Inspector Murthy Unmasks An Offender

     After Inspector Murthy's retirement, he had increased his daily quota of walking. In addition to his daily morning walks in the forest near his house, he had started taking post-prandial walks in the late evening. However, as a result of the pandemic, the forest department had shut its doors on people who wanted to walk in the forest. The Inspector could have easily wrangled out a permission, but he did not like taking advantage of his position, unlike many of his colleagues. So he had started walking on the footpaths beside the main roads near his house. 

     The pandemic had thrown a spanner into many businesses, both proposed and running. A gym, all ready to be inaugurated on the first floor of a brand new building in the layout, had gone into hibernation as the government had, among other things, banned running of gyms till further notice. The slumber had come to an end when the ban had been lifted, but prospective customers were wary. Every morning at 6, a couple of trainers used to open up the place and switched on all the lights. It gave a feeling of warmth to the minds of the pedestrians who walked in the chilly October mornings. 

     But, as any of them could easily see through the large glass "walls", not a foot stepped on to the treadmills, cross-trainers or other contraptions arranged facing the road. It looked like people were as wary of empty gyms as they were of crowded ones. The Inspector himself had felt that it would have made better advertisement if the trainers themselves had used the machines. But the trainers had other ideas. 

     They put up a table on the footpath and started distributing pamphlets offering substantial discounts on their 'regular' charges. They also put up a huge flex banner which announced the opening of the gym on the first of October. The date was borne on a patch pasted on to the now covered up date of 1st March, the original scheduled date. They also ended up blocking a substantial part of the footpath causing inconvenience to the regular walkers. Late in the evening, the table was locked up, but the banner continued to be on the footpath. 

 **

     That situation had changed this morning. Regulars were greeted by the burnt remains of the banner. While the synthetic parts of the banner had practically disappeared into thin air, the scorched and distorted metal tubes that had supported the banner adorned the footpath.  A mangled metal sculpture greeted the trainers when they arrived. They called up the manager immediately and reported their findings.

      The manager arrived on site at around 8 a.m. and examined the corpus in situ.  Fancying his powers of observation and detection, he attempted to unravel the crime, He could have found out the perpetrator had the owner had not skimped on investing money for CCTV. To save money, he had covered only the insides of the gym and not the exterior. The scene of the crime yielded nothing to him. Not even the phone number of the owner which had been put on the now non-existent banner, though the manager did not really need it.  But he had to wait a couple of hours before calling up the owner who had specifically forbidden him to call before 10.

**

        As advised by the owner, the manager went to the local police station to lodge a complaint. After some delay, he was ushered into the large hall where the duty officer was seated at his desk. He narrated his findings and communicated his master's desire to lodge a complaint. The duty officer was a bit wary of such complaints. They only added to the list of unsolved complaints and spoilt his performance records.  He was sure he would not find anything of value in the form of evidence. Even if he had found a matchstick or two, after the local walkers had stomped all over the scene of the crime, there was no way to link it to anyone.  He knew that teachers from a nearby coaching centre usually had a smoke or two between classes in that very corner.

        Attack is the best form of defense, the officer knew, so he questioned the manager. 

     "What does your CCTV show?" he enquired, knowing very well that such a thing did not exist in the gym.  

     The manager sheepishly admitted that the CCTV did not cover the footpath. 

     The officer pressed forth the advantage he had, saying, "I had clearly asked you to cover that area too. And why were you encroaching the footpath? "

    The manager knew he was beaten and required reinforcements. He called up the owner of the gym and informed him of the officer's reluctance to file a report. The owner, who was a locally influential person, pulled some strings and the telephone on the officer's desk rang within five minutes.

    The Assistant Commissioner, who was on the line, instructed the duty officer to take the complaint.

Cornered, the officer accepted the letter from the gym manager and registered a complaint against "unknown offenders".

      In order to vent his frustration, he muttered rather loudly, "Be happy with the acknowledgement of your complaint! Nothing will be achieved in this case. Not a shred of evidence will be there to identify offender."

     He continued his tirade, in a semi-humourous way, saying, "Everyone wears a mask these days. How shall I be able to unmask the real offender?"

      There was a cackle from the corner of his room, where his ex-boss was sitting. Pushing his mask down from his mouth, Inspector Murthy, with a smile on his face, said, "I am sure the offender will be unmasked. Go and look. I am sure you will find some evidence. "

Then sub-consciously, the retired officer, touched his right pant pocket. He was reassured to find the lighter he had used to burn the banner nestling safely in it. He smiled inwardly, congratulating himself on his matchless performance. He told himself that the duty officer could play to any extent with any matchsticks he found. 

     He had made it a habit to visit the station every day after retirement and chat up his protégé, as it also afforded him a peek into the goings on in the neighbourhood. There was only so much a policeman in service could do. It was a different story after retirement... 

***

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A Cog in the Wheel

The walker was walking briskly in the forest. He regularly walked every day for over an hour. It had not always been that way. He had started walking seriously only a few years back. Something made him take up walking to an extent he had not walked earlier. He wasn't sure what had made him walk so much. But he walked around ten thousand steps a day, give or take a few steps. On some days, he nearly doubled the number of steps, driven by some unseen force. Today, when he had covered about six thousand steps he suddenly keeled over and crashed to the ground. Other walkers nearby rushed to help, but it was too late.

Simultaneously, fourteen other persons across the globe too fell to their death. Their death was intricately connected to one another though none of them knew each other.  They all had something in common that they were unaware of.

