A Little Diary

 Once I was told, with a smile, that I was a crow. I smiled back - broadly agreeing. Crows are one of nature's cleverest scavengers and I do have a strong partiality to scavenging.

It was thus that I spotted a little diary flung on the side of the road walking from Chuchot to Choglamsar in Ladakh. It seemed ragged and worn with its cover gone - small pages were fluttering in the cold, stiff autumn breeze. I picked it up and started reading this most remarkable discovery. In deliberately crafted writing of an artist, in faded letters on semi torn pages, began a love story, of a young girl for a boy, all in rhyming poetry, of the gazal form. I was enthralled , spell bound and immediately sat down under the next shade to quickly finish reading this exciting discovery. 

However, my story is not about her love story - let's call her Salma, of pure heart and luminous poetry, because even the dead deserve respect of anonymity.

As with most love stories in this world, Salma's love unfolded with a sweetest and gentlest start - and of greatest miracle - her love was even reciprocated- Allah is great! 

Days passed in subdued anticipation, and soon evening and nights in secret meetings, while poetry poured from her inspired young & tender heart. It was meant to be a present for her lover - she was planning to fill it up before gifting him her heart in words.

But, men will be men, and soon her handsome lover tired of her and her quiet ways. He was looking for more excitement and conquests and there were plenty that were ready.

Salma knew that he was more and more distracted in her presence, on his fancy phone and social media, often while she waited for one tender glance or a smile. He now made frequent excuses to not meet her - when earlier, he couldn't wait for the evenings nor bear to let her go when they were done. 

Permanent pain in her heart now became  her poetry and her everyday life. Her parents were at a loss as to what was happening to their Jaan. Her lover was no longer able to put up with her depression and gave up pretending that he had any interest in her. 

In months that followed her sorrow gave way to rising anger and then rage. She knew that now he was openly with another girl from a wealthy background and soon they were to be betrothed. 

She started planning her revenge in detail - she was beyond caring. She wanted to end her pain, but before she left this world she'd make sure that he too would not survive. 

Pages filled with ways to kill him in that same little diary that had once been scattered with her love lyrics of abandon and bliss. 

Finally she decided to give him one final chance and sent him her little dairy, including their fate if he did not return to her. 

Bragging came to young men as easily as fish in water. He couldn't wait to read Salma's poetry and threats to his betrothed. Finally, laughing, he tossed aside her diary off Chuchot road, saying what could a silly girl - a mere daughter of a poor car mechanic - really do to them.

That's how I came up Salma's diary almost a decade later. Still reeling from the intensity of Salma's young life and her poetry, I was also filled with a deep curiosity about the fates of this couple.

I kept asking people in Choglamsar, and around Chuchot area if they knew anything of this matter. Finally, I found the answers I was seeking - yes a well to do young man had died in a car accident about a decade back. There was suspicion of foul play that was never proved. Salma's death was explained in the letter she behind - she couldn't bear to live on after her lover had died.

I walked back home and tossed the little diary in cupboard - and it would not doubt be soon forgotten.

Motorcycle Murders

I've always had a strange and morbid fascination for the dark, dreadful and death. Even as a kid I'd stop to investigate every carcass of animal, bird, bug, or even human with keen investigative interest in how and why.

It was natural that such curiosity and an active imagination lead me to become an investigative reporter covering the underbelly of life here in Bangalore, always on lookout for stories that were unusual, rare & often bizarre. I'd scan at breakfast the obituary section, news clippings of accidents, murder and death. I had good connections also with the homicide dept of the police and at the govt coroner's office at the local hospitals, to readily get a whiff of a really good, evil story. Most people were just amused that a young female like me was pursuing the trails of blood and gore... But what to do - to each one their own.

The first twin deaths in a motorcycle accident which caught my eye was readily dismissed. With the insane traffic, speedings and stress of Bangalore life, this seemed perfectly normal. It's only when a second similar incident was reported the same week that my interest was piqued. With my coffee in hand I immediately headed to my computer and started digging. My hunch was right - there had been more than a dozen such cases, all in the Frazer Town vicinity, always with two young riders on a motorcycle in a collision with a big vehicle - a bus or a truck that had lead to the death of both riders and in couple of cases, one rider survived a vegetative life, and would be better off dead!

How thrilling! There was surely a story here. Thus started my days and weeks haunting the sites of the accident, talking to witnesses, people who might have seen, heard or suspected something, but didn't care sufficiently to come forward to the police or reporters on site to involve themselves. Who has time these days for such things? Best to ignore and move away. 

However, it helped being a young woman of reasonable good looks, some charm and patient persuasion - slowly people started opening up with suspicious details that they'd previously ignored, and possibilities started to emerge into a story. All accidents happened on broad day light and involved youngsters that were driving rashly - so there was generally no need to look too deeply for any devious evil at work here. However, a couple of people mentioned that "boys will boys" and were chasing a young woman also on a bike. I decided to follow up by chatting with the drivers of larger vehicle involved in the last few accidents. Sure enough, all of them recalled clearly that the boys suddenly served into their path in a high speed chase behind a woman in a black leather jacket on some fancy motorcycle. 

Thus began my search for this mystery woman from around Frazer Town. I started with large supermarkets in the area, talking to the staff and managers, if they recalled having such a customer. I also made sure that I left my contact at each of the places, just in case they remembered something, or if she actually turned up.

It was not entirely surprising then that I received a phone call one evening from an unknown number- the woman herself that I'd spent last many weeks chasing. Let's call her Monica. She sounded warm, open and friendly and wondered why I was so keen on seeking her out. I explained that this would be best discussed face to face, to which she surprisingly invited me to meet her at her home next day. I couldn't believe my luck and hardly slept that night at all in great excitement. 

The person who greeted me at the door was an youngish, slender, lithe woman in her fifties with springy, short, curly grey hair, clear skin and wide open large eyes - that uncannily seemed to see through you. I could easily believe that in a leather jacket and a helmet she'd easily pass off as a young woman. I decided then and there to be completely honest with her.

As we sat in her home, sipping tea, I laid all my cards open and shared the story that lead me to her. Unsurprisingly, she was equally forthright and readily agreed that she was the person who was being chased in all those accidents. 

It was now her turn. First, that she used to race motorcycles in UK, where she'd been born and brought up. She'd enjoyed reasonable success and even made quite a name for herself by her mid twenties. Her life turned when she met and fell in love, at a concert with a sitar player from India, while visiting Argentina for some races. One thing led to another and she married and moved back to India where she had a daughter called Maya. 

Tragedy struck when Maya was barely 18 and was killed in a traffic accident returning from her coaching classes just prior to her 12th final exams.  She was on a two wheeler and trying to apparently escape eve teasing and harrasment by two guys chasing her on a motorcycle, when she lost control and was run over by a public bus. This had happened several years back. 

With a straight face and candid eyes, looking straight at me, she then said that she'd been able to only start recovering from this tragedy over the last few years when she came up with a plan to teach a lesson to young men who harassed women in this way. She again took to riding her old motorcycle - cruising the streets in her black leather jacket and her helmet with visors. Her husband was glad that she was finally riding her bike, and also finally, swiftly healing from their terrible tragedy, and was clueless how exactly she was achieving this. 

That was about 15 years back. Monica and I continue to be dear friends and still meet regularly - despite our age difference. I have changed, and turned my attention to life and the living, and now cover topics of ecological and cultural interests. 

