Another short story

Thanks Shail, for publishing my story "The Honeymoon" on WriteSpace. :)

http://writespace4iw.wordpress.com/2010/12/19/story-space-the-honeymoon-by-smitha-luthra/

Book Review: Ripples

I recently had an opportunity to read a book of short stories. It is called “Ripples” and is published by APK Publishers. It is a collection of forty-eight beautiful short stories by twenty-six women writers compiled together in a single book by Prashant Karhade.

As a reader and as one who occasionally dabbles in writing, I have always believed that fiction is nothing but a reality that we at some point of time in our lives have refused to acknowledge as one. What the society chooses to turn a deaf ear to, sooner or later finds its way back into the lives of its people and makes itself heard; dressed up in the alphabet and wearing the garb of a story. And we readily accept it then, in its more palpable form, allowing it to weave itself into the fabric of our lives and leave subtle lessons on the landscape of our psych.

If I could allow myself the use of just one cliché to describe this book, I would compare it to a rainbow of many colours. The stories in this book hold an immense power to trigger a range of emotions in the reader. I usually read a good book from cover to cover and finish it over a day or two. My reaction to this book was different. Each story left a distinct flavour and I found myself stopping between stories, trying to ruminate on what just happened in there and allowing myself to take a moment and bask in the feeling the story evoked inside me.

Though it is hard to pick a set of stories that left a lasting impression on me from amongst the forty-eight, there are some that stayed with me a little longer than the others. Perhaps it was only because I was able to visualize them more clearly on my mind-screen at that point of time. Stories like “Home Is Where The Heart Is”, “Fading Lights” and many others warm the heart and fill it with hope. There are some like “Wilted Dreams” and “Almost Heaven” that beautifully fill the reader with a faint sense of pleasure and then just when you start to snuggle deeper into the blanket of peace and contentment expertly cast over you by the author, they catch you unawares and leave you tingling with a strange stabbing sadness. While “The Oleander Flowers” and “Family Of Beauties” left me disturbed and angry, the stories “Never Mine But I Felt The Loss” and “My Brother Jai” left me feeling a deep penetrating sense of loss. There are stories with an eerie, thriller like quality like “For You, My Love” and “Atonement” that appeal to a certain part of the brain and then there are some that are written so beautifully that they are pure reading pleasure and one ceases to take notice of the genre they fall into. But having said that, this is my set of stories and I am sure when I reread the book in a few months’ time (which I most definitely will), I will pick up a few more and add to this set. That is the beauty of the book. Every reader of this book will most definitely be able to pick a handful of these stories and say with certainty that they made a difference to him/her.

All in all, it is a beautiful collection of stories – one that is surely not to be missed; not only for literary pleasure but also for the plenitude of unique human moments and the explosion of varied feelings the stories evoke in the reader.

हिंदी कविता: उम्मीद

गुमसुम सी सड़क पर
सूना सा इक मोड़ आएगा
सन्नाटों के शोर में
बंजर रात सिसकती होगी
और चाँद ऊँगली थामे
तुम्हें घर तक छोड़ आएगा

हिंदी कविता: अहसास

जिन अहसासों को लफ्जों की ज़मीन न दे सकें,
उन्हें ख़्वाबों के पंख दे दिया करते हैं,
ये दिल में रुक कर
दिल ही को छलनी किया करते हैं

हिंदी कविता: उलझी सी लकीरें

उलझी सी लकीरें मुट्ठी में लिए,
चले जाते हैं वीरानों में नयी सड़क तलाशते हुए

कभी अपनों को ढूंढते हुए,
कभी अपनों में खुद को तलाशते हुए

दिन की स्याही से लिखते हैं कहानी अपनी,
जीतते इंसानों से, सवालों से मगर हारते हुए

कभी आँधियों का रुख बदल देते हैं,
कभी चल देते हैं हवाओं की ऊँगली थामते हुए

चाँद को बंदी बना लेते हैं सपनों में कभी,
कभी ढलते सूरज की गोद में खुद को ढालते हुए

चले जाते हैं वीरानों में नयी सड़क तलाशते हुए

Poetry: Life is a battle and ally despair

Ghosts from the past, they seem,
These shadows, unheard, unseen,
How I wish they would let me be,
Lonesome, numb, however serene.

They listen not; they lurk behind,
Clouding vision, these tears unkind,
I cannot fathom why they cling,
Bygones they are, not out of mind.

Rougher terrain, weather unfair,
All the worlds a dizzy fanfare,
Quicksand, this yore of mine,
Life is a battle and ally despair.

हिंदी कविता: चिराग

अपने हाथों से चिराग जला दो अँधेरे में,
अधूरी सी मैं, अधूरी मेरी परछाई,
हमकदम हुए तो पूरे हो जायेंगे.

हिंदी लघु कथा: असली नकली

“यह लीजिये पांच सौ का नोट लालाजी. अब आप हमें दो सौ लौटा दीजिये." अहमद साहेब ने अपना राशन का सामान थैले में रखा और साइकिल पर थैले को बाँधने लगे.

"लालाजी, ये नोट तो नकली हैं", दो सौ सौ के करारे नोटों को देखते हुए वो बोल पड़े और नोट वापस लालाजी के हाथ में थमा दिए.

"नकली? अरे क्या कहते हो भैया? हमनें कोई मशीन थोड़े ही लगा रखी है नोट छापने की? हमारे पास भी तो आप जैसे ही ग्राहकों से ही आते हैं सब नोट!"

लालाजी का गुस्सा छुपाये नहीं छुप रहा था. उधर दूकान के अन्दर खड़ा छोटू झाड पोंछ करता हुआ खिसिया के हंस पड़ा. जिस स्टूल पर खड़ा ऊपर से अलमारी साफ़ कर रहा था, उससे उतर कर अपनी गणित की कॉपी निकाली. चार लकीरों को पांचवी लकीर से काट कर जोर से हंसा.

लालाजी ने मन ही मन कहा, "लो, एक बार फिर शर्त हार गया बन्दर से. यह लड़का है बड़ी ऊंची चीज़! बेचारे अहमद भाई पर यूँ ही बरस पड़ा मैं."

थोडा मन शांत किया और बोले, "क्या कहूं भाई जान, मेरी तो कुछ समझ में ही नहीं आता के नकली है या असली. मैं भी तो सोचो ठगा ही तो गया हूँ ना. जाने कौन दे गया होगा यह नोट मुझे! आप तो पुराने ग्राहक हो, अब आप से क्या छुपाना. रातों की नींद हराम हो गयी है मेरी इन नकली नोटों की वजह से. कारोबार का सत्यानास हो चला है. इसीलिए आप पर भी यूँ ही बरस पड़ा. माफ़ करना."

और फिर थोडा हिचकिचाते हुए बोले, "ज़रा हमें भी समझाना कैसे पहचानते हैं नकली नोट..."

"अरे मियां, आप तो वो मशीन ही लगवा लो नोट पहचानने की. कहाँ आप इस उम्र में अपनी आँखों को तकलीफ देंगे. इतना आसान भी नहीं है सिखाना. काफी पेचीदा मामला है. मेरी नमाज़ का भी समय हो रहा है. आप ऐसा करो, यह रखो तीन सौ रुपये. कसम खुदा की, असली नोट दे रहा हूँ. चाहो तो दस्तखत कर दूं. मशीन से चेक करवा लेना. जो नकली निकले तो हाथ के हाथ बदल दूंगा."

अहमद भाई ने साइकिल पकड़ी और निकल पड़े. मन ही मन सोचे जा रहे थे, "अब तो मुन्ने को सामान लेने लाले की दूकान पे भेजना खतरे से खाली नहीं. जाने कब नकली नोट थमा दे मासूम बच्चे की हथेली पर. थोड़ी सी तो दूर है रमेश बनिये की दूकान. चार कीड़े ही तो ज्यादा निकलेंगे चावल में, चिकन बिरयानी समझ के खा लेंगे. और एक बार साइकिल निकाल ही ली तो थोडा आगे जाने में क्या हर्ज़ है? कम से कम नकली नोटों से तो बच जायेंगे."