The number of steps that they took every day was tied to the destiny of many people in the world. Every step each of them took took away the life of a human being somewhere, leading to an average of about a hundred and fifty deaths a day. Some days when he or one of the others walked more than usual, some catastrophic event somewhere increased the average.

**

The "Man in the Moon", also known as the Force was amused to see all the fifteen die at the same time. Such a thing had not happened before. By  some strange coincidence, the Terminate function had been called for fifteen persons by different parts of the simlulation. It was the Force that entwined their walk with human deaths. It was the puppeteer controlling the strings of the great simulation that controlled the world. The simulation controlled who was a designated walker, i.e. a walker who, so to say, was the metronome by which The Grim Reaper hewed his scythe. It also controlled which human being was terminated as the designated walker took a step. Every designated walker was liable for termination too. In such a case, the simulation chose a replacement designated walker. And made him take up walking, like it had with others before him. Everything that happened was a part of the simulation. Every landslide, earthquake, snowstorm, flood and drought was a result of the operation of the simulation. Every election was rigged. Every winner of every  game, roulette or any other, was all determined by the Force's simulation.

The Force was based on the Moon and humans had failed to recognise the signs of existence of the Force. The Force had access to interfere in programs written by humans and not hesitated to save his turf when imminent danger was suspected. The Force had effectively neutralised a manned moon rocket a few decades back and an unmanned lander quite recently. 

It did introduce variables into the simulation from time to time. It rewrote bits of code to change or control the simulation as it desired. It was all powerful.

Or so it thought ...

Like every member of the military top brass, politician, gang-lord, corporate honcho, sports captains,  or classroom monitor, it had delusions of power.

**

But it was just another cog in the wheel. It itself was part of simulation in which he had several peers he was unaware of. The nearest planet with life, which was in no way similar to what Earthlings imagined, had two moons. The Force's peers in those moons not only controlled life on it, but actually played a game against each other. Like the Force, they introduced variables in their simulations or changed codes at the behest of the code that controlled them, under the watch of the Great Simulator, who controlled many such simulations.

GS too had delusions of power, but then GS too was just another cog in the wheel ...



                                                                             ***


Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

The Halo

Estella was delighted when members of her family first noticed the halo over her head when she was about ten years old. Like many achievers, she had started early. Initially it was quite dim and not easily noticeable. She had worked hard to get it. Everyone at home had enquired how she had got it. She had proudly mentioned that she had saved the neighbourhood cat from the large dog down the road.

She proudly wore her halo and held her head high. It was the “Family” halo and no one in the family did anything to surpass her achievement and snatch it away from her. It went on increasing in brightness as she did more deeds. But her friends could not see it as it was visible only to family members.

Around 12, they noticed a second and dim halo over the first one. Family members had difficulty in noticing it as it was faint and hardly visible in the brightness of the Family halo. But friends who could not see the Family halo could see it. It was the Friendship halo. People enquired what she had done to merit the new halo. But she did not brag about her activities. She continued doing what she did and this halo too grew brighter and brighter as days passed.

When she was about 14 years old, another fainter halo appeared. This was the “City” halo. She had now managed to scale up her activities to the extent that they affected the entire city. Like earlier, her previous halos shone bright and the new one was not visible easily to family and friends. But everyone else in the city could see it. Soon she had a “State” halo too.

At 16, she went national. Very few persons had five halos. It was almost as if she was carrying a bright set of rings of the Tower of Hanoi on her head. She became an instant celebrity. TV channels rushed in to interview her and newspapers ran articles on her. After all a “National” level achiever was hardly to be ignored or sneezed at. People flocked to take her autographs. They wanted to take selfies with her.

With all five halos in full brilliance, she embarked on her next mission at 18. She wanted to go international. She managed to hack into the computers of the Air Traffic Control of the largest international airport in the world. She fiddled with their software to incorporate differences between actual time and position of aircraft and the ones used for tracking traffic. Now the heights, distances, directions and speeds were all different from their actual place is 3-D space. The adjustments made ensured that several pairs aircraft would be at the identical place at the same time. In the next fifteen minutes, nearly 8 mid-air collisions occurred, involving airlines from 9 different countries and people of over 20 nationalities. Though deft handling by the pilots involved averted the disaster, her effort and ingenuity were noticed and rewarded.   And her “International’ halo appeared instantly. Not dim, like others initially were. In full brightness.

Oh, I had forgotten to tell you, her first halo had appeared when she had slit the throat of the dog that was troubling the cat, as had subsequent ones. With half a dozen halos, she wondered what she had to do get the coveted bright horns over the last halo. She decided she need to read more about the Mongol chiefs, German and Ugandan dictators, and the like to get some inspiration for the future. In future she would join this worthy crew – Estella had no doubt about that.

She decided to get a job in a virology lab. It was empowering to have the fate of the world in her hands. She had the means to get the world down to its knees. Last year, in 2019,  she joined the lab. And the rest, as they say, is history.

She now has the brightest pair of halo horns ever.

***

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

Missing the Woods for the Trees

They were sipping at a coffee shop near their office. Maya had taken a latte and her friend, a cappuccino. 

He looked quite trim and she asked, "What do you do to keep yourself fit?"

"I work out at home at least an hour each evening and a couple of hours on weekends. In addition, I try to walk at least 5 kilometres every morning," he said.

"The footpaths in Bangalore are terrible, and the roads are dusty and full of potholes." she said, adding, "You walk on a treadmill, perhaps, to keep away from all that and vehicle pollution?"

"No," he said, "There's a little wood about half a kilometre from my house, which is ideal for walking. I love spending time there."

"Wood?", she asked, "You are really lucky to have the lung space so near! I would love to see it."