Monica now says that she's too old to continue this sport and too tired to look for revenge. She's taken up yoga and meditation and is learning to find peace within herself. Sometimes I wonder if she's found her Maya in me and therefore no longer needs her bike or her black leather jacket. 

Killer Instinct

 I'm a killer - rather, I used to be one - professionally speaking. How I came to be one is another story. This is a story of how I stopped being one. I started my profession at an early age. I was quite successful and thus was able to be a family man and also a good provider. I married a beautiful girl from a wealthy family, we lived in an old bungalow in the hills of Vagamon, and the kids went to the best of schools. My son is now a doctor with a thriving practice and my daughter a successful lawyer in Thiruvananthapuram. My family accepted that I was a busy travelling salesman. Death is and has always been in demand - and I don't complain.

I am now retired with sufficient wealth that I don't need to work anymore. However, I found that retirement did not really suit me - I got quickly tired of watching TV all day or listening to my wife gossip with neighbours. I kept mostly to myself - a wise practice for one with my background. Being a person of limited other interests or skills, I decided to "remain in touch" with my craft -  I really didn't need to be paid for it. I was finally practicing it for its own sake and getting better at it than ever before. My speciality was staging  accidental deaths, suicides, medical emergencies with DOA, where no foul play was ever suspected. It was indeed a pleasant retirement once I'd decided to hone my skills and expand my creative licence.

Victims were often chosen on whim, when the urge set in. Some required meticulous planning and others were spontaneous masterpieces of utter simplicity and polished execution - I hope you caught the pun there :))

Now to the day it all came to an end. I was wandering near Varkala cliff one evening - having come here for a change of scene. Wife was looking at shops and I decided to take a brisk stroll along the cliff to the north. Odayam coastal road is dramatic with rugged cliffs of red laterite and the Arabian sea that's aquamarine to opalescent jade. It's then that I saw this young child, about 5-6 years old, running with a little kite near the cliff. My old heart lurched with a sorrow that's hard to explain. What kind of life could this beautiful child be expected to have - what a terrible world we live in, full of sorrows, injustices and misery at human level and ecological destruction with climate change as the fate of the natural world. I had found my next victim.

Two women were standing nearby in an intense and engrossed discussion. I casually approached the child, who was still running around with that silly kite - close enough to shove with all my might, while screaming loudly " Be Careful!!!!!" It was All over. Everyone believed that I had rushed there to stop an accident. However I am haunted to this day by the happy, innocent, and trusting  look with which the child had turned to me saying "thatha"(grandfather) with a smile. 

These days I have taken to painting. I often paint a child with a kite.

For No Reason

I've often wondered why we do things? Really & truly - Why? Are we creatures of habits driven by parameters of norm, mundane, & acceptable? Or do we all harbor a subdued, no tranquilized maniac of our own history - personal, social and deeply rooted/ embedded in the wildness of our animal states. Are the imposed norms only to keep the monster at bay - hidden, invisible, even unknown or at least, un-acknowledged?

I'm a perfectly normal person - by all visible standards, even to myself. But recently, I've discovered my monster- me. And after leading a mundane life of 62 years as a tiresomely married bored housewife, I discovered my yen in life - that joy which adds a glow to our face, a sparkle in our eyes and a spring to our steps. My friends at the coffee club have noticed & commented. With a little smirk " Are you having an affair??" What rubbish - At my Age?? Anyways, which man can keep a woman satisfied for long. No, no...I am wise. I've found my own love inside me - I've found my monster. That's enough. 

I'm a little surprised that I am telling you this - for what I've been doing is unthinkable, unspeakable - pure Evil and I've no reason for it - just cheap thrills at my age. So little of that left. I worry that my talking about this can get me into trouble - the worst amongst it All being I'll be made to stop. Can't even bear to think about it. I'll just have to make sure I don't get caught - it's been eight times so far and while it's all over the press, no one has a clue...the stories or theories are so wild. I'm aiming for ten... and then who knows?

So, why am I telling - because I've mastered a skill - a horrific, unbearable, but consummate skill of true artistry - and can an artist really exist without the life-sap of an audience, the appreciator? So with me.

So let me tell you from the beginning. I've grown heavy, ok just fat, as I've grown older. And you know, the mister is so vain - his wife should alwats look nice. I Do look nice - but it's not enough. Tell me which 60 year old can look like a 30 year old - not happening. Yet, nag, nag, nag, nag. Lose weight, don't waddle, don't eat so much - All the time! Yeah, yeah, yeah... If I don't eat, how will I keep my strength?? It's been unbearable since he retired. Fix the wifey is his new time-pass hobby. 

Anyways, to get way and get him out of my hair, I have started taking long walks at night - after dinner. We stay close to a cliff and the walk takes me along the Arabian Sea. Anyways, nothing happens at home - he likes playing on his phone with his social-media friends well into the night - or watching those sorry, sick videos - as if I don't know!! And I go for my walk.  

I'm big for a woman now - when I was young my tall litheness was termed - elegant. Somehow I married this tiny mouse of a man - arranged marriage you know... families were well matched. I guess an evening walk will do me good.

I started enjoying my walks - the silence, the sound of the waves, crickets, the many moods of night - stars, the lights from fishing boats pencilled across the horizon. I suppose I should thank him - but No Way!!

The path is lit by a solar lights with motion detectors - and I walk in this pools of light between envelopes of deep darkness - minding my own business. It's funny watching my shadow shorten and stretch out - dark black against white LED floodlight - reminds me of the old B&W movies - I was drawn to the sinister even as a kid.

 

One day I saw this stranger sitting alone at the cliff - so still, calm, staring out into the ocean. Seemed so centered, replete, complete into his own self. Something drew me towards him. As I approached him I saw my shadow lumber and then loom & lengthen in high contrast over him. He must have sensed my presence, or its darkness. He turned - with a smile. 

Was it the smile? I'll never know. It was the gentlest sweetest smile - utterly guileless. It's etched into my memory. I don't know what came over me - I just lunged and pushed - with All my might. A crash a few seconds later - it was all over. Lethal

Elixir

The genius of a human mind never fails to surprise me - sometimes this is also about my genius. Once an idea is discovered, it seems so obvious - prosaic even. But what luminous moment of clarity shapes its reality? And how does one remain tapped into that source - as a way of life. Endless such questions fill my last days on this earth - days that have seen many joys, equally of grief, wonderment, and dark depths of inner torture. Now all is silent, in grace and poise, even possibly in quiet anticipation for adventures that lie in the beyond. But before that I have my story to tell. No doubt you have read, heard much in the media - where I am painted a witch about to meet her deserved justice.

The idea occurred to me more than a decade back during our sabbatical year in Kyoto - the purest land of idyllic beauty surrounded by gentlest hills, and a clear flowing Kamo. The ways of the Japanese are strange and enchanting. I discovered the charms of their gardens, karmic grace of their temples, delicious flavours of their food, and kindest courtesy of their normal behaviour - even to the outsiders. However, some of their ways were strange too - amongst them, things like human placenta based lotions, horse and deer oils as anti-aging remedies! These ideas directly fed my imagination, germinating into Elixir - an organically processed, cold pressed oil, that would benefit from a variety of ailments to serious, life threatening diseases. I promoted its promise without specifying its only ingredient. Of course, it cost a lot - as much as a human life, really, besides the enormous effort of procuring, preparing and processing. It could be consumed orally - medically or a delicious nutty additive to food. It could be used as massage oil or skin care serum - with endless diverse possibilities for its imaginative and beneficial use. 