"बड़ी हंसी आ रही है छोटू बेटा? कोई काम धाम नहीं है क्या? मुफ्त की रोटियां तोड़ने की आदत होती जा रही है. देख तो, किवाड़ के पीछे कितनी धुल है, मार ज़रा कपडा कस के. पता चले लाले की चक्की का आटा खाता है!" अहमद भाई के जाते ही लालाजी छोटू पर बरस पड़े.

"लालाजी, अब तो मान जाओ. कंजूसी छोडो. मसीन ले ही लो. वैसे मेरी हिसाब की किताब के हिसाब से अहमद भाई दसवें आदमी थे आपका नकली नोट पकड़ने वाले. अब तो यह दोनों नोट भी मेरे हुए. लाइए लाइए, दीजिये और फिर देखिये कैसे चकाचक सफाई करता हूँ." छोटू ने भी मुस्कुराते हुए अपनी हथेली आगे रख दी.

"ले रख. नकली नोट! राम राम! लक्ष्मी का ऐसा घोर निरादर! पैसे क्या पेड़ पर लगते हैं जो उस बनारसी बाबू को ज़रा सी मसीन के बावीस सौ पकड़ा दूं! जा जा, काम कर."

"किसी न किसी के आँगन के पेड़ पर तो लग ही रहे हैं न पैसे, लालाजी. जाने कौन है जो आपको नकली के नोट चेपे जा रहा है तीन महीने से. मेरी मानो, एक बार फिर से बुलवा भेजो बनारसी बाबू को. थोडा ठंडा सरबत पिलाओ और फिर मोल भाव करो. लगता है दो हज़ार में मान जाएगा."

अपने बच्चों सा प्यार करते थे लालाजी छोटू को. मेहनती बच्चा था. कभी मेहनत से जी नहीं चुराया उसने. वो भी बड़ा मान करता था लालाजी का. पर जहां पैसे खर्च करने की बात आती थी, दिल बैठा जाता था लालाजी का.

"सोचूंगा. तू जा काम कर अपना. देख तो, मूंग की दल में किल्ली पड़ने को है. पिछवाड़े ले जाकर धूप में रख कर आ बोरे को."

छोटू तो अपना कपडा कंधे पे डाल बोरा उठा के गायब हो गया. लालाजी बेचारे चिंतित से मक्खियों पर झल्लाने लगे.

"नाक में दम कर रखा है इन मुई नकली मक्खियों ने!"

नकली नोटों ने दिमाग पर ऐसा कब्ज़ा किया हुआ था के सभी कुछ नकली नज़र आने लगा था लालाजी को.

"वोह राम दयाल भी, लालाजी लालाजी कहता नहीं थकता था, कल अगली गली के बनिये के पास से थैला भर के लाता दिखा था. ऐसे तो मेरा काम काज सब चौपट हो जाएगा."

मोटे लालाजी नन्हे बालक की तरह रुआंसे हो चले.

*
बस पौ फटने ही वाली थी. बनियाइन आँगन में अपने भीगे बाल सुखा रही थी और मन ही मन गायत्री मंत्र का जाप कर रही थी जब लालाजी के चिल्लाने की आवाज सुन कर घबरा गयी. दौड़ कर कमरे में पहुंची तो देखा लालाजी अपने दिल पर हाथ रखे उठे बैठे हैं. फ़ौरन पास रखे मटके से एक गिलास पानी निकालकर लालाजी तो दिया और पीठ मसलने लगी.

"क्या हुआ जी आपको?"

"क्या बोलूं मुन्नी की माँ, इतना सुहाना सपना देख रहे थे हम... इतनी, इस किवाड़ जितनी, बड़ी तिजोरी थी जिसमें भरे थे हीरे जवाहरात और नोटों की गद्दियाँ. इतने नोट थे के हम खुद नोटों के ढेर पर बैठे थे और आप बनारसी साडी पहने, सोने से लबालब, चांदी की थाली में गरम गरम मालपुए परोस रही थीं. बस चाशनी से भरा पहला निवाला अभी मुख में जाने ही वाला था के कहीं से छोटू भागता हुआ आया और बोला 'लालाजी सब नकली है - नोट, शोट, सोना चांदी...यहाँ तक के माल पुए भी. भाग लो, सारा गाँव आपको मारने आ रहा है...' बस हम हडबडा के उठ गए."

"धीरज रखिये जी. मेरी मानिए लगवा ही लीजिये वो मसीनवा. ऐसे में आपको कुछ हो जाए तो सबही कुछ धरा का धरा ही रह जाएगा."

दुनिया की हर मिस्सेज़ अपने मिस्टर को ऐसी परिस्थिति में यही कहती है. पर फिर भी दुनिया के हर मिस्टर की तरह लालाजी को भी अपनी मिस्सेज़ की बात बड़ी ही गहरी लगी. वैसे तो रोज़ अपनी पत्नी की आवाज़ कानों में चुभती है, पर आज उन्हें उनकी जिव्हा पर सरस्वती का वास नज़र आ रहा था. बोले, "बात तो तुम्हारी सोलह आने खरी है मुन्नी की माँ. अब तो हमने ठान ही ली है. मसीन लगवा कर ही दम लेंगे."

*
"अरे छोटू, आज हमने सोच ही लिया है. अब मसीन लगवा ही लेते हैं. बहुत ठग लिया हमको दुनिया ने. अरे, ऐसे में हमको कुछ हो जाए तो सबही कुछ धरा का धरा ही रह जाएगा.",

कोई कह नहीं सकता था के अपनी मिस्सेज़ के शब्द चुरा के बोल रहे हैं लालाजी.

"क्या बात है, लालाजी! आज तो मैं भी आपके लिए बढ़िया खबर लाया हूँ. सुन कर बांछें खिल जायेंगी आपकी! पहले वादा करिए के गुलाब जामुन खिलाएंगे, फिर बताता हूँ."

"क्या खबर लाया है? सुबह सुबह अभी लक्ष्मी आनी तो शुरू नहीं हुई, उसके जाने का प्रबंध हो रहा है. ऐसे में क्या अच्छी खबर ला सकता है?" लालाजी भारी मन से बोले.

"तो फिर सुनो. वो जो बनारसी बाबू हैं न, जो दूकान दूकान साइकिल पर नोट चेक करने की मसीन बेचने को आये थे, बस यूँ समझो, हमारे दूर के रिश्तेदार हैं."

"दूर के?"

"बस, वो ऐसा है न के, माँ ने मेरी बात चलाई हुई है... सादी की..." छोटू थोडा शर्माते हुए बोला. "वोह लड़की है न, उसके पिताजी के ममेरे भाई के बेटे ही तो हैं वोह बनारसी भैया... बस यूँ ही राह चलते मिल गए थे मुझे कल, और बात बात में बात निकल ली. कहने लगे अपनी बेटी के होने वाले ससुराल से भला कमिसन क्या कमाएंगे... पूरे सोलह सौ में बात पक्की कर के आया हूँ. मैंने कहा लालाजी को बता दूंगा, फिर वो अपनी सूझ बूझ से बात फाइनल करेंगे."

"अरे वाह! जा जा, जल्दी से लेके आ. इससे पहले के लड़की वाले तेरी सूरत देख कर रिश्ते से इनकार कर दें, तू मसीन लेके आ." लालाजी ने फ़ौरन छोटू को पैसे थमा दिए.

*
चमचमाती मसीन आई दूकान पर. लालाजी ने उसे फूल माला पहना कर, धूप बत्ती करके अपनी दूकान के द्वार के पास ऐसे सजा के रखा के हर आने जाने वाले की नज़र उस पर पड़ती थी. उस पर रोज़ दबा के कपडा मारना छोटू का काम था.