"Why don't you join me this Sunday morning?", he asked.

She smiled to herself. That was a beginning she liked, she thought.

"That would be wonderful," she said.

"Wear some comfortable walking shoes. It's just a mud trail, and pretty easy," he said, adding, "And remember to wear long pants to avoid thorns. I will pick you up from this coffee shop."

**

On Sunday morning, she turned up at the coffee shop duly outfitted for the walk. He picked her up and drove her to the edge of the wood and parked in a spot where his vehicle would be clearly visible to other road users, so that they could avoid it.

The wood was the property of the Forest Department and had a fence around it. They entered through a gate, which had a board specifying the timings the forest was open to the public. There was also a board with the "Do's and Don'ts" – advising them what they were supposed to or prohibited from doing there. They, however, had a discussion on whether the board should have read "Dos and Don'ts" or "Do's and Don't's". The discussion was inconclusive.

The walk itself was fascinating. They could hear the creaking of the bamboo trees as they bent in the wind and grazed against a neighbouring tree. They could hear the calls of various birds. They even managed to spot and identify a few, though they did have a small dispute on the identity of a particular species. Anyway disputes are part of the deal on the path to friendship. One should not let them break a friendship.

After covering around a couple of kilometres, they looped back by another route back to where the car was parked. He drove her back to the coffee shop.

As they parted, she said, "Let's do it again next Sunday."

He replied, "Sure. My pleasure," as he drove off.

**

She did not call him during the whole week, so he called her on Saturday, to check whether the plan for Sunday was still on.

She responded in a frigid tone, "I tried to look up that wood on Google Earth. I also looked up the map and find that area is full of large houses. I find that there is no mention of that wood anywhere on the web. Are you trying to pull a fast one on me?"

He was terribly confused. He asked, "What do you mean?," adding, "I took you out there last Sunday. Maybe you looked in the wrong place. I can take you there again tomorrow as we had planned. You can check it out for yourself."

"Okay," she agreed, "May be you can pick me up tomorrow morning at the coffee shop."

"Certainly," he confirmed.

**

As he was driving to the wood, after picking her up,  he said, "You must have made a mistake and looked it up in the wrong place on Google Earth. Let me show it to you after we reach." 

"Are you insinuating that I cannot locate things correctly online?," she asked, with a confrontational attitude.

He backed off from the confrontation. Anyway disputes are part of the deal on the path to friendship. One should not let them break a friendship, he thought.

As he parked his car at the same spot as the previous week, he said, "Here we are! Look, you can see the wood we saw last week."

"Where?," she asked, "I don't see any wood here. I only see a palatial bungalow beyond the gates!"

To his horror, the wood had disappeared from before his eyes and all he could see was a big house with a circular garden in front of it.

Confused, he blurted, "Oh, yes! I see the house. Where has the wood gone?"

Then, he confided, "Sorry! I confess! There was no wood at all. I just hypnotized you into believing that there was a wood and we had walked in it. I just wanted to spend some time with you."

"Oh my god! And I had believed every bit of it. That wasn't a very nice thing to do, but I will forgive you this one time, considering your motive," she said.

She smiled and murmured to herself. "Gotcha!". It was exactly what she wanted – a person who would do every bidding, satisfy every whim and follow every instruction she gave.  Every word he had uttered from the time they had first met, including the previous sentence, was at her behest. A companion, whom she could mesmerise and control to such an extant that he believed he had hypnotized her and had her in his control! She had him exactly where she wanted him. After all, she was Maya1..

Author's note: I have not named the gentleman in order to protect his identity, as some of you may know him. Any name will work here, for most men often revel in the thought that they are in control and free to make their choices, when, in reality, they are not.

1 Maya means illusion or magic.

***

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

Going Around in Circles

It was slightly chilly December morning and there was a light breeze as I zipped on my riding jacket and put on my helmet. As I pulled on the choke lever and kick-started my motorcycle, I thought this was as cold as it could get in Goa, except perhaps in the ice age.

My guide, who was the owner of the rental motorcycle, also doubled as a mechanic and helper in case I had problem with the bike. He put in his tools and a puncture kit in the rucksack strapped to the side pillion seat, which he would occupy.

Most passengers on bikes in Goa are carried on the pillion seat with the owner in the front seat, riding the bike. But I had insisted on it being the other way around. I liked to feel the wind in my face while riding and my friend, the owner of the bike had obliged. He also put on my backpack that contained some essentials like water and a few eatables for the day.

We rode south towards Margao and thence towards Quepem. Near Paroda, we had a small river on our left. It was the Kushavati, also known as the Paroda river, a tributary of the much larger Zuari, one of the lifelines of Goa.

Just after passing the Quepem town square, in reality a rectangular municipal garden, which also served as the local roundabout, we turned left and rode on a bridge that crossed the river. A little further, we came across crossroads managed by a dusty looking policeman. His uniform looked dirty as if it carried the dust of centuries. In reality, it was washed every second day and what I was seeing was just a day's worth of dust that flew off from the dumpers, that continuously crossed his station, carrying iron-ore to the Mormugao port, liberally dusting the country roads at every bump.

We turned right into a narrow road slowing down to avoid being hit by rows of dumper trucks. These trucks carried iron ore from the mines further in the interior and were usually driven as if they owned the road. They probably did in a sense of the word, having "taken care" of corrupt officials to get necessary permits. If you rode continuously behind one of them, you could be assured of an iron lung, or a need to have an iron lung in the not so distant future.

After we crossed the hamlet of Rivona, there were a couple of signs put up by the Archeological Department on the roadside, pointing the route to a protected site. After a few kilometres, the sign pointed to the right and we found ourselves on a gravelly road. We made slow progress over the loose stones, but the absence of the trucks made it easier.

