonu had no smile on his lips and looked shaken. Looking at me helplessly, he continued, ‘Shouldn’t we call a doctor to our puja.’

 

‘I’m afraid, Sonu dear, that won’t help. A doctor can’t prevent a cobra from biting someone if he goes very near it,’ I replied.

 

There was a pause. I understood it was my turn to offer a solution, ‘I have a plan, Sonu, much safer than that. Let’s take the snake out of your house before your father comes.’

 

So, between Sonu and I, we drew up a plan. It called for clandestine implementation in the afternoon when everyone in his house would enjoy their siesta. The snake was inside a cardboard box, so we thought shifting it would not be dangerous.

 

At the same time, I had misgivings about the willing cooperation from the reptile. The cardboard box was not a sealed one, and along its corner between its walls was a four-inch gap through which the deadly serpent was visible. I examined it; the snake had curled up inside it, but it was very much awake, its glowing eyes emphasising full alertness.

 

Besides, we must go across the six-foot boundary wall to avoid being caught since the only door that opened onto the road was locked. There was a recess on the wall, and I decided to stow the box there to retrieve it upon scaling atop the boundary wall. It was my concern that at no point my little friend should handle the box, exposing himself to the risk of snake bite.

 

Slowly I lifted the box while Sonu went outside through the front door of his house. While taking a few slow steps towards the recess with the cardboard box, I felt the creature moving inside. Fear gripped my muscles. It was impossible to move a step more, but there was no way I could have stopped halfway. Presently, the movement inside the box stopped; probably, the creature had a greater need to rest than assert itself. Upon reaching the wall, I gingerly resumed my steps and placed the box in the recess. A clothesline peg was there to serve as my foothold as I clambered up the wall putting my foot on it. But soon, the fear of height caught up with me, and my feet tottered. Somehow taking control of my senses, I retrieved the box and shifted it from the top of the wall to the nearby drumstick tree. Luckily, the tree could hold my weight without crashing. I climbed down quickly and joined Sonu on the road where he was waiting for me.

 

We selected a vacant land with enough wilderness at the other end of our lane. Cobra would love its new home—at least, I had no doubt about it. Had I not rescued it, the creature would have endured a lot of discomfort inside a big pot of cow milk in about a few hours. It could have died of asphyxia. So, if it had any power to bring wealth, it should only consider me!

 

‘Who is that?’ I asked Sonu finding a person a hundred meters behind us, hurrying to catch up with us.

 

‘Ohmigod! He’s dad. Hurry up and hide, hurry up,’ stuttered Sonu as he took the nearby alley and disappeared. Cobra in my hand, I could not choose every foxhole that came my way just to hide from a superstitious fellow. I decided to face him.

 

‘How dare you steal my thing? Don’t you know what you’re holding is my godsend?’ Mr K. Jagannadha Rao charged. He was angry and comical at the same time.

 

‘Tosh! Is this your godsend? Is a poisonous snake your godsend? Don’t tell Mr Rao,’ I could not hold back my laugh.

 

My irritating belly laugh must have annoyed Mr K. Jagannadha Rao beyond his sense. He came charging to snatch the box from me. While grabbing it, he became so careless that the cobra got frightened and woke up from its slumber. For the hapless creature, running away was the only option. But then a snake was a snake, and before going away, it gave a poisonous kiss to his bete noire Mr K. Jagannadha Rao.

 

I was at my wit’s end. It was beyond my wildest imagination that the outcome could go so ghastly. It was my intention to save the ignorant chap by shifting the object of harm from him. But now I realised how miserably I had botched up. So, I must do everything at this point without allowing time to have the last laugh. I hailed a speeding taxi and took Mr Rao to the nearest place of medical attention. Fortunately for him, there was a nursing home just half a kilometre away. Reaching there, I got him admitted right away.

 

Mr Jagannadha Rao was lucky. The doctor, the antidote, the expert—everything and everybody were in position as if waiting for a snake-bitten fellow to show up for treatment. Before starting the procedure, the reception desk looked for Mr K. Jagannadha Rao’s relatives to sign the admission documents, but there were none. However, when he approached me, I unhesitatingly scrawled my worthy signatures on them. I was Johnny on the spot—a Good Samaritan to a soul sinking into the quagmire of distress. 