The positive reviews came pouring in, immediately after the release - in millions, literally. Scientists started trying to figure out the key ingredients - it was discovered that the composition was so close - to be almost identical - to a human source. Yet, none had the courage to identify the most obvious, correct answer. Elixir was my own genius creation for a disease free, always youthful, human race.

The raw material was not difficult to access. With increased life expectancy - a gift/curse of modern medicine, and the associated suffering of unbearably prolonged old ages, with unheard-of diseases, the demand for hospices has been on continual rise - to provide pain free and palliative care to those impatiently facing their much awaited end. I decided that this was where life was at its most redundant and it would be an act of compassion and mercy to help these suffering souls out of their bodily misery. 

Once the idea was in place - the rest was just work - relatively easy. Small notice on social support groups catering to those at their very end got me more takers than I could utilise - such tragic & desperate need of so many who had lived more than they wished. I suppose, the fact that their life & end would also benefit & serve the well being of human race was an added incentive that had them racing to my doors. I was very particular to only accept the really elderly and hopeless. A miracle could well save the terminal but young - and they would have their life ahead of them. 

I made sure to have prolonged,  personal last sessions that invariably brought peace, and ascertained that their end was quick and painless. 

How can any of this be considered, wrong or evil - I fail to understand. Yet, here I am - facing my end - found guilty by a society of humans. I know that my life was well lived and served so many well - both in life and death. I only hope this idea will live on - even if subversively till the masses are educated, compassionate and enlightened enough to legally mandate that the dead too shall serve the living.

A Tale from Edava

I live on a cliff, in a little house, of a small village called Edava, near the southern coastal tip of India. Here, time usually chugs at a lethargic, languorous, sweaty pace of its midday summer heat. Roosters' call awakens our village to the coolness of each morning, while packs of dogs roam the empty shorelines ferreting out a rat or an occasional mongoose. Gods, spirits and ghosts mingle equally in our days and join us regularly in our festivities or are sometimes appeased with a tempting bribe to stop from pestering us. 

Like that time, two monsoons ago, when an unseasonal storm raged through the two small streets of our village - only. The skies became black,  waves galloped endlessly as wild horses, while the palms carried on their sword fights against the skies. Everyone knew, but wouldn't utter, that it was the rage in the heart of the old Nambiar who had died - leaving behind that beautiful, young, wench of a wife - who loved his young and dashing driver. Of course, he must've have known the risk when he brought home his new bride - but when has man's desires not blinded him to the folly of his hopes or futility of his dreams? In this case of siring an heir - Ha! At his age - the Fool!! People say that this effort killed him in bed - and that the witch keeled over in mirth, trying to cover her naked bosom. Oh the wicked, wicked ways of the young!

So as I was saying, that strange storm shook the village even as the old man Nambiar's corpse lay on the palanquin, being prepared for the final rites. Finally, the old brahmin priest was called and began, with the his ten young novices, the rituals of persuasions and negotiations with Nambiar's spirit. They lit auspicious lamps with ghee, burnt plates of camphor and recited long gutteral chants that are unbearable to the musical sensitivity of the spirit world. They also flung coconut-jaggery payasam over the cliff, cooked in ghee and cardamoms - a favourite of old Nambiar - and he finally left. We All saw that whirlwind of a wild storm flying away into the sea, carrying with it - the roof, the corpse tied to the palenquin, and that poor, handsome driver in his white liveries - who had driven his young wife mad with lust.

Such things occur somewhat regularly here in Edava - so people don't really care much. They just shook their heads, and returned to their shady spots under the palms, chewing on little twigs, and dozed under clear, hot blue skies, while crows cawed once again and dogs ambled out again in search of a cat or perhaps a rat.

Strange Things Do Happen

Strange Things Do Happen

I live with Ba and Bapuji in a small flat in a large city in India.

What I am going to tell you is a true story. It really happened to me.

I woke up one day in my own bed with a strangest feeling. I was wedged tight in the bed - from top to bottom. 

I sat up and rubbed my eyes - wondering if it was a dream. But it wasn't so. I called out to Ba-Bapuji, but they must have gone on their morning walk. 

Even as I was wondering what was happening, and what I should do, I could feel my head approaching the ceiling. 

I quickly sat on the floor - but it was pointless. I was growing taller, right for me to see. 

I lay down and had to slither out of the room like a snake.

Past the kitchen, and the living room, out onto the balcony. 

By now I was tall enough to lower myself easily onto the ground, from our fourth floor.

There weren't many people around - so I decided to go for a walk. A few steps and I was out of the colony. 

I was still growing. Birds flew around me - some even perched on my head, shoulders. Did they think I was a giant tree?

A couple more steps and I was out of the city, looking down in wonder at all the mess, and chaos.

Outside the city was calm, silent and very green. The fields, forests, lakes were getting smaller and smaller. 

Big birds like eagles, hawks, falcons circled around - I could see their face and even  their eyes.

Soon I was above the clouds. Even though they looked like fluffy cotton puffs I easily rose above them - as if they were only air.

I could soon see the horizon. The sun was so hot that I decided to walk to little bit to the north pole. It was such a nice walk. Stepping past snow capped mountains, turquoise oceans. 

I stood there looking down on the earth getting smaller and smaller - till it was a blue globe - like the plastic one that hangs in my room.

 Then that I saw a giant meteor zooming towards me. I reached out to stop it from hitting me trying to grab it and fling it away.

I felt someone grabbing and shaking me. It was Ba " Are you alright... it's Ok, it's just a dream"

I told you it really happened - it really did happen in my dream.

Who Was He?

The Man was strange - although that might not be the best way to describe him. He carried himself with unusual calm, and an unmistakable confidence - which cannot be termed strange. But the story that I am about to tell you is definitely strange. Make what you will of it - I have stopped trying.

The year had been remarkably uneventful - no wars, no global gossip, no great calamity. We were all excited about the Comet's return - brilliantly tailed in the night sky. I was then working as an under-secretary to the Mayor of Metz. It was a job of some importance, grave responsibility and significant interest to me. I was in charge of his public relations and which put me in contact with many dignitaries, his calendar of public events and functions where I accompanied with him. There were whispers that the Mayor favored me...but let that gossip be. I was his confidant - and I say this, both because it has a bearing on this story and also to lend credibility to what I am about to say - for you may be incredulous.

The Man, for what else can I call him, appeared literally out of nowhere. He was found walking on the Strasbourg highway, towards Metz, when  was picked up by a highway patrol. The police, being an young and friendly person, decided to give him a lift and started speaking to him. That was when the first sign of strangeness appeared - when asked where he was going, the Man replied "Anywhere". The young police laughed and said he would take him to Metz, since that was the direction he seemed to be headed. I know all this from the police himself - and have no reason to doubt him.

It appeared that the Man did not care where he went, and was also very positive that he came from "nowhere". He spoke flawless french, was fully aware of current local and global news and was so amiable that he ended up joining the young police at the station on his lunch break, and later after work at a local bar. I was told that he observed everyone around him with utmost and friendly curiosity and was remarkably able to join in any conversation, in the language of the speakers. He joined in a conversations at the bar in English, Russian, Chinese, Hindi and even Swahili. When people questioned him about himself, he limited himself to a smile and changed the subject. Now who does not like the undivided attention of a stranger - especially one as amiable and cultured as this Man? Needless to say that he had no money on him, but that was not even a problem, since there were many who wished to buy him drinks, dinner and even offered him a bed for the night. That was when the young police started worrying. He felt the burden of introducing this stranger and did not want to be held accountable. He asked the Man to show some ID, while offering to host him at his home for the night. When the man readily admitted that he had no ID, our young friend was sufficiently concerned to bring it to the attention of his superiors.