A little further we turned left and rode uphill and past a large gash in the ground, having many paths with dozens of switchbacks. It was an opencast mine that had fallen into disuse, either during the mining ban that was there for sometime, or due to the sheer economics of getting low grade ore out from that deep pit. Some water had accumulated to form a small pool at the bottom. No doubt, it would be much larger during the monsoon, when Goa gets copious amounts of rain.

The path turned right and went downwards to a small clearing. We had arrived at the prehistoric site of Pansaimol/Usgalimol. Since the site was not very well known and not in the popular tourist circuit, there were no other visitors there.

When we got off the bike, we noticed that the rear tyre seemed to be under inflated. It looked like we had had a puncture. My guide said he would attend to it right away, now that we had the time, rather than repair it later when it went fully flat on a road with those monster trucks rushing by. He pointed me in the direction of the archaeological site, and I proceeded on foot.

Following his directions, I came to a small shack made of coconut trunks and fronds. A part-time caretaker, employed by the Archaeological Department, was seated inside. There was a narrow bridge, made of a couple of tree trunks, across a small rivulet. The crossing was a bit of a tightrope-walk and I slowly made it to the other side. I had reached a pretty large area of stone on the banks of the Kushavati, which was about 20 foot wide at this place. At my feet were dozens of carvings in the stone. Some figures were clearly animal and birds. Some required a bit of cleaning or imagination to decipher what the ancient artist was trying to say.

As I moved around, I came across what was clearly the depiction of a labyrinth, reminiscent of the chakravyuha in the Mahabharata .  I wasn't quite sure if it was the map of some specific, and as yet undiscovered, labyrinth in the neighbourhood or just an example of the artist's creativity. I put down the bag and sat down in front of the "entrance" and traced my finger along the engraved path. Going around in ever decreasing circles, my finger reached the centre of the diagram. When touching the centre, some unknown instinct prompted me to "Open Sesame" rather dramatically.

**

I found myself in a long corridor having several doorways on one side and windows on the other. Bright sunlight lit up the row of windows. The doorways were all identical and led to other corridors. It looked like the labyrinth carving in Goa had transported me to a maze.

Purists differentiate between the two terms labyrinth and maze. A labyrinth has just one entrance-cum-exit and no crossing paths. One cannot get 'lost' in a labyrinth, however winding it might be. Just following the wall will lead out. In contrast, a maze has multiple choices and crossing paths, which may potentially trap a person 'forever'.

I wandered around wondering where I had landed up, when I heard voices. Going towards the voices, I caught up with them, after a couple of false starts since sounds were getting reflected off the walls. I saw a group of around a dozen people stepping on to a terrace.

I heard a person, who was obviously their guide, tell them, in Hindustani, "You are now at the upper part of the Bhool-Bhulaiya.  You have to find your way back. I shall wait for you at the entrance we came through. I shall give you an hour to find your way out. Call me on the mobile number mentioned on my card if you want me to come and help you earlier than that. Here's my card."  Saying this he slipped back into the shadows and disappeared.

My mind was zapped into awareness by one word in that dialogue. Mobile. I realised could use my mobile's map function to find my location! I pulled it out and checked. To my utter astonishment, I saw I was at the Bada Imambara in Lucknow. I looked for further information on Wikipedia and found that the maze had nearly five hundred identical doorways and a thousand pathways between them. A nice place to get lost, I thought.

But the map function was no great help in solving the maze because of two reasons: one, bad connectivity and two, lack of details of the insides of the maze. So I explored around, walking from corridor to corridor along the outer periphery, which had windows through which the outside world was visible, and planned going to the next row inwards, if I did find the exit on the periphery.

My self confidence proved to be overconfidence as I had now separated from the tourist group which, as a last resort, had at least a phone number to bank on.

As I walked into an inner chamber, I heard a rumbling noise and turned round to see a wall behind me slide and close the passage from which I had just emerged. Horrified, I turned around to see that the same thing had happened on the other side too. I had no idea what had triggered this activity. I was now effectively trapped inside the chamber.  To my knowledge I had not committed any offence that was punishable with death by "walling up", as was executed in the medieval times.

There was no source of light or air in my cell. Neither did my cellphone seem to work here.   I had no food or water with me. Slowly but surely I was running out of oxygen, as there was no window. I tried tapping on the wall all around me at different heights hoping to find some point which could trigger the wall to open. I was unsuccessful. Some time later I became unconscious.

**

When I regained consciousness, I once again started feeling around in the darkness to find an exit. My groping hands encountered something soft and fibrous, while my nose recognised the distinctive smell of animals.

As usual, I had forgotten the things my phone could do. I switched on its torch, and saw that I was surrounded by sleeping sheep, in the plural. I counted about eleven of them – I may have double counted some or missed some – but did not fall asleep. I am not kidding.

My phone, however, was unable to latch on to any network and its inbuilt location app did not work. I ventured out of the enclosure, but it was dark and cold. So I crept back into the warmth among the woolly creatures.

Presently, as the first rays of the pre-dawn sun peeked over the horizon, I heard the melodious voice of a young lady singing in a rustic dialect of Hindi as she approached. She sang not only about the power, grace and majesty of the male falcon and its love, attention and care  for the female of the species. The voice carried in the silence of the morning and the refrain went "Mera baaz baaz na aayega ...". (My falcon won't change its ways...)

The singer opened the ramshackle gate of the enclosure and made a beckoning sound at which all the animals except me trooped out. They seemed to bleat in consonance with her song. I followed the last animal out. She was around thirteen and was very beautiful.