सबसे पहले तो उन्होंने अपने गल्ले के सारे नोट चेक कर डाले. ज्यादा नहीं, बस तीन पचास के, एक सौ का और पांच दस दस के नोट नकली बताये मसीन ने. हिसाब करके मन ही मन सोचा लालाजी ने एक मसीन फिर भी दो हज़ार से कम की पड़ी छोटू की वजह से. ख़ुशी ख़ुशी छोटू के लिए अगले दिन गुलाब जामुन बनवाये.

*

छोटू का रिश्ता तो हुआ नहीं उस घर, पर लालाजी का काम बन गया था. यही कोई दो-तीन हफ्ते ही बीते थे के एक दिन, लक्ष्मी मैया के आगे अगरबत्ती जलाते हुए न जाने लालाजी को क्या सूझा और छोटू से पूछ बैठे,

"क्या बताया था तूने? वोह बनारसी बाबू तेरा दूर का चचेरा भाई निकला था...? कोई और भी पूछ रहा था हमें मसीन के बारे में, इसीलिए उसकी याद आई..."

"अरे नहीं लालाजी, मेरा भाई नहीं, वो लड़की के बापू के चचेरे भाई का बेटा था वो... इसी लिए तो इतना दिश्कोउंत दिया था...आज कल तो अपना खुद का भाई भी कमिसन न छोड़े..."

"तुझे ठीक से याद है न वो चचेरे भाई का बेटा था?“ लालाजी ने पूछा.

"हाँ लालाजी, अगर बात बन जाती तो साला ही न बनता मेरा वोह? वैसे वो लोग तो कहते थे के लड़का लाखों में एक है, बस मेरी माँ ही अटक गयी के दहेज़ में स्कूटर मिलेगा तो ही ब्याहेगी बेटे को." छोटू भी कहने से न चूका.

लालाजी मन ही मन मुस्कुराए, "मैं न कहता था के ऊंची चीज़ है यह लड़का. पहले बोला था ममेरा भाई है, अब कहता है चचेरा भाई है. नकली नोट दे कर मसीन खरीद लाया होगा. बदमाश, मुझसे सोलह सौ ले गया. जी तो चाहता है डंडा उठा के मारूं इसके, पर भेद खोल दिया तो नौकरी छोड़ देगा. अगली गली वाले का छोटू तो पहले ही भाग खड़ा हुआ है धोबी की लड़की के साथ. फ़ौरन जाकर उसकी दूकान पे काम पर लग जाएगा. क्या करूं?"

फिर कुछ सोच कर मन ही मन बोले, "लड़का तो काम का है. अपने हाथ में रखूंगा तो मेरे ही काम आएगा बच्चा कल को. चलो, ये समझूंगा आखिरी बार नकली नोटों से ठगा गया हूँ. बस आगे से नज़र पक्की रखूंगा इस पर."

फिर याद आया,

"वादा किया है मिस्सेज़ ने के इसके बेटा होगा तो चांदी के कटोरी-चम्मच देंगी इसकी बहू को. अब मेरी नज़र तो कमज़ोर होती जा रही है, कौन जाने असली और नकली चांदी के भेद को? राम राम, यह सुनार भी तो ठग बनते जा रहे हैं आज कल."

सब दुःख भूल कर लालाजी अपने बही खाते खोलने में व्यस्त हो गए.

Short Story: The Spell

“Viren, not another party… please.” she implored knowing only too well that it was going to be in vain. It had become a ritual and her first reaction to any invitation came out almost spontaneously.

“The CM is invited to this one and Mehra has reminded me about it three times since morning. He categorically mentioned that Bhabhiji should come, preferably dressed up in a muted color saree. It would do a world of good for the first impression the CM has of me. I mean, of us.” he corrected himself instantly.

Her silence spoke on her behalf.

“C’mon… we will be back in an hour, I promise. You can be assured I won’t take more than two drinks with CM Sahib around.” Viren put his arms around his wife and hugged her tight. Another set of words died an untimely death in her throat. After all these years, she knew he hugged her whenever he wanted to abort a conversation. And she usually complied.

A gentle scent of his cologne lingered in the air after Viren walked out of the room in his usual fast stride - a scent she had lived with for the last seven years and yet it had always felt foreign.

She had known Viren since their college days. He had always been ambitious and an idealist. Coming from similar middle-class households, in those days all they had were dreams. They would sit on the beach for hours and talk about them. He loved the fact that unlike other girls in college who were hardcore feminists and fiercely career-oriented, Neeti did not feel ashamed about wanting to be a stay-at-home wife and mother. He loved the confidence in those hazel eyes and the pride with which she carried herself amongst girls who had written her off from the “in” crowd for her choice of career – a career they likened to the role of a doormat. She loved him for his love for nature and wild-life and the passion with which he spoke of reversing the environmental damages caused by technology. And it was during one of those long conversations in which Viren poured himself out before her, that she realized she had fallen hopelessly in love with him and his dreams of changing the world.

Today many of those dreams had materialized. Viren had risen fast, turning almost everything he touched, to gold. Now he wanted to venture into politics and contest an election from their constituency. He was getting more and more restless as he inched closer to his dream of spearheading the environment ministry. And Mehra Ji, a shrewd and intelligent man of forty was his backbone, the man who had made Viren’s dream, his own mission.

She ran her fingers through the sarees in her closet, trying to mentally match each one with the light grey suit Viren had selected for himself. As usual, she wanted the best match. Her fingers came to a stop and rested lovingly on a pale blue faux silk saree. It was old and slightly worn out at the borders. She held it closer to her nose. It seemed to still carry within itself, some traces of their yesteryears – particularly one hot September afternoon almost a decade back. She could smell, in the folds of the saree, remnants of havan-samagri mixed with the scent of marigold and sandalwood agarbattis. She remembered the sticky feel of this proud new saree on her sweaty waist. That was the day she had unveiled the foundation stone for their twenty-worker watch manufacturing unit – a firm Viren had worked day in and day out to setup. How proud he had been! And that was the day he had hugged her; perhaps the last of those genuine, heartfelt hugs brimming with emotion and the sweet smell of his sweat.

Now the cologne had replaced the sweat.

“Neeti, see you outside in ten. Daisy, ask the driver to get the Merc out.”

Viren’s voice brought her back to reality. She rejected the pale blue saree for it was faux silk and clearly not appropriate for the setting. She pulled out a blue Satya Paul in chiffon with subtle hints of silver and rushed to the bathroom.

*

The air was thick with smoke and distant echoes of loud music playing on the dance floor. She ran the stirrer in her glass of orange juice for the eleventh time. She had clear instructions to stay away from her usual glass of whiskey because of the presence of the Chief Minister and the press. On the table to her right was a wannabe socialite seeking feedback about a certain posh pet-grooming store from a self-appointed Page-3 personality. Seated on the table to her left were a handful of heavy mascara and hot pink lipsticks having a sexy pout contest under the guise of discussing their favorite charity.

She was not much of a drinker, except a few occasional drinks at home; but she liked to create the impression of an alcoholic. It kept the butterflies away. With experience she had learnt to carry a glass of neat whiskey in her hands from the beginning to the end of the evening. Being seen like this for hours at a stretch was enough to get the mouths talking. And she firmly believed that if you gave them enough fodder to talk about you, they wouldn’t talk to you. It also gave her something to smile about on days when she would walk out of a party having discreetly left her unused glass of whiskey on one of the side-tables.

However, being the solitary reaper at such events often came with the risk of running into a handsome, young, aspiring model. One who would be only too happy to gaze dreamily in her eyes and tell her how no one really understood her and how he could read the loneliness and void in her beautiful brown eyes.

Having attended more than a thousand parties by now, she knew there were at least half a dozen such specimens in every gathering of hundred. He would be around late-twenties or early thirties; chivalrous and good looking in a boyish sort of way and an extremely good listener; the latter usually making up for any lack of the former traits. He would be on the lookout for a rich, bored house-wife who was waiting to hear how lonely her life was without a true love that could heal her spiritually and emotionally. He usually never offered himself physically until he had made a thorough check on his target’s purse and credit history.