It was this that led eventually to my meeting the Man. Apparently no person was willing to punish this person for lack of ID or money or shelter or even a history. Is lack of any of these really a crime? Yes, yes...societies usually criminalize the ID-less - but only those who come from that different stock of the needy; usually immigrants from poorer countries. The request came from several high quarters, written and via telephone, directly to the Mayor's office, that the Man be granted a legal residential status in Metz.

On behalf of the Mayor, I agreed to meet the young police and the Man, directly after working hours, right at Place de Armes. I spotted them immediately - a young police officer in uniform and a nondescript Man, but with an extremely pleasant face, smiling bemusedly into the evening sky. The comet was  still visible and bright; I couldn't help but attempt to make a good impression by showing off what little I had read about this comet.  The Man watched me with undivided attention and a curious smile. Finally, he spoke "That comet is my home". The young officer and I laughed, uproariously - trying to hide our confusion; weird humor of a different culture? Perhaps. This time, I changed the subject. I was instructed to interview this man with the sole purpose of granting him his French residency. He had no idea how lucky he was - people waited for years, bribed, wept, even killed (yes!) to become part of our great nation.

I asked the man a few questions while filling out the necessary forms. It was then he asked his last question "How long will I live here?"
I was quick to reassure him with a smile "for ever". This he understood all to quickly. His face showed showed his surprise and dismay. He quickly muttered "Oh No" under his breath and disappeared - yes! you heard me right - "poof" he disappeared, right from under our nose, in the middle of Place de Armes.

Don't believe me? You can ask M. -, the young policeman - he will tell you the same - he was right there.

Poison

Dear Editor,

It has been my privilege to serve 'The Hindu' over the last two decades. I thank you for your active encouragement and support during this period. I am enclosing a brief piece from my posting in this area. This will be my last contribution - my swan song. I request you to carry this very personal piece, as is, and hope the credibility of my authorship, and facts which will eventually come to light, will make this story believable.

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

Deadly Development

It is poll time again here. As expected, the state is gearing up for this next election on promises of continued large scale development with high fiscal growth. To reinforce their pro-people position, the state has just completed a new highway joining the capital to Korba and across the state to Ranchi - through the densely forested, wildest and most remote tribal regions of the state. Today the CM inaugurated a new bus route on this highway; I was privileged, as a Hindu reporter, to participate in this inaugural journey. Surprisingly, there appeared to be few people, wanting to make this maiden run. Last night, in a Raipur bar, I heard rumors of poison-people, of their strange rituals, customs. The local drivers were reluctant to drive this route and finally a driver from Chennai had been found for the inaugural journey.

Today, all went smoothly, with a lot of fanfare, press and television coverage. I sat on a front seat, by the window, with a full view through the windshield. The driver and I exchanged a few pleasantries in tamil, with the genuine happiness of finding a kindred spirit in a distant land. The bus was hardly half full - being made up of very few locals - mainly low rank officers who had been forced to take the ride by their superiors. The ride towards and after Korba was through the thickest jungles I have ever seen - and this gladdened the heart.  The road was dark and a narrow ribbon of sky accompanied the bus on its empty journey ahead. It was then that I saw two small figures in a distance, standing by the side of the road; apparently, so did the locals - who had been acting very twitchy and nervous - some were even praying. There was an immediate clamor to not stop the bus - the driver seemed uncertain and hesitated. It was at this point that I interfered. Putting full authority of my experience and position, I commanded the driver to stop, for what was now clearly two young children waiting at the road.

The two children got on and smiled in glee; there is no other word to describe the innocence and the happiness of their smile.  They looked like brother and sister, in tattered rags, and between 10-12 years of age. I smiled back and pointed to the empty seats across from me, for them to sit. They clambered on their seats with excitement of ones who had never seen any machine. The driver asked them where they were going, but got no response, except their smiles. It was very likely that they did not speak hindi. It was then that I noticed their small knotted bundle, probably their food and belongings.

Soon everyone settled down and there were sheepish exchanges between the locals, for their unfounded fears. A couple even ventured tentatively to volunteer that I had done the right thing by asking the bus stop for these two young ones.  It was about an hour later that the two started chattering amongst themselves with suppressed excitement and cheeky laughter. They opened their bundle and I was startled to see the contents writhing inside - there appeared to be about 10-12 snakes wriggling and darting their forked tongues - clearly in agitation at being bound up so long. I immediately asked the children to tie them back, but they just looked at me and laughed and set them all free.

It took a while for the passengers to catch on what had happened, and by that time it was too late for them, or me, or the driver. It is too late now. The weaker ones have already fainted - their pulse, feeble.  One passenger has recognised the snakes as the rarest, and deadliest in the nation.  It is futile now to fight the inevitable. There is no mobile connection here - and I am frantically typing the story on my laptop, even as I feel a searing through my blood, and a suffocating dullness begin to wipe away my brain and breath. The bus has come to a halt; in haziness and from corner of my eye I watch the children slowly pick up their pets and carefully lower them back into their jola, and tie them in. They have now got off the bus - laughing - peals of young laughter.

Footsteps

We were in France then - when I heard the footsteps first. We lived in a tiny apartment on the top floor of student housing - in a large sprawling university campus. It was about two weeks since we had arrived and we were more or less settled in our temporary home. We went to bed around 11pm - and it must have been a couple of hours after that. I was still awake, still trying the various relaxation techniques of an insomniac, slow breathing, accu-pressure points, counting sheep, when I heard footsteps above, walking the length of corridor, climb down a flight of stairs and come down our corridor. They approached with a firm step towards our apartment - and stopped. There was an ominous silence of a presence, right outside, at the doorstep  - waiting. I stopped breathing - eyes wide awake - frozen in terror, in the freezing room. He slept quietly and peacefully - within touching distance. I stared at him, trying to calm down, and don't remember when I fell asleep. Next morning I laughed off my silly fears, blaming it on my overactive imagination.

I remember that day well - it was cold, and brilliant. I went for a walk, spoke to family back home and painted. It was a good day. The disquiet began even as evening approached. Darkness spread outside and within. I told him about last night and was hugged and reassured - maybe someone was just walking past to their own apartment? and decided to walk quietly, to not disturb people? I gratefully accepted the explanation. In bed, I clutched on to his hand and decided to be good and get a whole night's sleep. Surprisingly I fell asleep, fairly soon.

I woke up - completely alert - with someone knocking in my head. The footsteps were slowly climbing down the long flight of stairs and making their way down our corridor. It was a little after 1 am. I quickly covered my head with a quilt and lay wide eyed in inky black blindness, covered with a thin film of sweat.  The footsteps approached firmly and assuredly to our door and stopped. The suspense became finally unbearable. I softly shook him and whispered "someone is outside. Being used to my theatrics, he woke up and went to take a look. There was no one outside. I felt foolish at disturbing him and held on to his hand and finally managed sleep.

After that I decided to not to wake him up. The footsteps however continued - till we left the place.

I had always prided myself on being a rationalist - but our floor had no flights of steps going up and there was no upstairs.

Ghosts on a Tamarind Tree

Ghosts love tamarind. That is why they live on tamarind trees. This is the first thing to know about ghosts. People have known this all along. That is why tamarind trees are found outside villages - and no one leaves their village after dark.