She asked me,  "What are you doing in that enclosure?"

Having no real and credible answer, I truthfully replied, "Sleeping."

"Why are you dressed so oddly? What's that you are wearing?, she asked pointing to my biker jacket.

I removed it and she touched its soft faux-leather and said it was very soft and nice. The zip intrigued her as it was clear she had never seen one before. I showed her how to operate it and she was wonderstruck. I offered her the jacket as a gesture of friendship and a bright smile illuminated her extraordinarily pretty face, as she murmured her thanks.

I asked her her name and enquired about where we are. She said that she was called Roop by her friends, but her full name was Roopmati. As to the location, she said we were near Mandavgad in Malwa.

On a hunch, I asked her, "Who is the the king here?".

She replied, "The Mughals rule Delhi, but Mandu* keeps changing hands frequently. No one knows who the next ruler will be."

I remembered my high school history book. It had said Baz Bahadur had won the throne of Mandu and had married a beautiful shepherdess called Roopmati, who was said to have a melodious voice.  It is nice to know history before it happens. Little did this Little Bo-Peep know that she would one day be the Queen of Malwa.

I said, tongue in cheek, "You were singing of Baaz and Shaheen (male and female falcons in Urdu). Perhaps the next ruler will be a Baaz who will carry you away."

She smiled shyly and asked me how I had got there. I started my story from the time I started running my finger in the labyrinth on the banks of a river. I told her how I had got transported with the words "Open Sesame" and reached Lucknow first and then to her sheecote . I told her that I had no idea how to get back to my own town. I did not say anything about getting back to my own time.

Quick on the uptake, the wise lass gave me a suggestion which had not even crossed my mind. She said, "Maybe you should try saying, 'Close Sesame'."

"Close Sesame?", I asked, not having got the full import of saying her advice aloud. Perhaps the powers that be did not sense the question mark at the end of my query.

* Another name for Mandavgad

**

I found myself back near the labyrinth etched into the riverside.

My guide said, "Aah, there you are! I was wondering where you had gone."

He sniffed and added, "Why do you smell as if you have been sleeping among goats? And where is your riding jacket?"

He probably couldn't differentiate between smell of one animal or another, so I just gave him a sheepish smile. We searched around for the jacket though I knew it was in Mandu.

**

I wonder once in a way what Baz Bahadur would have thought of the zipper on my jacket. Or wondered which animal skin had been used to make the jacket. And I can never forgive myself for not photographing the pretty shepherdess on my mobile phone. Our phone vendors emphasise their phones' camera abilities, but I forgot to take a selfie with her. I would have had the only photograph of Roop in the world. Pardon my being rather familiar with her name, but that's how she had introduced herself. Life is full of missed opportunities.

***


Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

The Other Side of the Story

Subansiri was from Assam and had been named after the tributary of the Brahmaputra that flows through that state. She had just appeared for her final year medical examinations some time back and was excited about the results that were due today. She had no doubt about her results, though the question papers were of a quality that professional courses needed to have to ensure that their alumni were up to international standards. As always, she had performed well and would surely be among the top three ranks at the college. The question was which of the those three places she would get.

She knew she would be competing with two young men from her batch – Aashish and Aakash. Both had similar backgrounds. Both came from families with three generations of doctors, in contrast to her family where she would be the first. Both obviously had parents who subscribed to a common Indian thought that their child's name had to be the first in the alphabetically arranged college rolls and had named their son with names starting with a pair of 'A's.  However, in Aashish's case, their precaution had not been abundant enough – he had been outstripped by Aakash's parents, at least in that department.

                                                                                **

They met in the lobby and approached the results displayed on the notice board. As foreseen, they had indeed shared the top three spots. Aakash headed the list, followed by her and Aashish, all separated by just one mark each. They decided to retire to the cafeteria to celebrate and discuss their future plans. Their future academic plans had been discussed long back, for all the three of them had decided to pursue further studies in surgery and if possible, at the same college abroad, for the trio were truly inseparable.

The future plans they were discussing in the cafeteria, however, pertained to their immediate future. Siri, as she was called by them, had decided to take a break by going home to Lakhimpur. Aakash and Aashish, being locals, had decided to take a bike tour of the neighbouring states. However, fate had some other plans.

**

Aakash, riding on the exhilaration of having topped the course, decided to propose to Siri, then and there. Actually, he had already decided to do so before coming to college, irrespective of the position he would get. The results had only strengthened his resolve. He was a practical and no non-sense type of young man. He did not believe in the necessity of a romantic environment for proposing. Nor did he believe in getting down on his knees or proffering a rose. 

But he was flabbergasted when Siri turned down his proposal. Worse, as if to insult him –  in his opinion – she went on to admit that her heart beat for Aashish. Aakash was thunderstruck and could not understand how she could prefer the third ranker who had scored even less than her marks. 

His rage was uncontrollable. He had been worried that she might reject his offer and had brought along a dagger to stage a drama that he would kill himself if she spurned him. He drew the dagger from his bag and in a fit of jealousy, stabbed Aashish in the left side of his chest, going straight for his heart, with the precision which only a student of anatomy can muster.

Aashish doubled over, falling on the table, as blood gushed out his wound. Everyone around screamed. Luckily they were surrounded by doctors-in-waiting and the college's hospital was next door. As other students pulled Aakash away, someone called Emergency and within minutes an ambulance arrived. 