 

It took long forty-eight hours to revive Mr Jagannadha Rao. I waited in the lobby of the nursing home, keeping tabs on the progress of treatment. There was no room near the bed of Mr K. Jagannadha Rao, for it was full of his relatives and well-wishers. Even entering the room was impossible, so the attending nurse in her cubbyhole kept me posted on the up-to-date status of Mr Rao’s health. Well, that suited everybody.

 

In time, Mr Rao was discharged and chose to leave the nursing home at twelve o'clock at night. ‘Of all time, he chose such an hour to go home!’ I presumed it could be as per the advice of Mangat Prasad Tiwari, the astrologer. The following day when I was leaving, the clerk on duty slammed a bill of 20,000 rupees on me. He reminded me the admission forms had my signatures, so the bill was in my name. There was no argument that I could have advanced to refute the logic, and I paid the bill perforce.

 

Back home, Mr K. Jagannadha Rao resumed working, worshipping, and earning. But he had no money to reimburse me. Lo and behold, he held me responsible for the snake bite. Whatever I incurred was to honour my liability; it was preposterous to claim that in return.

 

The takeaway is clear: I am the only unreasonable fellow in the transaction, so I should forget my money. The other course open before me is to raise my voice, nag, vilify and disturb, but just for the sake of my lost bet, I cannot afford to risk my friendship with Sonu, the informer.

 Berhampur

13-02-2008 

 

One for the Road

One for the Road

 

A detour to the city terminal was not to serve anybody’s need, yet the bus made it. It was unavoidable, a kind of mandatory diversion the driver was supposed to take to remain within the ambit of the rules. Transport authorities had arranged it for the benefit of the passengers so that they could go to a proper place to start their journey. But the time-conscious people knew the best; they would rather stand on the highway to hail the bus that used to return from its mandatory detour and board it than take the pain of going all the way to the city terminus to wait for their bus. This helped them to save at least thirty minutes. 

 

It all happened one day as I was travelling from Bhubaneswar to Baripada on National Highway 16. The 25-minute detour I referred to was to take place at Cuttack, the millennium city with myriad mysteries. The terminal was Badambadi, the name that evoked more bucolic bliss than urban bustle. Finally, the bus I had boarded was mythologically named the ‘Super Dragon’, for whatever it meant to all concerned.

 

          I was not among the time-conscious passengers. Saving thirty minutes of idle wandering was not attractive to me. So I kept sitting in my seat rather than getting down at the diversion point to change to another bus.

 

Super Dragon stopped at Badambadi. There were no passengers to scramble into it. Instead, a posse of sellers swarmed in with their variegated wares: the aerated water, buttermilk in poly packs, the mid-day newspaper that carried sensational small talk, the apples and bananas that were too ripe for eating, the sunglass, and the electronic watch that vainly tried to define the distinction….

 

I kept watching them. There was no ventilation inside, and the breeze from outside had ceased to blow in. It was just eight in the morning yet unbearably sultry, and I was sweating like anything, dripping unabatedly from the tip of my nose down to my calloused ankles. A hawker offering bottled soft drinks entered the coach clanking the steel bottle-opener against the bottles, tring…tring…thak…tring. His offer was incredibly cheap—it could be filled with questionable concoctions. I looked on the other side. A few sips of water from my bottle were enough for the moment; it was safer than the offerings from the grubby hands of the hawker. 

 

‘Try this…a cheap one, sir. Only for one hundred and fifty bucks,’ the watch seller standing outside the bus began pestering my co-passenger on the front row. I stuck my head out and looked at the fellow standing below with his electronic gizmos. I was careful to look at him from the corner of my eyes lest he should start pestering me.

 

‘No, I don’t need a watch…and it’s way too expensive,’ my co-passenger responded. The seller knew what to interpret from the response. He just zapped a watch around the wrist of his unwilling customer.