I have a home outside a village and there is a huge tamarind tree in my garden. So, I know of this - first hand. One hot and late afternoon, I was sitting under this tamarind tree - just time passing. Occasionally I would pick up a fallen tamarind pod and suck on its intense, dark flesh, face scrunching up at its tartness. Suddenly I heard and saw tamarind seeds raining down - not pods, only just seeds. I looked up, only to get pock marked by these shiny black seeds, showering from above - and nothing else - I swear! No monkeys, no rascal village kids. Only seeds dropping from above. Had never been a great believer in ghosts, but what to do? This was real proof. I figure seeing me suck on those tamarind pods had made the ghosts hungry.

And so we lived, the ghosts and I, as neighbors. They did not bother me and I let them alone - while continuing to visit the tamarind tree. I often heard the tamarind tree rustle in no-breeze, heard the long howls of a family quarrel. Mostly they were quiet and I was comfortable.

Problems started when some visitor from the city discovered my tamarind tree and said I was sitting on a pot of gold. Apparently, the price of tamarind had sky rocketed to more than Rs100/kg. This was real news. My big tamarind tree would fetch me a solid five to ten thousand rupees - for sure. Wonder what Rani would say? Did I not mention that Rani- the young and luscious - would often come to share the shade of my tamarind tree? I was considered a lazy bone (not that Rani ever complained) and Rani a good match. What would her parents say if I wore my white veshti and visited them with a box of sweets, and a saree for Rani?  So, without a second thought, I let my slick city friend find me a tamarind contractor and counted my money. After much haggling we settled for rupees six thousand three hundred, although he walked off with more than a hundred kilos of tamarind. Not once did I think of my ghost neighbors, how they would feel, what they would eat - not until much later.

My money and generosity worked its charm on Rani's amma and appa. Rani and I wed, and she accompanied me back home. That night, Rani shed her wedding clothes and joined me under the cover. She was beautiful and I was young. I turned and took her in my arms and kissed her lips deeply - an intense sour taste of tamarind filled my mouth. I pulled back, looked at her in horror and with a scream jumped out of the  bed and ran out in darkness - till I reached the tamarind tree. There I collapsed.

I Became a Tree

" The Living live by living off the Dead - all, except the trees"

I confess I had never thought of it like that before. But it sounded right; it sounded true. And so, I decided to become a tree.

I went out into the garden and dug a hole - a circle two feet wide and two feet deep.Then I mixed the soil with enough sand and compost - sieved it and prepared a pile. I was now ready. I stepped into the hole and packed  in the rich soil all around till I was firmly planted - knee deep. With great excitement, I settled down to wait, and watch.

The gardner watered me - not noticing any difference. I woke with the sun and slept soon after dark - like the rest of plants and trees in my garden. In a few days, the birds started landing on me and the squirrel running around. I shook with mirth and happiness.

It took about a week; I started feeling a tickling in my soles, feet and legs. I could feel my roots sprouting and tunneling into the earth - holding it tight and sucking from it. Green leaves and tiny branches emerged - reaching out for the skies. The Sun shone on me, and stars sang when I slept. Rains rained me clean and the winds played around with me. Without drinking, I was drunk with life - energised, refreshed, and fully  awake. I was warm with the fires burning in my hearth and dizzy with my dance around the sun; and together, we danced our dance in the heavens.

I am happy I became a Tree.

Red Tie

Today I have fallen. I lie ravaged and destroyed, in a folder marked 'evidence' on top her photos and some notes. Nothing much here to indicate the savagery of what has just happened.

However, let me begin at the beginning.

Some might say I was born fortunate. I was wrought from finest silks, dyed to a dazzling royal crimson, crafted by masters to a sleekness of shape and form which I carried in my youthful bearings with a royal insignia of my lineage. Life seemed full of promise as I hung, suspended from ebony hooks with a few of my brothers, awaiting my life to begin. I knew I was beautiful from the manner in which people paused before me, lightly caressed my form, held me at a distance and then against their chest in front of a tall mirror. I must say, I surpassed all their beauty and they could see it. Reluctantly, and with a parting touch, they left me. I watched, as one after another of my brothers left my side for their new homes. But I was not worried or lonely. I waited, assured that I could only grace the one whose beauty complemented mine to a dazzling perfection.

He was young, brilliant eyed, and perfect. And he paused before me. Even before he held me on him, we both knew that our destinies were tied. I went home to his wardrobe wrapped and ribbon-ed in gold. Ah .. that first night when we went out together. We were the center of attention of a glittering crowd - young beauties gravitated towards us , caressed me. He too sometimes paused in conversation, thoughtfully wrapping me around his fingers. We were one, he and I.

Those early days were happy. And yet like all intense relationships we burnt out. He turned to the novelties of new associations, and I was happy having my quiet evenings at home. I did observe that both his good looks and good taste suffered with time, without me.

Then one day, he started packing. I was excited. Maybe a trip abroad? New voices, language, music, air, smell, earth...maybe a trip to Espana that I had so enjoyed long back? Yes..he was putting that cream linen shirt also - my favorite. The bag closed - tightly packed. He seemed happy - I could hear him humming.

With this moment began the next phase of my life. I did not hear or see him after this - ever. What I had hoped was a trip together became a long and rattling journey to a never land. When the bag opened, I was surrounded by kids, women, old, clamoring, snatching, shouting in glee at the bag of goodies. They were all skin and bones, unkempt, raggedy. I had been discarded to the poor. I had no time to reflect, mourn.  In all the confusion, I was thrown aside - on the ground - soft, wet, grimy. People were after basic clothing and I was of little use in such a place. As I lay there cringing, to not be stomped on, a youthful hand reached out and picked me up. A dark, young hand which jingled with glass bangles; dark hair, dark eyes kohl rimmed and sad; dark face lit by a central red bottu. She was also painfully thin. As she stared at me, her eyes lit, her fingers caressed (ah.. it had been so long...).  Suddenly she let her thick, curly, long hair, come cascading down her back. She started braiding her hair, and me with it. I laughed out loud - what kind of new game was this? Did she know who I was? Yet, the feeling was not at all unpleasant...to be wound in, out and around strands of thick soft hair.

Thus began a new phase of my life. She was poor and had few possessions. I was a part of her treasury, along with her wedding saree, her thali, and a picture of Ganesha on the window sill. Her husband was a strappy youth - cocky, loud, swaggering. She loved him. I don't need to say that - the whole world could see it.

 I was with her, braided in, on most days. I liked this - especially on days when she wore 'malli'. She worked in and out from morning to late night, as a household help in colonies outside where we dwelt, and then at night over the steaming pot of rice and curry - occasionally a meen curry.

Yesterday there was a row. Her husband came home drunk - as he sometimes did - and she had had an  extra rough day. I was not concerned - tried to block out the sound and sleep. Suddenly the screaming reached a high pitch. Oh no! He was beating her. And what was that? He was shouting that he was sick of an old hag like her .. her? a hag?? Wait..there was more. Gulabi Bai knew how to please him much better. What?? ThaT Gulabi Bai - everyone spat on her - that ruiner of households with her gold studs and red lips. Her?? He liked Her?? Then he rushed out - promising never to return. Good, I said..now we can get some quiet and rest -she didn't need him. Why was she sobbing like that? Even I was getting impatient. Oh shut up!
He was bound to return at least for her meen curry. Don't understand women making such fools of themselves.