Siri was in shock, but her professional training had dictated her behaviour. She had stemmed the bloodflow with a pad made out a towel. She had already noted that the blood loss was not as substantial as it would have been if Aakash had damaged the heart. But her knowledge of anatomy told her that there was no way Aakash had missed Aashish's heart, the wound being where it was.

As she accompanied the stretcher to the ambulance, Aashish grimaced at first and then grinned at her.

He said just three words, as he winked, which made a world of difference to her, and brought a smile to her face and hope in her heart.

"Situs inversus totalis."

***

  

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

Burning Desire

Author's Note: This story is wholly fictional, though it does draw on the prevailing social conditions in Goa in the mid-eighteenth century

Caetano D'Costa had wooed and won the heart of Consuela de Albuquerque, but her father was an old world elitist. She had been baptised at Igreja de Nossa Senhora da Consolação in Sesimbra when her father was in Portugal and had been named in the Spanish fashion after the patron saint of the church. In his book, he was a member of the ruling Portuguese elite; a member of the prestigious imperial hierarchy that ruled Goa – a fidalgo1, with the right to rule the locals. It was another matter that he was just a middle order nobleman. His claim to eliteness was to a large extant based on the fact that he was a distant relative of Afonso de Albuquerque, the Governor of Goa.

When he came to know of the romance, the lesser of his worries was whether a commoner, especially a newly converted one,  could give his daughter all the comforts and privileges that a member of the administrative services of the empire could give. But, privately, and more importantly, he dreaded the slight to his status that such a marriage would bring. He could have packed her off to Portugal, but he knew that the Europeans there would still look down upon her, as one from the colonies. There was only one way out, he decided. He would make her join the Church.

For this he chose one of the oldest nunneries. It was a very austere order and resided in a cloistered campus. The nuns lived in seclusion and had no contact with any male except their father, paternal uncles or brothers of the inmate, or the convent's doctor, in case the need arose. Even the male relatives who were allowed to visit were permitted to do so just twice in a month and under supervision.

On admission, Consuela's hair was shorn before she took up the veil. Due to her father's Portuguese ancestry, she was given the privilege of wearing a black veil, while nuns of Goan descent had to use a white one. Of course, this small concession did not spare her from the hard life that all the inmates led. Other than their time spent on prayer and activities directly linked to the convent, they spent their time making vestments, tending the extensive garden in the quadrangle and in cooking jam and other preserves. During prayers conducted by the Archbishop, once in a year, they sat in the choir loft to observe the mass without being themselves seen. The segregation was complete and absolute.

Caitu, as Caetano was commonly known, was flabbergasted at what her father had done. He knew that if he did not take necessary steps, there was no way of meeting Consuela again. He realised that becoming a doctor was one way of doing that. In Goa, a dotor2 is a well respected person and usually considered above suspicion. He was intelligent enough to qualify as a doctor as early as possible, but there was a hitch. He needed to be the doctor whom the convent consulted.  There was little chance of his taking the place of the existing incumbent.

1 nobleman, in Portuguese
2 Not a typo! This Goan Konkani word for doctor comes from the Portuguese "doutor"

**

So he hatched a plan – he would join the church and become a doctor in the service of the Church.  For this he selected to join the order that had its campus just across the road from the convent. It took him a few years to become a physician. The nunnery quickly grabbed the opportunity to take him on as their consultant doctor as he was easily accessible as compared to the previous one who had do come from the nearest city at a time of his convenience.

Soon he began regular visits to the nunnery whenever he was called to attend to one inmate or another. He was always supervised on these visits by an inmate, other than the patient,who escorted him from the door to the ailing inmate. Several months passed and it looked that Consuela never fell ill. So, he did not get an opportunity to meet her, even in the presence of another inmate.

One day, he was informed that one of the older inmates of the nunnery appeared to be in a critical condition. He hastened to the nunnery and knocked at the entrance he usually used. As the door opened, his heart took a leap, as it was opened by Consuela, who was to escort him to the bedside of her ailing senior.

**

Seeing him at the door, Consuela was unsure of her feelings as she led him through the building. She had taken the vows of her order, but seeing him in flesh made her doubt her own resoluteness. While he too was happy that his plan had worked, he was not quite sure what the future held for both of them. For the moment, he attended to his duties towards the patient and was let out silently. The surprise of seeing each other had stunned both Caitu and Consuela to silence.

**

He made several similar visits to see the same patient, but never encountered Consuela again. He was not sure if it was providence at work or whether she was avoiding him. At the end of one such visit, he was let out through the room which was used by nuns to meet their visiting relatives. Though he could not see Consuela as she was yet to arrive, he recognised her father who was waiting to meet her. Her father was shocked to see his daughter's old flame in the nunnery, that too in religious clothing and apparently having a free run of the premises.

**

As soon as Consuela's father left the premises, he went straight to the former palace of Adil Shah, the erstwhile ruler of the area before the Portuguese colonisation. The palace was now re-purposed as the head-quarters of the dreaded Holy Inquisition in Goa.  He announced his name and asked for the Inquisitor. The Albuquerque in his name got him an immediate audience.

He informed the Inquisitor that he had learnt that Caetano D'Costa, a convert who had been ordained as a priest, continued to carry on the practices of his erstwhile religion. In those days, a mere complaint was enough to start inquisition proceedings, and the burden of innocence was on the accused. Caitu was picked up by the Inquistion and taken to the notorious Big House3, as the palace was euphemistically known.

3 'VhoDle Ghor' or 'Orlem Ghor', in Konkani, as it was called in whispered horror

**

Caitu was subjected to various kinds of torture to make him confess. However, he resisted the urge to make a false confession, knowing very well that a confession would certainly lead to dire consequences. When Consuela's father heard that a confession was not forthcoming, he decided to get rid of Caetano once and for all. He put in a suggestion that the accused be pronounced guilty and subjected to an auto-da-fe, a public execution by burning. He was willing to do anything to that end and managed to achieve his objective by pulling appropriate strings.