She knew how to handle that type. Sometimes in her gloomiest moments, she even played along for a while amusing herself with the meaningless banter and frivolous male attention.
Her eyes fixed their gaze for the umpteenth time on the sleek diamond studded watch on her wrist. It had been three hours since she had been introduced to CM Sahib and Viren had vanished with the other men. She loosened and then tightened the grip of her fingers around her cell-phone. Calling up Viren was pointless. It sometimes made him uncontrollably angry and abusive - something she couldn’t risk today since he was in VIP surroundings.

She stared at the huge ornate clock on the wall as the minute and second hands became one with each other, their perpetual love-making reaching a pre-destined climax. At that stroke of midnight she thought of Cinderella, the princess whose magic wore off as she rushed back to her simple life, away from her prince, leaving behind a glass slipper on the steps of a palace. They were indeed fairy tales –tales of love and togetherness; tales of happily-ever-after marriages… tales that never came true in real life.

Perhaps that is why the central characters in most of the stories she wrote anonymously, under the pen name of her parents, were animals; who she believed were higher in EQ despite having brain volumes lower than 1400 cc – one of the characteristics that distinguish humans from the other members of fauna. The MD of the publishing firm had often expressed a desire to meet her in person. Perhaps he wanted to come face to face with Sulakshna Arvind who had, by God’s grace, grown to become an immensely illustrious contributor to childhood and teenage fiction. She had read one of his interviews in the papers where he had credited Sulakshna Arvind for helping him revive his failing business. She had worn a mysterious smile all of that day. Even Viren had noticed it, but hadn’t bothered to probe any further. He no longer had the time.

It had been a challenge to weave real stories around animals that would strike a chord with the extremely difficult to please reader-base – the early teenagers. But through her writing, she had managed to relate with their pains and heartbreaks, their raging hormones and turbulent tempers and subtly pass on little life lessons under the guise of animal stories. Connecting with children in this way also helped heal, to some extent, her own wound of unfructified motherhood - a wound she had carried the burden of for many years.

Today she felt a little like Cinderella, and a lot unlike her. Like her, today she was where she had never imagined she could be when she was seven years old. Unlike her, she was waiting for a magic wand that could break the spell.

She wondered if her life was indefinitely stained with magic.

*

Viren was too drunk to realize that the Mercedes had come to an abrupt halt at a gas station on the highway. It was 1:45 in the morning. Apparently for reasons of safety, but in reality because she no longer felt comfortable in adornments of any kind, Neeti took off her chandelier diamond earrings and placed them in her purse. These days even putting on makeup felt like telling a lie.
Hoping to catch a whiff of the petrol fumes, she pulled down the car window and peeped outside.

It had always been a pleasant olfactory experience that connected her to her childhood. Her father worked as a car-mechanic and a handyman at a gas-station when she was around six years of age. Every night when he returned from work, with his clothes smeared with grease and dirt and reeking of petrol, he would hug her and tell her about his day, despite her mother’s many protests. Working at a gas-station, on one of the most frequented highways, her father dealt with people from all walks of life. His everyday stories carried within them a wealth of knowledge – a wealth she had applied throughout her life. Perhaps that is why, she was usually able to understand why people did the things they did.

Mother however, always grumbled about the grease stains on her dress. It took her a while to understand that mothers in general, are more intelligent than they appear. They know that in order for their children to be able to think big and see beyond stained clothes and dust-mites, they themselves have to limit their thought process to the seemingly trivial and petty domestic tasks. Being successful in life becomes easier if there is someone to take care of one's daily nutrition and basic housekeeping needs. But even today, she thought, in most households this someone is ironically considered the least cerebral of all.

Ramesh, their driver was talking to a bearded guy in dirty blue overalls, enquiring about the quality of petrol. He had been very apologetic to her about not having anticipated this out-of-fuel situation. This was the first slip in his four year long service. Looking at his eyes, she could tell how dear this job was for him. Thankfully Viren was fast asleep and Ramesh was spared the reprimand.

She decided to step out and take a walk, hoping to get tired enough to catch some sleep by the time they reached home. In the high-rise penthouse they had lived in before they moved to their villa, there had at least been a ceiling fan to give her company through the night - something she could talk to while the soporific worked. Now they had a false ceiling with discreet air conditioning and mood lighting... and false slumber underneath.

Her eyes travelled from the Pepsi hoardings to a dhaba right across the highway. Strange, she thought that it was still buzzing with activity at such an unearthly hour. A tourist bus for Jaipur had come to a stop and an assortment of men and women and sleepy children were assembling around cheap plastic tables. Platefuls of sliced onions and green-chillies were being placed on the tables while orders for black dal and butter paneer were being taken down. How she would have loved to knock her heels off and sit cross legged in one of those rickety chairs, digging her fingers into a pile of rajma-chaawal!

And then it suddenly struck her. She checked the time on her watch. It was 2 AM. She turned back towards the car. A gentle humming of Viren’s snores filled the air around the car. Ramesh was busy talking to the bearded man, all the while keeping a good eye on the car – an attribute of a good driver. All she needed was a shawl to cover her designer blouse and ten minutes of anonymity. She took off her bangles and placed them in her purse. She clutched her money pouch from the purse and after making sure that she had a few denominations lower than 500 rupee notes, she walked towards the dhaba looking forward to a simple but divinely satisfying meal.

*

“Among the many casualties in the sudden fire that took place at a gas station on NH-8 early this morning was prominent business tycoon Virendra Singh of the Singh Group of Industries. It is apparent from the charred remains of the white Mercedes that the explosion was so severe that bodies of Mr. Singh and his wife Mrs. Neeti Singh cannot possibly be in a recognizable condition. As you can see on the left panel of your television screen, full efforts are on at the place of accident to identify the victims from the remains of the bodies. Apparently there were around eight to ten people at the gas station early this morning when suddenly a fire erupted in the back office. Before the fire could be controlled, it spread to the fuel filling stations where there were two cars parked, one of them being Mr. Singh’s Mercedes…
…The question remains, who will be the heir to the enormous fortune of Singh Group of Industries as both Mr. and Mrs. Singh had no siblings and no children of their own. Speculations are on that all the big names in retail are eyeing for…
…This is Minal Ruparel reporting live from the spot with cameraman Joseph…”

It was 5 AM by the clock on the wall to his right. Mr. Trilok Mehra switched off the LCD television set in the living room of his mansion. His phone was ringing incessantly.

"Damn! I need to rework my strategy now..." he threw the remote at the TV set in agitation.

"This just had to happen when I had everything planned out just right for me... it seemed too good to be true... the man had been so trusting... damn.. if only I could get my hands on the will..."

*

She was standing at the entrance of the dhaba when she heard the explosion. She turned around and gave out a loud scream. An enormous orange flame had swallowed the entire gas station. She was shaking with shock, giving out loud shrieks every second, until she felt a hand on her shoulder and that is when she collapsed.

When she opened her eyes, she saw two men, staring at her intently. They looked like they worked at the dhaba.

“Madam Ji has woken up. She looks better now. Here drink this Madam Ji…” the younger of the two slipped a glass of water into her shivering hand.

“It was a big explosion… perhaps a fire broke. Thank God Ji, rab da shukar hai, it didn’t spread outside the gas station otherwise we all would have been tandoori chicken by now.” said the other, senior looking guy. He seemed more interested in the cameraman and reporter walking down towards the dhaba from across the street and ran his oily fingers through his hair. In a couple of minutes he was going to be on television.

The gas station or whatever little was left of it was swarming with media, police, fire men and their crew.

“I think you got a shock Madam Ji. Your bus left in a hurry. All passengers were getting restless because of this fire. But you can take the next bus to Jaipur in an hour. Here, you dropped your purse when you fell. Please check the amount. And come inside in the deluxe eating room and sit on the sofa ji please.” The younger and clearly kinder fellow helped her go inside and seat herself on the sofa while he went to fetch a cup of kadak chai for her.