I must have dozed off . Why was she now reaching for me - I was curled comfortably by the Ganesha. Are we going out? In the middle of the night??!! Oh no..she shouldn't make a fool of herself. Why was she now tying me around her neck? Me a necklace? This was no playtime ...maybe tomorrow.  Hey..something strange was definitely going on. She was pulling a stool and throwing my other end across the beam and tying a knot. Oh My Ganesha...she had kicked off the stool. Unbearable weight. I couldn't take it - my body was getting torn by her flailing shuddering frame...Please stop! Get off! I screamed out loud, high, in pain of flesh and heart. But, no one came.

People found us the next morning. She was quiet - gone. I had stayed hung from the beam all night - carrying her. What else could I do?

Heard some talk here - her husband was absconding.Wasn't really the poor bugger's fault. Maybe only their poverty should stand accused and on trial? Along with the richness of the rich that created me - a Red Tie.
----

Seeds

She sat with her feet dangling down the wall, the packet of seeds by her side - salt and chilli powder on her palm - she dipped the seeds into this mixture and delicately nibbled them - what a strange taste, not at all unpleasant - why had she expected them to be nasty? the things you constantly discover - she smiled at the thought.

Like discovering this place - it was such a surprise! Who would've guessed such a hidden idyllic spot right in the heart of the city - it was completely empty, today as all other days of her visit, although the roar of the traffic lay just beyond the skin of silence that enfolded this space. A rocky pool lay twenty feet below her, orange dragonflies flitted in the dense evening air. Beautiful, clear, gold washed through gray woolly skies - making the world glow. There was an air of expectancy, as usual, in evening sunlight of these monsoon days - was it the phase of ending that made it so, the quenching of the last light? She had not been this happy for a long time - happy?? Ok, at least silent, and at peace - quiet in the inside, and ready. The pool was an opaque slate separate from the luminescent air - deliberately so; sun cast long shadows into the pool - there she was, long and skinny reaching all the way to the other side of the pool - a stick figure already imprinted on water down below.

She sat nibbling at the seeds, leisurely, savoring the spicy chilli that made her wince - the taste was definitely growing on her - this was easy. She mused again at why this particular location was specially interesting - to answer a question - no 'googling', no searches in libraries, talking with people had given her any clue about the seeds she had harvested and, there was only one way to find out. Today she would definitely know if the brain remained active till the last moment, if she saw herself fall, or if the brain switched off first. In either case, her purpose would be served - soon the lights would be out.

A Road

She was happy to be on road again - especially out on such an empty, straight road. Rural landscapes had long given way to vast stretches of emptiness, occasional acacia, few shrubs, a rich, copper, bouldered landscape under a wide open blue sky. The air was warm, the breeze refreshing. These hours away from responsibilities, commitments, duties, was what kept her going - she knew that - these bits of respite, snatched hours, for just herself and her thoughts.

The road stretched ahead to horizon in a black line - unwavering. She decided she was just going to enjoy the ride, at least for a while, before focusing on matters that needed to be cleared - in her head. Strange, the country was so vast, and yet one could get no sense of this, living in cities. Sometimes she would be strangled by a strangest sensation of claustrophobia, of being caved in, and under, while participating in most normal functions - speaking to a colleague, instructing the maid, helping her son with his homework. She then had the strongest desire to get away - far from it all - from family, creature comforts, from who she was supposed to be. It was then that she would plan one of these excursions on the road - a road leading to nowhere and to no one. She worked on a hunch, with a map - and headed out.

Today was one such days. Aah! it felt good to be out again - and it was such a beautiful, perfect, autumn day. Hey! wait a minute, when did the road get this narrow? She must've been lost in thoughts. She smiled as she turned down the volume knob on her radio - she had really lost track of time with all that daydreaming. She hummed gently as she pressed down on the accelerator - it was a funny thing with maps - they never showed heights - here she had been climbing slowly and steadly and she would've bet, looking at her map, that there were no hills around. Surely, there was no peak marked anywhere towards where she was headed. She mused that geography had always been a weak subject in school. But surely if there was a hill she was going to cross, she should have heard about it somewhere - some hill station, some tourist spot, away from the hot, dusty life in the plains. So, she was to get an added bonus today - she smiled happily - she loved hills, mountains, green tall trees - and here she was getting into it all - without realising it. Sometimes life threw such happy surprises.

The landscape had changed drastically - tall trees darkened the road on either side - the road became increasingly steeper - it was good that she kept her car in such a perfect running condition - this baby could handle it all! She turned off the radio, to focus on the silence around - the beautiful cooling silence of the jungles, of alone-ness, just the purr of the car. She kept her speed steady but bore down on the accelerator to keep going - the road was getting narrower still - almost a single lane now. It was crazy how PWD made roads - no commonsense, no sense of responsibility. How would drivers handle another car coming from the opposite direction?? Really, she ought to complain when she got back. Meanwhile, good idea to fasten that seat belt and hang in there - pay attention, dear girl, no time right now to daydream or doze! She tightened her hold on the steering wheel, kept her foot down on the pedal - now even her babes could not keep up the original speed - who could blame her? Look at the bloody road - where was it leading to? to sky?? Damn it - she should have got off and made some enquiries - she with her harebrained ideas - always getting her into trouble - she would have to wait for a turnabout, to make a U-turn and head home - it was getting late too - and folks would be worried too. A car better not be coming from the opposite direction - the road had completely closed in around her, and continued to climb ever higher! There was no way she could brake - the brakes would not be able to handle the steep slope and God only knows how much she had climbed up - seemed like it was ages since she started climbing. Her hands were slipping on the steering wheel. Cool it dear girl, and you'll come out alright! No! don't think - focus and drive - yes! the only way available - forward and up. The car was creeping along now - but what could she do? Really where could she stop? and how? No point even thinking of jumping out, finding boulders, and ramming it under her wheels...and...what if some other vehicle came from the opposite side??

Oh no! in the distance ahead, she saw that the road was climbing into a dark narrow tunnel - she really ought not to enter there - she didnt want to - by now she could feel her heart pounding in her breast, her breath come out in rasps - her sticky, wet hands slippery on the wheel. She was approaching the tunnel. She turned on the headlights into the narrow walled-in black tube, even as she entered it.

And then...she woke up!
--------------------------------

A narrative of a dream my sister had.

Damn Death

It was three years since Yanskit Noor took oath to office as the youngest president of Chibet. The wave of change in the region had started about four decades earlier with the successful coup by Tibetan Youth Organization against the hardliner Chinese authority - and Chibet was born - the largest democracy in the world.

The unprecedented and unexpected landslide victory of the Revolutionary Youth Democrats in the previous election was changing the structure, and even the very essence of this country at a pace faster than predictions from leading international economists, or political and social scientists. Most of these changes were directly attributed to Yanskit's unconventional, even radical, leadership. The young president rode on a wave of strong public approval and support, even though most analysts were wary of pretending comprehension or fathoming understanding of her rather abstract ways. And yet, she had their full faith - no one questioned that she meant well, and in some absurd fashion, her ways - worked!

The latest announcement, however, left her staunchest supporters aghast, wondering and fearful for her.....but, also of her. The announcements had been made personally by her, as usual, at a press briefing, on the latest in sweeping health care reforms that had started immediately after she stepped into office. She looked calm, and poised, as she said "I see no way out - just as people have a right to good life, so should the right to good death, be theirs". "Furthermore" she continued persuasively, a soft smile playing on her lips, and a stubborn glint lighting her eyes, " the society cannot and should not pay the high cost of keeping the old alive, at any cost, just because medical technology is now available to do so!" The ruling to medically aided termination of life was intended for all people over seventy, " in consultation with health care providers and financial advisers" and was effective a month from the date, giving enough time for the oldest nationals to put their affairs in order and bid farewell to their loved ones. This followed further administrative and logistic details on implementation of this 'reform', with cooperation and assistance of internal security and health officials.