**

Caetano D'Costa was burnt in the public square as ordered by the Inquistion. The flames consumed his body turning it to ashes that fell to the ground in the praça.

**

A few days later, wholly unaware of what had happened to Caitu, Consuela took part in the rites that marked the commencement of Lent. On Ash Wednesday, ashes obtained from burning palm leaves consecrated in the previous year's Palm Sunday celebrations, were applied to her forehead, amidst chants of "Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris", reminding her that humankind was dust and to dust it would return. Some people paraphrase it 'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust'.

She never saw Caitu again. Little did she know that her old flame had been extinguished by another flame.

^{4 Bahadur Shah Zafar says the same, "Main vo ek musht-e-gubaar hoon" in his poem "Na kisi kee aankh ka noor hoon". Listen to Mohd. Rafi's poignant rendition in the movie Lal Quila here.} 

***

Post-script: The last auto da fé in Goa was held in 1773 and the Inquisition was disbanded in 1820.

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

The Trekker

The man sat at a table under the canopy outside a restaurant on the road to a Nandi Hills, a favourite getaway for Bangaloreans. It is about fifty kilometres from the city. The road up the hill was a moderately tough climb for both cyclists and trekkers. The last couple of kilometres of the road had a dozen hairpin bends which were a challenge for the cyclists who had to cope with the gradient and other vehicles as well. When they reached the top, they usually turned back to coast downhill using up all their potential energy. They did not climb the hill to take in the visual treat that the heights offered and hence did not spend time at the top. It was exhilarating to reach speeds of over seventy kilometers an hour when rushing downhill. The adrenaline rush that ride gave was fantastic. The wind cooled their bodies overworked by the uphill ride and blew off whatever sweat that still remained on them. It did get a bit scary when one reached speeds where a brake failure could mean that one would take up flying without even a trainee licence.

The inside of the restaurant was nearly full and people returning from treks and bike rides. The bikers preferred to sit under the canopy while they sipped a lime juice or two. They could keep an eye on their bicycles propped up against the canopy's supports. The trekker was wearing garments suitable for his sport – light, but heavy duty, to save his arms and legs from getting scratched by the shrubbery –  and rubber-soled ankle boots. His alpenstock rested against the table, while his backpack sat on the adjacent chair. He had driven on these roads many times and walked on many paths well enough to know each turn and slope.

He had just driven down from the top and his vehicle was parked near the restaurant. He had crossed two cyclists a couple of kilometers earlier on his way down. They now arrived at the restaurant and parked their bikes. They occupied the table next to him and ordered their drink and breakfast. One biker was pretty short and other was moderately tall. Both were trim and wore skin tight tops and shorts.

As they waited for the order to be delivered, they started talking. The shorter one said, "I know you are in a bad mood because of your break-up yesterday. Shrug it off and enjoy the ride."

"Shall we go up again?" he asked.

The taller one grinned and replied, "Who told you I am in a bad mood? I am rather glad that we broke up yesterday. In fact, I have already fixed my date for tonight."

The trekker broke in saying, "I had cycled all the way from Bangalore to the top of this hill in 1977. We had to push the bike up some slopes. All we had were roadsters which did not give us the benefit of gears."

Shorty was amazed and with widened eyes, exclaimed, "Wow, Uncle! That must have been quite an adventure. We drove down by car and cycled from here to top and back."

Tallboy's phone rang and he made a grimace. Shorty asked him, "Is that call from your ex?"

Tallboy replied, "Yes, she has been calling me all morning and I have not taken her calls. I am done with her. Who wants a pregnant girlfriend?"

He cut the call and placed the phone on the table. A little later, it rang again. This time, he looked at the name on the screen and brightened up. He took the call enthusiastically and walked away from the table.

The trekker asked Shorty, "What do you guys do? Are you working or studying?"

Shorty replied that they were students at a college in the city.

"How many trips do you do?" asked the trekker.

Shorty replied, "At present four round trips, but we want to increase it. At least two more trips today."

After some conversation, Tallboy ended the call and came and sat down again.

Shorty asked him, "Looks like someone else this  time. Your date for tonight?"

Tallboy gave a big smile, saying, "No. Different girl. She said she found me very cute. Fixed up a date for today evening.Will get away well in time for the night date."

Shorty laughed and commented, "You seem to have got over your breakup pretty well. Already two in the pipeline?"

Tallboy bragged, "Actually five in the pipeline." He added, "They all seem to be attracted to me. Getting into a relationship with Maya was the biggest mistake in my life. I would have missed out on so many girls. In fact, yesterday she threatened to create trouble for me, when I asked her to abort. Worse, a couple of these girls called me when I was with her and she found out I was playing the field. I told her point-blank that I was not interested in her any longer. She was infuriated and told me that she would tell her dad about us and he would know what to do with me. He is a police officer and can create trouble. When we were riding down, a police jeep crossed us. I was worried that they were looking out for me."

He added an afterthought, "She doesn't know how powerful my dad is.  I need to speak to him to get her father transferred somewhere far. "

He also added, "I need to take care of Maya too if she persists on carrying on with the pregnancy. I will probably pretend to make up with her and bring her here for a drive. Unfortunately for her, she will lose her step and take a tumble. Certainly one will die, two if I am lucky. I don't care for her any more."

The trekker was aghast to hear this. He did not display his horror and said, "Time for me to drive up. See you on top."