She sat there, on the red and green upholstered sofa that showed way too many signs of wear and tear; going through the events of a few hours back, over and over in her mind. Viren’s face, as she last saw him, sleeping like a baby in the car, swam before her eyes. She loved him. In spite of his indifference and preoccupation with his ambition, she always knew he needed her. And that to her was enough to feel loved. With every ounce of her patience and more, she had been waiting for him to come back to her. They had been together all these years, through thick and thin. They were meant to be together.

Now it was all over. He would never come back to her. The reason why she lived the life she hated, the reason why she never got tired of matching her clothes with his, the reason why she wore silence as a sacred garment about the house and drowned her emotions into fiction was that one day, when the summit was reached, he would find himself very lonely; he would find himself all alone with no one of his own out there at the top. That is when, his eyes that looked through her today as if she didn’t exist, would search for her.

A few hours back she had seen that reason go up in flames. She sat there for almost an hour, lost in her thoughts. Her face bore the usual lifeless expression – a mask beneath which it was difficult to tell what was going on, had it not been for the continuously flowing tears. The tea in front of her went cold.

A bus destined for Jaipur had just parked itself near the dhaba. She wiped her tears and checked her money-pouch. There was enough to last a few days after which Sulakshna Arvind would be able to take care of herself.

The magic had finally worn off and the spell broken.

Short Story: Happiness

She cleaned toilets for a living. During all of her childhood, she had never gone any further from the dilapidated gate of the solitary school in the district they lived in where she dropped her younger brother every morning before heading to the fields. Now at the age of thirty four, she had limited choices for a career.

Every morning as she boarded the 6:15 bus on the route and settled on the second window seat right behind the conductor, she thanked God for the job because it helped her place food before her family and get past another day’s worth of living. Sitting right behind the conductor helped her in many ways. She would chat with him and indulge in juicy gossip about the other frequenters on the bus which, she unabashedly admitted, was one of the greater pleasures in her life. An occasional light hearted flirting between the two of them added some zing to their otherwise drab existences.

Occasionally, on a chilly winter morning, she would let him have a bite from her piping hot lunch box. The fact that he would conveniently wipe the lunch box clean by the time she reached her destination did not bother her. For in return, he remembered to forget checking her ticket most days of the week. Going without lunch two days a week helped her save more than half her fare. She was quite happy with the bargain. And not surprisingly, in times like these, her job provided her with more job security than people who frequented her workplace possessed.

Before you jump to a conclusion about her workplace, I must tell you that it was the exact opposite of the sorry picture that the first few words might have painted in your mind. An air conditioned room, about three times the size of her one bedroom house, with plush interiors, stylish lighting, a vanity area with the tallest mirrors she had ever seen in her life, an attractive black leather settee and a massive sparkling granite counter constituted her workplace. Well-polished faucets that looked like they had barely been unboxed from their Made-In-Italy packaging peeped eagerly into huge crystal wash basins. Every two feet, well manicured potted plants adorned the counter top and the soap dispensers on the mirrored wall carried in their wombs, the promise of many clean, aromatic hand washes.

She had been struck in awe on her first day at work and had described, in excruciating detail, the wonders of the automatic hand dryer and deodorizer to her bus mates. She also made sure all the women on the bus had sniffed the soap that she had applied a little of on her hands before leaving for the day. They found it hard to believe that a free supply of sanitary napkins was available to whosoever needed them and yet hardly two or three were used up in a week. She worked as a janitor in an MNC office building and besides a meager salary of two thousand rupees a month which she had conveniently extrapolated to a wicked three before her audience; she earned the envy of most women on the bus who worked as household help, and unlike her, were made to clean toilets without rubber gloves on.

Today was another one of her lunch-less days. She sat in one corner of the room in her uniform, a brown sari and green overcoat with an embroidered logo of the housekeeping company that she was employed with, having double checked all the items on her checklist. Counter dry, soap dispensers ready, toilets flushed and reeking of phenyl, toilet-paper rolls replenished, floor mopped. She patiently waited for the supervisor visit. After the supervisor had finished her round, she planned to sneak into the pantry area and smuggle a few sachets of sugar. They usually gave her the energy to last until dinner.

Hearing some laughter on the other side of the door, she unplugged her finger from her nose and wiped it on her overcoat. She knew their uniform was designed to convert them into inconspicuous creatures who melted into the room’s upholstery. Despite all those efforts, they were eye-sores for those few who managed to take notice. Most others missed them. Though they often admired the texture of the wall tiles or the flower arrangement in the vanity.

Once in a while, a rare woman or two who frequented the ladies room would throw an awkward, clenched smile at her when they accidently bumped into her at the door. And then their fingers would inadvertently cover their noses conveying to their bodies that they had been too close to something unpleasant. Most others would look past her as if she didn’t exist. And for some strange reason, she found them most amusing - women who treated her no better than the toilet bowl they never looked back to check if the contents of had been cleared.

Revenge was sweet. And she didn’t believe in missing out on an opportunity. As soon as a woman would turn on the faucet to wash her hands, she would start flushing the seven toilet-bowls one after another, every three seconds. Since the water to the washbasins and the toilet commodes was supplied through a single connection, the flow of water in the faucet would stop every now and then, making it highly annoying for anyone trying to wash their hands. She relished every moment of that little misery she inflicted on her victim.

The door opened and two women, immersed in a conversation about what sounded like a cosmetics brand, entered the toilets. One was a rather tall, thin woman with short hair, about twenty five years, wearing a sleeveless pink top and a pair of disgustingly low low-waist jeans that gave her the appearance of a matchstick. The other, a short and stout one, about the same age, with magnificently thick black hair falling at her shoulders in beautiful curls, wore a loose pumpkin yellow top over a denim skirt. She checked herself out a couple of times in the mirror trying to suck her tummy in while the tall one rested her foot on the counter top to tie her shoe laces. Under any other circumstances, watching the shoe prints on the well polished counter top would have irritated her. But watching Pumpkin from the corner of her eye, trying, in vain, to find that one angle that camouflaged her love handles amused her to no end.

Pumpkin took out a large hair brush from her bag and started untangling her curls while Matchstick applied another coat of lipstick on her thin lips. Within a few minutes they were done with their grooming and out through the door.

Grudgingly, the solitary inhabitant of the room got up from her usual corner to take out the mop she planned to wipe the foot prints clean with. She pulled a tissue from the tissue box to wipe the water droplets inside the crystal bowls. As her fingers moved around on the inner glass of the washing bowls, collecting droplets of water into the tissue, something hard clinked against the glass. She picked it up.

What looked like a big drop of water at some distance was actually an ear stud, a piece of perfectly cut diamond encased in an outer shell of silver like metal. Each face of the diamond lit up brilliantly under the many spot lights on the false ceiling. It was the brightest, most perfect gem she had seen all her life and the first one she had ever held in her fingers. Her fingers trembled at the thought of where this gem might have landed had she turned on the faucet and allowed the water to wash it off into its intestines. She stood there, staring in amazement at the little piece of jewel, with a million thoughts racing through her mind.

Suddenly she heard footsteps outside the door. Not having decided on what she wanted to do with the little temptation sitting in her palm, she quickly slipped the tissue with the ear stud into her coat pocket and walked back to her usual place.

“Do you remember wearing it when you were in front of the mirror?” Matchstick and Pumpkin stormed into the toilets.

“I don’t know. I was right here, combing my hair. I wouldn’t have been able to tell. I am not wearing my contacts today.” Pumpkin was pointing to the spot where she stood a few minutes back. She was close to tears.

“Think hard. It might have fallen off anywhere then; at the bus stop, in the bus, in the elevator or even in the cafeteria.” Matchstick bent down and looked under the counter top while Pumpkin was frantically scanning the washing bowls with squinting eyes.

“It doesn’t seem to be here”, declared Matchstick, straightening her back. She had checked out the entire floor on her knees.

"Its real solitaire" Pumpkin's voice was now muffled with tears, "I remember my mother-in-law telling the whole world that the pair cost her one and a half lakh rupees. Even if she was exaggerating, each must be around at least a fifty-sixty thousand."