 

          Continued, then, the ritual haggling—the prospective buyer insisting that the object was just trash and the seller promising all kinds of warranties, including the money-back guarantee. 

 

And the inevitable happened: the buyer’s lack of interest in the merchandise far outweighed the seller’s selling acumen, so the negotiation failed. And the hawker knew not to recognise a failure.

 

Before long, the passenger realised that he was in an inconvenient trap. The nagging seller would not leave him at peace as long as the watch was with him. So, he began to insist that the fellow took back that object of trial. Was it not the seller himself that zapped the watch around his wrist? And now that the negotiation had failed, he should take it back…bloody well, take it back. 

 

But the seller appeared adamant. It was his experience that nobody would ever buy a thing from him unless taken through a round of prolonged persuasion. “Hard sell or no sale,” he knew it only too well.

 

The passenger, too, would not allow the seller to short-change him. As if he called in the right person to take charge of the watch, a lady appeared with a begging bowl just in the nick of time. And the agitated passenger threw the watch into her bowl in no moment.  

 

The lady was taken aback by the monstrous windfall. What kind of generosity could it be? She was only a leper, a beggar who would be too happy to get a coin or two—an expensive electronic watch would not bring a smile to her cracked lips. 

 

She was a beggar but beautiful—fair-skinned and contented. Her beauty emphasised something quite weird: an inscrutable divine scheme that supposedly punished a lovely soul of this birth for the wickedness of the previous; a beauty laden with a thing macabre to frighten and not to please; poverty that needed the company of the disease and disability to shatter the last particle of human dignity…. And while the beautiful beggar spoke, it confirmed my hunch that she came from a family with polished lingo. 

 

‘Babu! I don’t need a thing like this…I’m only an illiterate,’ she said, addressing my co-passenger directly. She was polite, perhaps a little more than necessary.

 

‘Then give it to the seller…and push off,’ my co-passenger directed the leper lady. He was curt, and he was so without reason, unprovoked.

 

The hawker reacted. He had nothing to do with a watch returned by a leper. He would not even touch it.

 

‘What? What do you mean by give it to the seller? How do you expect me to touch something retrieved from the begging bowl of a leper? You’d better give me the cost of the watch,’ the hawker was apparently ready to charge his customer.

 

‘Cost? And what for? I’ve not bought it. It’s you who pestered me, forcing me to buy trash, a shit of the street,’ my co-passenger bellowed.

 

‘So what? It is you who chose to give that to the leper lady. Isn’t it so?’ The hawker was not expecting any answer to his questions though his style was pretty emphatic. The only thing he expected now was the cost of the watch. For him, the watch was already sold…and an item sold was not to be taken back! 

 

‘Forget it. I am not going to pay you a pie. I don’t have money, and that’s all.’

 

The poor co-passenger of mine was pathetically unaware that he was fighting with a person of strength, a fellow with an entire community of hawkers behind him. In no time, they actually gathered in support and stood outside the coach. They offered to mediate, arbitrate, and bring back the peace of the road before the police came to intervene. Then, with no time to spare, they were ready with their decision and a contingency plan to implement it.

 

‘Sir, you seem to be a person of repute, but why do you penalise a poor hawker? Give him his money and settle the matter, here and now,’ a person from the crowd exhorted. He was a bearded fellow with a furrowed brow above a pair of red eyes. Most probably, he was the leader of the horde.

 

‘No, you people are out to blackmail me,’ my co-passenger was visibly shaken despite his bold front. I thought it was time he chose his words with circumspection. The bus conductor was yet to decide if he would intervene and, if so, on whose behalf.

 

‘What do you mean by blackmailing? Please, sir, don’t force us to turn ugly,’ the leader warned. Then, continuing his threatening stance, he said, ‘Let’s go to our shed, and I’ll convince you why my hawker friend should get the price of his watch.’

 

I understood what was going to happen. The least of all was the fellow would miss his bus. ‘So, what’s that precious little I should do for a friend-in-need? And what was that I could do instantly?’ I cogitated.

 

It did not take me long enough to decide.