The press reaction was stunned. Not the usual applause, nor even smiles or murmur of support - just a hushed silence, no questions, comments, demurs - till she finally thanked them for their presence and exited. The public saw this all - it was all televised, real time - and it was stunned. Conversations stopped at home, the televised rating system was silent, children crouched in corners watching their mute adults pick up threads of their life and move around - lifeless - and the old - they just sat there, near their TV sets, knowing their time was up. One thing everyone was clear about - having come this far, Yanskit was not joking, in fact she never joked. This was real, about to happen, and effected everyone's life - immediately.

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

Yanskit Noor sat her desk looking at the vast and empty landscape outside her modest office in Lhasa – the capital of Chibet. She was glad the announcement was over- made, received, and the country was now digesting it - although uncomfortably quietly. That was alright with her – she knew that eventually the nation would come out on her side. With the greater transparency and accountability of her government, people, across board, were aware of the enormous challenges ahead. The vast base of her popular support was built on promises of equality and equity for all citizens, in resources, education, health, and opportunities - and she intended to keep these promises. However, they could not be achieved under yoke of the heavy health care burden of preserving life for an increasing population of old - and everyone realized this. Only she was bold enough to say so, mean it, and do something about it – curtail life after a respectable duration of a fully state sponsored retirement – a just reward of rest, after years of work, toil, and contribution. Furthermore, it was a more humane solution, as she was not shy from acknowledging – to live while one was still alive to life’s joys, possibilities, hopes. She had worked hard, and long with facts and figures, assisted by able colleagues, to arrive at the age for this termination.

The cabinet opposition to her proposal had been stiff, vitriolic, especially so from her loyal friends, party mates. Yet, they all agreed, that the move would significantly lighten the financial burden of the ever increasing health care that was eating away at the core of the country’s financial abilities. Also, no one had a better solution. That is why she finally got her way. She smiled in memory – clearly, fear was the root for most – fear of losing a family member, a relative, a friend. Luckily the older members had fallen silent, for the fear of appearing cowards – they were usually her most vocal opponents.

She saw that people's lives were frequently governed by and in reaction to fear – often running at a deep sub conscious level - and dominating these was their fear of death. As people grew older, they tried new, desperate ways of distraction, and attempts to cling to immortality in form of frenzied accumulation, pillaging resources, natural and human- to barricade themselves against the final eventuality. There was an ever increasing and impossible strife to regain lost time, lost youth, lost beauty - and this was turning into a mass epidemic, as the country moved towards financial stability, and social balance.

As the wealthy poured more funding into searches for defying death, medically it seemed that one was able to do, with enough resources, funds, and a pool of ‘lesser’ financially weaker, global population to keep the market supplied with human spare parts. The sum total of this entire indulgence-of-fear, was a continuance and growth of financial, and social, global disparities, and a continuance of an irresponsible and immoral class of humans, who were beyond all considerations of equity, equality, fraternity of all mankind.

Long back, Bunan wrote:

Die while you are alive
And be absolutely dead.
Then do whatever you want:
It is all good.

The only way to lead a righteous life, was to be in continuous – a moment by moment awareness of death – that with each breath one is closer to one’s end. She realized this from her readings of the great masters, Sufi saints, Zen monks – that to lose fear of death, was the greatest liberation of all.

Beyond relieving the humane, social and financial burdens, Yanskit was sure that this latest measure was a necessary step towards inventing a truly just, sustainable, and spiritual society for re-entry into the sacred and natural web of life. A society, in constant awareness of its fixed and limited time, was driven towards a search, individual and as a whole, for values beyond only personal greed.

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

The old man's hand quivered as he reached for his glass of milk. His dim eyes were misted with tears. He had lived and suffered a lot, witnessed unimagined changes in his lifetime and was ready for closure. Last few years had been his happiest, seeing his young grand daughter take over the reigns of this new country – in her willful, and youthful ways, full of energy and laughter, she had infused the whole country with her hopes, her vigor. However, her announcement today had chilled even his most adoring, old heart. Only the young could think such a thing – they could be callous, courageous, bold visionaries, because in their blood they carried a surge of the immortals. All she said was true – the country could buckle under the financial burden of just the health care costs alone, if its privileges were to be shared by all. Also, by seventy, all people had probably lived enough – but wasn’t that for Buddha to decide? Was longing and suffering not a karmic inheritance? One was given this valuable human life to repay karmic debts, or enjoy its fruits as determined by the endless cycles of births. Was it a political entity to be dispensed at the will of political leaders? Just as with people, so also with worlds, they are born and die. If Buddha intended that Earth was doomed, then that was to be so- didn't some sutra already identify such a doomsday? Other worlds, were born and died continuously- who was she to presume control over eternal worlds, eternal lives? He knew what must be done – she must be stopped at all costs – by him – that was to be his karma, destiny. This is what he had lived his life by, recognizing and surrendering to the truth of right action.

Tears trickled down his face, while a little smile played around his lips, still in joyous anticipation of her approach – her youthful step, the bounce in her hair, lit eyes to share her exploits of the day, with her dearest grandpa, her best friend, her ardent supporter. He heard her call out “Jule, Jule” outside and waited for the door to open, as he reached under the pillow for the gun lying in readiness, his hand steady, his face full of love.

Reprisal

Inspector Alok Basu sat at his desk on a quiet Friday afternoon. An overhead fan droned and clicked in a rhythmic fashion lulling one into a sense of stupor. No doubt there was no lull in the outer office. Criminal mind needed no respite even at the end of an active week. Yet none of this touched him today. He had just returned from another of those ‘dowry remorse’ cases –another suicide, another note neatly placed well away from the charred remains of a fiery end. There could be no doubt at all this time. Of course the papers no longer cared to report these incidences. But that first time had been a shocker.

It had been a month or so after Kakali Sarkar had decided [or had it been decided for her?] to end her misery by immolating herself. The constant demands by the in-laws, the physical abuse, the emotional torture – it had all been too much. Parents declared foul play, a case had also been filed. But the real shocker came on the day her husband, the dynamic, successful, Rahul Sarkar was also found dead –again by self immolation, with a note of remorse at what had happened to Kakali. The note chided his parents, gently, that they would now know the pain of a dead child. What was one to make of that? Did this implicate his parents in Kakali’s death?

A few months later, there was another dowry death, followed by another suicide, and a handwritten, signed note of regret and remorse. This had made the press really sit up. Was a trend being set? The cases had since continued at a semi-regular interval till both the public and the press had lost interest. But not Inspector Alok Basu. Had the city really acquired a conscience? His lips curled up at this thought. No, it did not make sense. The dowry demands had declined to be sure, and the reports on dowry harassment had also diminished- but it was these remorse suicides that did not make sense. None of the suicide victims had shown any outward remorse at death of their young brides. Several were seeking new partners who were better equipped economically to meet their demands. Then what precipitated that final act? How could one explain away the same jasmine and sandal smell on the bed sheets – in all the cases? The victims leaving work –unexpectedly-around 11am after a receiving a telephone call–in all the cases? The office operator always mentioned a female voice.

Yet why should he care? Giving four daughters in marriage had cost him his honesty, his reputation. And the demands still continued till there was nothing left to give. Surely the time for Kali had finally arrived.