“She will kill me if she knows…” she added in the same breath.

“Over a lakh! Are you kidding me? And you wear it casually to work every day?” exclaimed Matchstick. She ran her fingers over the silver studs on her ears. She had bought them at a local market for three hundred rupees. In a flash, any traces of envy turned into a pleasurable serves-you-right kind of feeling in her eyes. Ah! The minds of women.

“Let’s go down and check the cafeteria. And we should also inform Security. Show them the other earring and let them take a picture of it. They’ll find it if it fell somewhere inside the building. These guys are usually good with lost-and-found”.

Matchstick pulled out a tissue paper and handed it over to Pumpkin. The act had the effect of making Pumpkin cry even more inconsolably.

Together the women walked out the door. Leaving behind them a very surprised woman.

“Sixty Thousand Rupees!” she managed to finally breathe out.

“Ha! Finders are keepers. Aren’t they?” A faint devilish flicker of light came up in eyes already bedazzled with the shine of the gem stone.

“Keep it. It belongs to you now.”

“Return it. It isn’t yours.”

“What good would it do staying put on a dumb little earlobe? It can change my life.”

“No. This isn’t right.”

“There are a lot of things that are not right. The world is living comfortably with them. Why does Padma have to work as a maid all her life? Is that right? I can send her to college with the money”.

Padma was her sixteen year old daughter who had just finished high school. College admission demanded money.

“The money is stolen.”

“It isn’t stolen. What if it had really gone down that drain? It would have been lost forever. No good it would have brought to the world. Now it can give a deserving person a chance to build a better life. Wouldn’t that be a life of more meaning and purpose for a futile adornment?”

Her grip on the tissue tightened and the little angel on her right shoulder faded away for lack of a counter argument.

Suddenly, overjoyed at having easily won the hardest battle mankind has ever had to face, little ideas started to march around in her head like a battalion of ants.

How would she take this diamond out of the facility?
Where would she hide it?
Who would she sell it to?

Selling perhaps, was the easy part. There was this chap the bus conductor had once told her about, a friend of his who was a regular contributor to the chor-bazaar. She could strike a deal with him. Fifty thousand. Yes, she wouldn't settle for anything less than fifty thousand rupees. Fifty was all she needed. And they could keep whatever was the rest. A warm feeling of generosity took over her heart and helped put at ease, the faint little voice inside her head.

How would she explain the money to her family? Her husband? Would he believe where the money was from?

Maybe not.

Did she care?

Again, maybe not. Padma would believe. And that was all that mattered.

Now how would she take it out of the facility? Hiding it in her clothes was not going to work. She remembered the woman with the tight bun and a khaki sari who frisked her from head to toe every morning and evening at the service staff entry-exit gates. She had often wondered what she felt like, running her hands all over a hundred female bodies, every single day of her life. Once in a while she thought her fingers had lingered on a little longer on hers but maybe that was just her imagination. And then maybe not. Maybe she too, after a tough day’s work, lay down next to a man who came home every night, having poured himself into another woman, with little to offer her. She smiled. A dry smile that was so characteristic of her. The gem stone in her palm smiled back innocently at her.

No, she would have to think of another way. She could hide it between her toes in her slippers and walk out the gate. Anyone who noticed might mistake it for a toe ring. But a toe ring on one foot? Surely, that would arouse interest.

Strangely, all these years she had felt like an inanimate piece of the building’s décor and had hated it. Today she felt like she was under the spotlight and how she hated even that! Her heart beat wildly in her chest. In the quiet stillness of the room where the gurgling of water in the pipes around her was the predominant sound that surrounded her all day, she could hear her heartbeat loud and clear.

Where would this little piece of diamond go unnoticed?

Of course, the ears! Why didn’t she think of that? Her fingers rested on the tiny silver rings in her ears. She could take these off and wear the earring in one of the ears. Yes, in the left ear, as Tight-bun stood on her right on the way out. And she could cover her right ear with her hair.

But wouldn’t this brilliant piece of ornament look completely out of place on her earlobe?

All she needed to do was make it look worn-out and old. And dirty enough to match with the rest of her appearance. She also needed to find a place to hide her earrings.

She held the diamond near her left earlobe and adjusted the hair on the right so that they fell on her face. She found herself looking at the image of a magnificent, beautiful woman in the mirror. That’s what jewels do to any woman. They transform her. She smiled.

And that's when she saw it. In the mirror's reflection. The potted plant. She would rub a little of its soft wet earth on the diamond. That would do the trick. And she could stuff her silver earrings in the same potted plant, come back the next day and wear them back on her way out.

She sighed with relief. It was all sorted then. And on the other side of the gate waited a new life for her daughter.

Just then, when she was basking in her new found happiness, that old nagging feeling came back again. Though it seemed alright, it didn’t feel right. The stone didn't belong to her.

Once again she outfought it. And reached for the plant.

Before she could pinch a little of the pot’s mud, the toilet door opened. She grabbed the floor mop and rushed towards her usual spot near the door. The tissue with the stone clenched tightly in her left hand.

She nearly bumped into Pumpkin this time.

Pumpkin was inside the room, the other earring in her hand and for the first time, making eye contact with her.

“Have you seen the other one like this?” she said in a voice muffled with tears. And her eyes conveying a lot more than the words did.

In a moment, just as fast the rush of excitement had travelled through her heart to her mind, it all came crashing down.
She really only wanted to be spoken to once, by the people she served all day. To be noticed. To be treated like another human being. It was a lonely life. That of cleaning up after people who banged the door on her face on their way out.
Finally she had been noticed. She was no longer a piece of furniture. With that little gesture, Pumpkin had filled up the biggest cavity in her heart.

The stubborn uncomfortable feeling in her heart vanished. She extended her hand and opened the tissue before Pumpkin to reveal the other half of the twins.

“Oh my God!” Pumpkin shrieked with joy. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Her tears were genuine. Taking the other half of her earrings from the palm stretched out before her, she placed them back into her purse. Her hand lingered over a hundred rupee note for a brief moment, before she pulled out a fifty rupee note and offered it to the woman wearing a green overcoat.

“No Madam. Thank you.” The woman in the green overcoat said softly and turned around.

With the air of a busy, happy person, one without a care in the world, she started mopping the floor, gently humming to herself.

Short Story: The Gift

“Umm... Ravi, can you pick the milk packets today?” she grumbled at the sound of the doorbell. It didn’t feel like it was 6:30 AM, the usual milkman time.
“Let them wait, Priya.” Ravi sank his head deeper inside the blanket. In less than a minute his snoring filled the air. It was difficult for the first two years of their marriage but now his snoring worked like a lullaby for her and she found herself slipping back into slumber. Her right hand inadvertently reached her belly and caressed an imaginary womb underneath as a smile came and rested on her lips. She stayed in that moment of borrowed bliss for a few minutes. But not for long as worrying about the milk interfered so much with her day dreaming that she had to give in.

“That cat...” she got up and walked towards the main door, tying her hair back into a bun. A stray cat in the apartment block had become a menace to the housing society. The milkman now rang the doorbells as he placed the daily quota of milk packets at the residents’ doors so that the milk would get picked before tomcat had a chance to bathe it’s whiskers in it.

She was gone only a minute.

“Ravi...Ravi...come fast...”

He woke with a start as if from a bad dream. He picked the gown lying by the bedside and rushed out towards the door where she stood shivering; looking down at what seemed like a bundle of old clothes lying at their doorstep.

In a cheap plastic basket, wrapped tightly from head to toe in what seemed like the pallu end of an old cotton saree, was a sleeping baby. Soft black curls rested on a broad forehead that must have been a pale wheatish had the chill in the air not painted it blue. The little brown flowers on the saree’s red background slowly moved up and down with the baby’s gentle breathing. It was the only visible mark of life.

Ravi looked around the door hoping to spot the person who left the child at his doorstep. He yelled “Koi hai vahaan? Yek kiska bachcha hai?” (Is someone out there? Whose child is this?)
There was no response.