 

‘Look, gentlemen. This man has no time to visit your shed, right? He is heading for his destination, and he cannot afford to miss his bus,’ I chipped in. I was resolute; it was just another challenge to prove and live up to. In the past, I had wavered and missed opportunities; this time, I was determined not to let it go out of hand. Indeed, helping people before being told had a natural charm!

 

‘Oh, very well, then, if you insist,’ the leader with a furrowed brow said this reluctantly. After a minute’s pause, he resumed, ‘but you’ve to pay…er…a sum of one hundred and fifty rupees, and that’s all.’

 

Now was the time for action; the ball was in my court. I fumbled in my pocket as I kept weighing the option. Well, there was enough to pay the ransom. Otherwise, one hundred and fifty bucks were paltry, and I decided to spend the amount to buy the peace.

 

          ‘Fine, take this and settle the issue here,’ I proffered the amount in currency notes. But unfortunately, I did not have the exact change to make up the sum and what I paid was ten rupees more than the demand. ‘Plus-minus ten rupees—it hardly matters,’ I decided not to be bothered about it.

 

‘Phew! A hassle is over…finally and peacefully!’ I spoke to myself. I felt a twitch of curiosity: What on earth is the world's reaction? ‘Oh no, it’s not a question to ask, I say,’ I thought aloud.

 

My co-passenger, in whose interest I spent my hard-earned money, did not look at me. It was beyond his dignity to say thank you. He was just my co-passenger, a stranger, but I had not counted this fact while deciding to help him out. What could be going on in his mind? Maybe he was trying to articulate something that was not easy to put straightforwardly.

 

‘Don’t ask me to return the sum,’ my co-passenger burst into saying. I was only taken aback. Then, supplying the reason, he continued, ‘It’s you who decided to pay the blackmailers. I have nothing to do about that. Is that clear to you?’

 

It was difficult to brush aside the reaction—at least I should not hide my discomfiture, not at this stage. The money I invested should have bought a line of gratitude, but that was not to come. Instead, all it did actually yield was an offensive onslaught.

 

Hold it—that was not all. There was more to come. This time it was from the beggar lady. 

 

The lady came closer to the window and raised her begging bowl above her head to bring it closer to me—to my hand’s reach.

 

          ‘Take your watch, Babu. It’s your watch,’ she said in a lyrical tone.

 

‘But why? It’s for you. You’d wear a watch, and that’s my gift, won’t you?’ I told it with matching politeness.

 

The lady was flared up. God! I had unknowingly touched her private grief.

 

‘You’re a big man, Babu, but why do you taunt me? Are all big men like that? I have no fingers, and half my palm has been wasted. The horrible disease has taken this. And you want me to wear a watch?’ her voice trailed off in anguish. I could clearly see tears welling up in her eyes.

 

Then she ordered me to stretch my hand through the window, and I could not help obeying her command. Promptly she took my hand in her diseased stump—or maybe it was her cured hand—and strapped the electronic watch around my wrist. Then she left as my glance lingered on her speeding steps. She was somewhat limping…yes, I could clearly see she was dragging her steps on the concrete pavements.

 

I retrieved my hand and brought it closer. The watch was beautiful, designed exquisitely with a white dial, and contrasted well upon my black wrist. Yes, I am black, not fair-skinned like the beggar woman, but I have my palm intact. 

 

Close-eyed I reflected: the leper woman was speeding her steps; she was fighting back her tears of anguish; her speed was attracting breeze, and the breezes were billowing her sari, a green sari of soft flax and bright border.

 

My neighbour, a distinguished gentleman in all whites with powdered cheeks and scented hair, the one with whom I was sharing the seat, the one who had been a silent witness throughout the drama, gawped at me with reproachful stares. His eyes wandered from my watch to my face repeatedly until he changed his seat without uttering a word. 

 

I had a whole seat to myself until I reached my destination on that scorching afternoon. My watch was in all sweat as I got off the bus and plodded my way through the sparsely perambulated streets of Baripada. 

 

Bhubaneswar

02-05-2008