Bus Ride

Mrs. Meenakshi Sreenivasan hummed gently to herself. M.S. Subhalakshmi’s rendition of Meera bhajan was her favourite – it never failed to soothe and calm her senses. This was the best time of her day between 10:30am and lunchtime. Mr.Sreenivasan and the children had left for the day. Ayo! Here she was thinking of them again as children. Both had finished their education and had such good posts in the city. God was great. Even her Mr. Sreenivasan had been nicest of husbands –undemanding and mild mannered. The only thing he required was that rasam be good – and it always was. These were the thoughts that filled Mrs. MS’s head as she pottered around the garden in her new nook for ayurvedic herbs. It was lucky for her that her father, Vaidya Muttuswamy, famous in their entire district, had thought it fit to share with his only child some of his wisdom on ayurvedic plants, herbs, roots, potions. It still made Mrs.MS chuckle as she remembered the fits her mother would throw as the father and daughter frequently disappeared into the garden, or poured over old manuscripts, or concocted a new potion. Her Mr. Sreenivasan had been quite pleased when she had recently decided to renew her interest in ayurveda. God knows what she did with herself all day! But as long as she remained busy and happy playing with her plants, powders and obscurely labeled bottles of colored potions and did not grumble while he read his newspaper, he was satisfied. It made her giggle to imagine the look on his face if she were to tell him what she really was up to. Dear Mr. Sreenivasan- what did he know!

Today she was happy –it would be 10th bus ride- not a small feat in only last one year. In all the cases she had been successful. Hadn’t her father rightly told her that she could achieve anything she desired as long as she set her mind to it? So now after almost twenty five years of marriage and raising family, after all those dragging years of tedious boredom she had finally discovered an interest that amused her constantly and she considered worthwhile.

It wasn’t as if there were any streak of aggression in her. She considered herself very reasonable and God fearing. And without Almighty’s help could her success be this complete? God had empowered women to create life –made them mothers of creation. But sometimes creativity could also go haywire and had to be rectified-so to speak. So when the other day Lalitha, that nice young girl next door, came visiting with her mother and the topic of the harassment that she had to face every day on the bus came up, Mrs. MS suddenly and very clearly discovered her vocation. After all men born of woman’s womb had little right to insult that favour. Ayo! how disgusting, how repulsive. It had recalled in a flash the dark corridors of her childhood and Nagu mama’s waylaying her, his dirty hands. But no, her decision had nothing to do with her past.

The rest had been easy. Mrs.MS took to taking those significant bus rides with a little needle dipped in her homemade potion. On rats the reaction was immediate. In the first case she had lingered to witness her experiment to completion – it must have taken all of 10 seconds. Then death for the aberrant and a small freedom for his victims. She knew that her task could/would take a lifetime. And would suspect a portly matron in two “mukutis” and her grocery bag getting off to catch another bus home?

Today once again she gathered the tools of her trade, arranged her ‘champike’ in her hair and with her shopping bag made for the bus stop. No.39 was along soon and she soon got herself a ladies seat and settled back in comfort. The bus got crowded as it approached the city – this was where the action usually took place. Sure enough, soon an arm extended beyond her side to reach the curved young posterior just beyond. Mrs.MS reached inside her bag, carefully got her needle out and reached it inside the trouser leg next to her – strange! That trouser looked familiar. She turned back and raised her eyes to that familiar face even as she felt the needle contact in that fatal prick. Oh no! Mr. Sreenivasan, Sreenu, could it be you? Oh Venkata, Oh Shiva, Oh Gopala, what have I done? Could it really be you? My Lord?

She watched in a shocked silence as the body shivered and slumped to the floor.

Red and Green

There was no point –they could not be made to understand. Didn’t they see that her thoughts, efforts, and planning were solely to help those needy miserable souls- the cause of the hopeless- could almost be called social service? In fact would the light ever dawn that her actions merited acclaim – an example as it were, to those that did not dare? Then why was she here in this small cube, where the only ray of comfort came from that little square that illuminated her day and clocked time with passage of each starry, sleepless night, suffocating in the intense black of her cube? She, who used to be so free and only sought to free those others?

And, what did they object to- that she always found the colours green and red aesthetically pleasing? The calmness and soothing of the green in violent clash with the passion of red? And did’nt blood make the best red of all? Pulsating, warm blood, especially in spray on the tendrils of a spring field? Why was death the ultimate fear of human race- couldn’t it be life as well? Most people she encountered were most fearful of life, love, laughter – didn’t they then need a friend, who could show them that death was definitely another viable option?

Then there was the other matter- her fascination with trains. Since her earliest memories she had always had a train. Trains seemed indomitable, powerful, assured, and fearless in their pursuit of destination (or destiny?) through jungles of her imagination or through tunnels in rocky sheer cliffs or teasing the shore as they skirted the landline. She always knew that her destiny would forever be tied to those powerful pursuers and so it had turned out.

She had always been a good child, obedient and modest, mediocre in most respects, as was expected of her- in all except for her passion for trains. So when she approached what was considered a correct marriageable age , it was to everyone’s utter surprise, shock really when she calmly declared that she wanted to be a locomotive engine driver. No tears, threats, would make her change her mind. At last they had to give in- what else could they do? Where had they gone wrong? Nothing obvious came to mind- except buying her all those toy train sets. But who could have guessed?

As expected, her chosen path was also eventless – with effort she passed her exams and was lucky enough to even get a job- she had applied when women’s quotas were in favor and it was felt that her recruitment would add positively to the railways sordid, entirely male profile. True, her own line ran through least challenging and frequented landscapes. But oh! The freedom of it- chugging away in that old steam clonker! The familiar sound of his whistle, the grunts when he had to get moving, and sighs at the smallest stops! She smiled bemusedly at the memories of those endless hours of companionship. And thus it had been for a long, long time.

That first time had been startling- probably more in the context of her conservative upbringing. There was that lone figure standing besides the tracks- dusky skin, orange saree and a long plait- all this she saw as the train noisily approached the lonely figure. And oh that sad sad face at the last glimpse- how was she to know? The figure had lurched right into her path. She braked instinctively- the poor clonker screeched his complaints, but she knew it was too late. That was her first look at the red on green. It enlivened her senses- made her breathe faster- it was shockingly, beautifully, crudely, glorious. Another look at the mangled remains- she was touched by the serenity on one who had been so young, and now would never be old again. Her heart wept in happiness at the comfort that she had helped achieve. She could still recall the words that spun through her head- “ sleep dear child, sleep”

It was after those first tedious rounds of formalities, endless questioning, when she had a chance to dwell on the incident that it struck her- she had discovered her true calling- this then was what it was all about. Her life suddenly was no longer lived on a whim, but she had been pre-ordained to be their savior- their final savior- those miserable hopeless souls. Why her old clonker was nothing but her partner in mercy.

That first advert in the papers looked innocent enough “Are you in deep distress? Write to PO Box 875623” How could they be expected to make arrangements for their final earthly moments-why! most of them did not realise that they craved the peace of eternal slumber. But they had her. And she was uncompromising on details, dedicated in her mission- their own guardian angel.

Of course she was always present during their last moments. She had to make sure that the job got completed. The thrill of red on green was a secondary issue –truly.

Oh, what was that? Footsteps? Clanking keys? Freedom? Oh no! was it the warden? Not again-please not again. She could not tolerate those shock therapies-what were they trying to do? Make her mad?

And then the door opened.