“Priya, I’ll be back”, he hurried out wrapping the gown tightly around his waist.

She stood there on two cold feet, her gaze fixed at the little bundle, not knowing what to do. Should she continue to stand at the door and wait for Ravi to come back? Could she bring the baby in and shut the door? Her toes curled as a burst of cold air bit into her legs.

At the same time the little head turned and a set of tiny purple lips quivered. Two little arms released themselves from the wrap and two tiny hands reached for the closed eyes, gently rubbing them, their palms facing outwards. The wrap fell open and a little belly lay there, exposed to the bitter cold. She hesitated. But it was only for a moment.

Before the next splash of cold air could find its way inside the house, she picked the basket and brought it inside, closing the door behind her. She wrapped the little girl back into the only piece of clothing she had on and rushed into her room.

In a rush to do the right thing for the moment, she rummaged through the linen closet and decided on a thick cotton table cloth. She lifted the baby and wrapped the folded tablecloth around her stiff body. As she tried to gently place the little bundle back into the basket, something tugged at the neck of her gown. She waited a while for the tiny fingers to uncurl and let go of her gown but the baby snuggled deeper into her bosom.

All these years she had only dreamt about this moment and imagined the feeling of having a baby cling tightly to her chest. Experiencing it was something she wasn’t prepared for. She could hear her heart beat in her ears. The little baby's soft breath played the sweetest symphony on her shoulders as her sweet smell melted into Priya’s body and became one with her.

Her right hand shivered as it gently caressed the soft black curls on the baby's head. She could not give herself permission to hold her as if she was her own. But it felt like the baby belonged right there, in Priya's arms.
Though the mind kept reminding her that the baby was someone else’s, the heart seemed to have synchronized itself with the little heart beating against her chest. Nestled on her left arm, drinking the warmth of her body and sucking her tiny thumb, she looked beautiful. If there were any angels for real, this is how they would look, Priya told herself.

A short while later the colour returned to the little cheeks. Her tiny wails reminded Priya that she might be hungry.

As the little girl reached out and lapped up the contents every time a teaspoonful of milk came close to her mouth, tears of anger and gratitude outlined Priya's face.
She felt a sudden burst of anger towards the person who had abandoned this little girl after bringing her to this world. At the same time she felt gratitude towards the person for having chosen her doorstep.
She thought of the unfortunate mother who, if she were alive, would know at this moment how hungry her baby felt. Nature had her own way of taking revenge.

Planting a soft kiss on the baby’s head, she placed her back in the basket that she had cushioned with a big towel. Just then the little girl opened her big brown eyes and smiled at Priya.

Priya knew this was the most important moment of her life. A little drop of tear fell from Priya’s eyes and found itself a new home - on the little baby’s palm.

*

“I looked around everywhere. Couldn’t find anyone. I have informed the security guards in case someone comes looking for a baby..." Ravi was panting as Priya handed him a glass of water.
"Those idiots must have been sleeping when the person entered this colony with the baby.”

“Whoever it was who left her at our doorstep must have meant us to keep her.”

“It is not so simple, Priya. It is an abandoned child. I don’t know what the law says.”

He placed the glass and picked up the cup of tea she handed him.

“Hey! Did you mean -her-? Hmm... I was right then.” He looked at the baby who was by now peacefully sleeping. His heart melted at the mere thought that someone could abandon a child like her.

“This whole India shining business is such a farce. Even today this country still wants only sons. Look at her, she looks so beautiful, so perfect...” he smiled. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. This was the most beautiful face he had seen in his life.

“Hey, was she hungry?“, he remembered suddenly.

“Yes, I gave her some milk with a teaspoon. Just look at her eyes when she wakes. The same colour as mine. Really!” whispered Priya as she gently lifted the baby from the basket and took her to the bedroom.

On her way, she signalled him to stay quiet by placing her finger on her lips.

Sitting at the dining table, Ravi stirred his cup of tea that had already gone cold by then. He was scared for Priya. He couldn't watch her heart break one more time. Three miscarriages in four years. The doctors had suggested them to consider adoption. Only Priya had not been ready to adopt...

Now she looked like she had already adopted this girl in her heart. Was she in for another set back?
What if the child’s parents came by to claim her in a few hours? What if one of the many maids or cooks that worked in the colony came by to pick up her daughter on the way back from work? What if...

“Why don’t you speak to Ramesh Ji today? He is a lawyer. He will be able to give us the right guidance on how to proceed.” Priya said as she came back into the room and wound her arms around his shoulders.

“Okay. I will speak to him today. Do you think Chhutki needs another layer of blanket? It is kind of cold today.”

“She is fine. Chhutki is fine.” Priya smiled lovingly at him.

*

That fifth of January was the happiest and the most difficult day of Priya’s life. It must have been around 11 AM when the doorbell rang again. Ravi had left for work. He had an important meeting after which he was planning to consult Ramesh Sarabhai, their friend and lawyer.

“Didi, kapde hain istri ko? Kaisi ho didi? Itne din ke baad mili...” (Are there clothes for ironing? How are you? I am seeing you after many days.)

She heaved a sigh of relief. It was the dhoban, the ironing lady, who entered the house in her usual quick stride and settled on the living room floor.
Just then Chhutki started crying in the bed room. It was time for the next change of clothes and the next meal.

“Didi, mehmaan hain ghar mein? Baad mein aaoon?” (Do you have guests? Shall I come later?)

“Haan. Shaam ko.” (Yes. In the evening.)

Priya was only too happy to shut the door after her. She did not want to see anyone. She felt like a thief who had accidently run into a treasure chest and was trying to hide it from the eyes of the world.
She would jump every time the phone rang. Her heart missed a beat with each door bell she heard.

The daily maid, who was only too delighted to have a day off, was gotten rid of without much pain.

Around noon there was a visitor. The plumber had decided to turn up twelve days late to fix the dripping faucet in the bathroom.
“Madam, agar aaj nahin kiya to agle 10 din tak kaam nahin ho sakega. Mujhe Indore jaana hai.” (If I don’t finish the job today it will have to wait for 10 days. I am going to Indore.)

She sent him away.

Around 3 in the afternoon, the door bell rang again. Her grip around Chhutki grew a wee bit tighter. She was rocking her to sleep in her arms. While Priya’s empty stomach was churning with anxiety, the little girl’s face had a calm, serene smile.

Thankfully it was the courier boy.

As the sun packed it's bags and called it a day, Priya’s insecurity began to fade. The fear, that someone would have a change of mind and come back to claim the baby, had somewhat diminished. Besides, Chhutki had kept her on her toes all day. She had loved every moment of fussing over her, massaging her, bathing her, feeding her, changing her. Not wanting to let their parents know until things had really worked out, she called an old friend, a mother of two, and took instructions over phone.

It must have been around seven in the evening when the dhoban came back. By then Priya was in a relaxed, good humoured mood.

“Mehmaan gaye kya didi?” (Have the guests gone?) she enquired. The house was exceptionally silent.

Chhutki, as if on cue started crying. Priya rocked her in her arms while the dhoban counted the clothes.

“Kab aayi gaanv se?” (When did you return from the village?) Priya asked the dhoban, primarily to keep her from asking anything about the baby.

“Aaj subah hi ko to aayi didi, das baje. Dekho to bas aate se hee kaam pe lag gayi. Yeh aadmi log ke bas ka koi kaam na hai humaare bina.” (I came this morning at 10. Look I’ve been working since then. These men can’t manage anything without us.)

“Iss baar to bada time laga ke aayi gaanv mein. Tu hi kiya kar press, voh tera pati Ghanshaam achche kapde press nahin karta. Ruk, tujhe iss baar Diwali bhi nahin dee. Le rakh le.”
(This time you spent a long time in the village. You iron clothes much better. That husband of yours, he does not do a good job. Here, take this. I didn’t give you anything for Diwali this year.)
Priya handed her a fiftee rupee note.

“Thank you, didi” she said folding it and tying it at the end of her pallu, blushing like she always did when she spoke in English.

“Subah ko leke aati kapde. Iss baar chakaachak press karoongi.”
(I will bring the clothes tomorrow morning. This time the ironing will be perfect.)

*

“Congratulations new mommy!” Ravi hugged her as he handed her the clearance papers. He sounded like a seven year old.

It had been almost a month since the morning of January 5. The Juvenile Welfare Board had given their clearance and Chhutki was legally ready for adoption. Ravi’s hard work and running around had finally been fruitful. The Child Welfare Committee had paid two surprise visits. They had also advised Priya and Ravi to get a thorough medical check-up of Chhutki done, to rule out the possibility of any congenital defects before they made up their mind.
Their decision to adopt Chhutki was unfaltering but Priya and Ravi got the medical check up done. She was little Miss Neha Mehta already and legal adoption was just a signature away.

Priya teased Ravi. “I knew it all the time that everything would work out just fine. You had been unnecessarily worried.”

“Oh is it? I still remember how many times I called you from work that day but you didn’t pick up the phone – the scared little woman that you were.” He laughed.

“Now, if Papa darling doesn’t mind, we have some shopping to do. We are out of diapers again.” she said handing over the car seat to him.

*

“But I don’t want to leave... Ravi, I love it here.” Priya grumbled. Her face had the sullen look of a six year old who was being sent to bed while Tom and Jerry was just starting on Cartoon Network.

“Priya, this is an amazing opportunity for me. You know how much we both love travelling. And imagine, moving to Chicago. It will be so good for my career.”

“I know Ravi. But everyone’s here – our families, friends...”

“Just think about Chhutki. Everyone here in the neighbourhood knows. Sooner or later, maybe accidently, someone might break it to her. Do you want her to come to know of it this way? Look at her, she is only five and a half.”

Priya looked at Chhutki. She was playing with her dolls on the sofa besides her. With two little pigtails on her head and in a pale pink frock, she looked as adorable as ever. Occasionally she lifted her head to smile at Priya and her broken front tooth peeped out between her lips. She was learning to tie her doll’s hair into a braid. Each time a strand of golden hair slipped through her little fingers and messed up the braid, she would shake her little head in disapproval and pick it up again and start afresh.
Just watching her closely was a lesson in patience and perseverance for Priya. After three instances of giving up and starting again, she learnt the trick. She wound the strands around her fingers and unrolled them as and when needed for the braid. By the time the braid was nearly done, Priya had made up her mind.

“Yes, I think that would be the right thing to do.”

She smiled at Ravi. She couldn’t bear the thought of someone telling her daughter she was adopted until Priya herself was ready. She wondered if she would ever be ready for that as she cleared the tea mugs from the table.

Dinner was a quiet affair as far as she was concerned. Neha was busy teaching Ravi the mudras she had learnt at her bharatnatyam class. He enjoyed immensely as she correctly positioned his fingers with her little hands and scolded him for not focussing enough. He would crack his usual joke about having two left hands. He said men couldn’t curl their fingers beyond a point because they themselves were usually wrapped around women's fingers.

After dinner she spent, what seemed like an eternity, staring at the night sky. This was her favourite part of the day. After clearing up dinner and cleaning the kitchen, she would toss a tea-bag in a cupful of sugared water, warm it in the microwave and sit in the balcony with her tea and stare at the night sky. Some days it was clear and she could make out the Orion. Today it was exceptionally murky. She sat there talking to herself long after Ravi and Neha had gone to sleep.

*

“Photty nahin, Forty...for...tee”.

Neha corrected her as the dhoban counted the clothes. This was a ritual, a playtime of sorts for both of them. The dhoban came almost every day – one day to pick the clothes and the next day to deliver the ironed clothes. Neha would sit on the floor besides her and count while the dhoban placed the clothes one piece at a time on a sprawled bed sheet and counted them after her.

“Didi, bitiya ne to humein English ki ginti sikha di. Chalti hoon, didi.”
(Didi, your daughter has taught me the English counting. I’ll get going now.)
She said tying up the bundle with her deft fingers.

Priya was busy on the phone and motioned her to stay for a minute while she talked.

“Haan Maa, do saal ke liye jaana hai... agle maheene... bees tareeq ke tickets hain. Aap log aa jao usse pehle yahaan. Chhutki ko dekhe hue bhi kitna time ho gaya hai aapko...haan, ghar bhi rent pe dena hoga. Kitne kaam ho jaate hain... Theek hai... kal call karti hoon.”
(Yes Maa, we have to go for 2 years... next month... the tickets are booked for the 20th... you must come and stay with us before that. You haven’t seen Chhutki in a long time. Yes, we have to put up the house on rent. There is so much to do... alright, I will call you tomorrow.)
Priya placed the receiver back.

“Didi, door desh jaa rahe ho?”
(Didi, are you going far away?)

“Haan, do saal ke liye jaana hai. Bhaiya ki company transfer ho rahi hai.”
(Yes, we have to go for two years. Bhaiya’s company is getting transferred.)

“Kahaan laut ke aata hai koi itni door jaakar. Aap bhi vaheen ke hoke reh jaaoge.”
(Who comes back after going that far? You will also settle there.)

She said sadly as she lifted the bundle and walked out. Priya stared at the door long after she was gone, lost in a forlorn thought.

*

“Arre didi, aap yahaan? Koi galti hui kya? Koi kapda kho gaya humse?”, she put the knife down and wiped her hands with the end of her saree.
(Didi, you are here? Have I made a mistake? Did I misplace some cloth?)

The dhoban was cutting vegetables for dinner when she saw Priya enter her one room house. A place originally meant to be a garage inside the apartment block until the residents' welfare association decided to rent it out as a servant quarter.

The room smelt of coal and musty clothes tinged with an exquisite aroma of spices that carried with it the promise of an immensely satisfying meal - something that most commonly well equipped kitchens in rich houses are pathetically deprived of.

She quickly cleared some clothes from a rickety plastic chair and wiped it with the end of her saree to make room for Priya. She unrolled a ten rupee note from her pallu and sent her four year old son away to fetch a bottle of cold drink from the nearby general provisions store. The boy was only too pleased to shove his books aside and run for freedom.

“Baitho na, didi”
(Please sit.)
She sat on the floor next to the chair and tied her dishevelled hair back into a bun.

“Ek kapda dhoondh rahi hoon. Jaanti hoon tumhaare paas hai.”
(I am looking for a cloth that I know is with you.)
Priya sat on the chair and smiled as tears slowly welled up in her eyes.

“Iss saree ka doosra hissa yaheen milega na?”
(“The other end of this saree belongs here. Isn’t it?”)
She said, taking out the pallu half of an old looking and worn out red cotton saree from her purse. The tiny brown flowers printed on it looked as alive as they had the day they wrapped the greatest gift Priya had received in her life.

Her head fell as tears outlined her face. The dhoban shivered with intense emotion as she sat there at Priya’s feet. The events of a night many years ago unfolded before her eyes. Sneaking out with a two day old clung to her chest when the village was sleeping... catching the midnight train to the city to save her new born from what was destined to be the fate of all girls born in the family... when she had left for the village carrying a 3 month old womb, Ghanshaam had made it clear to her that she needn’t come back if it was a daughter. Sitting in the train that night she had remembered the longing she had seen in Priya’s eyes... and she had made up her mind...

Priya got up from the chair and lifted her from the floor by the arms. Taking her hands into hers, she joined her hands and said the two words she had been waiting to tell her; the woman she had seen every single day since that January morning.

In a voice muffled with tears, Priya said “Thank you”.

“Didi...”

Priya placed a finger on her lips.

“Shhh... Apni beti se Bye nahin bologi? Teen ghante mein humaari flight hai.”
(“Will you not say Bye to your daughter? We fly in 3 hours.”)

The two women stood there hugging each other with their eyes. The good earth beneath their feet soaked up their tears as it does for all of them, for she is a mother too just like these two mothers who were bound together in one thread – the thread of gratitude.

I really couldn’t tell who was more grateful of the other.