**

He walked away towards the parking lot. He went to the rest room and spent time washing his face and hands. Coming out, he spied the cyclists starting their next round. He waited around ten minutes and then drove up and parked in the parking lot at the summit. From there, he spotted them arriving and taking a U-turn to start their ride back.

He waited a few minutes and then started driving downwards slowly. A couple of minutes later he could see them on the road below him just beyond the next hairpin bend. He continued driving slowly till he reached a location from where he could see a deep curve he had in mind, As he approached the bikers, he gave one last look in his rear-view mirror. Seeing no one, he accelerated a little and drove dangerously close to the bikers. "That's for Maya," he shouted through the window as he overtook them and stopped such that they had no space to take the curve or stop their bikes in time. He had selected the location with care for he knew they would not survive the fall there. Unable to stop in time, their bikes hit the retaining wall and cartwheeled in unison, catapulting both down the cliff.

He got out of his vehicle and peered down the cliff and could see their bodies on the ground far below.

He went back to his jeep and picked up the handset of the police radio fixed near his dashboard and called up the control room, introducing himself and saying "I was driving down the hills and saw two bikers go off the road. Please send an ambulance. I think they might be seriously injured or worse."

He had no remorse. Tallboy had made his intention to dispose off his daughter and deserved to die, he felt. It was absolutely clear he would not do justice to his daughter. He recalled his conversation with his daughter the previous night. She had told him that Tallboy had even refused to meet her the next morning. She had quoted Tallboy saying that he was going cycling with Shorty and that cycling was more important to him than her. Shorty was just collateral damage that could not be helped – bad company had its consequences, he reasoned. Nandi Hills had a reputation of people being pushed off cliffs for several decades. There was nothing to tie him to the accident – neither he had touched them nor had his jeep brushed with their bicycles.

***

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

 

Melting Moments

She looked out of the window for the fifth time that night. He was still standing motionless near the hedge at the same place she had seen him earlier.  It was a very cold night and it was freezing in the garden outside, though she was comfortable in the coziness of her heated room. He was wearing nothing warm except an old thread-bare, moth-eaten, woolen muffler. The hat that was earlier on his head had been blown away by the continuous wind.

Her heart melted for him and she ran out at the first possible opportunity in the morning and hugged him.But he did not return the hug. She hoped he would melt a little and not be so cold-hearted. But her mother called her back inside and asked her to get ready for school. As she left for to board the bus on the other side of the road, she turned back and gave him a final look and hoped he would still be there when she returned.

It was a bright sunny day at school for everyone except her.  She was gloomy in contrast to the other students. She was anxiously waiting for the classes to be over so that she could get back home and give him another hug.

She returned from school in the late afternoon and the bus dropped her off at her gate. When she got off, she looked for him. But she was disappointed. She ran to where he had stood and saw that he had collapsed in a shapeless heap. His damp and cold muffler lying on the ground was all she could recognise of him.

She was struck by and the only thing that came to her mind was her father's words she had heard just a week ago. He had said in mock anger, "If anyone tries to steal your affection from me and comes between us, I will get him liquidated." The word liquidated was something she had not encountered before or understood.

The five-year old now understood what it might have meant, especially when her beloved snowman had melted.

***

Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.

Herbert

Margarita was upset with Herbert over something she felt was wrong. In spite of her telling him so, he had stood his ground. His insistence – that there was nothing wrong – in her opinion, was an affront to her. It was the worst thing he could have done, she felt. And she had told him so several times. She was so irritated with him that had also barred him from any further communication with her. The two had parted ways and there seemed to be no scope for reconciliation. He did not know what had hit him.

He had waited a few months and then tried to contact her. But she was not traceable. No one knew where she had disappeared. He too moved out of the town that gave him uncomfortable memories. It really didn't help. The mind is a funny thing – it remembers what one would like to forget, yet forgets what one would like to remember. Her memories remained. He knew they would remain for the rest of his life.

**

Margarita had given up her job and left town, and taken up a new job and settled in a new place. A few months had passed and she made new friends. He gradually faded from her memory as her well-paying new job kept her busy and took her to exotic places around the world. But once in a way, he had an uncanny way of coming into her thoughts. She regretted her rigid stance and tried to contact him, only to discover that his talent for disappearing was as good as hers. He too had vanished without a trace.

**

Margarita loved travelling. She had been around the world on work and on holiday. She loved sun- kissed beaches and decided to travel to Mauritius during her Christmas holidays. A week by the seaside should do wonders to her, she hoped. On a hunch, when in Port Louis, she decided to take a day cruise to a nearby French island, where Indians are not required to have a visa. The cruise boat left in the morning and reached late at night and included a gala dinner with live music and dance.

**

As she walked up the narrow gangway of the cruise vessel, she noticed a pizza delivery boy carrying a pizza carton was just in front of her. She was intrigued and asked the sailor at the entry point, "Your cruise advertises that it provides the best and varied cuisine to its passengers. How come some one is ordering pizza from the shore?" 

The sailor replied, "Our Entertainment Manager likes to eat pizza, whenever we are on shore or about to cast off, though we have to keep it warm for him till he asks for it. He always gets it on COD basis just when we are about to cast off. I shall attend to the delivery boy after I finish with your paperwork."

He added, "By the way, he is an Indian like you," as he checked her papers.

The pizza delivery boy was still waiting for his cash. Feeling generous, Margarita paid off his bill, adding a generous tip, telling the sailor. "Well, tell him that his pizza today is a treat from another Indian."

The sailor beamed and said, "Thank you, Ma'am. I shall certainly inform Mr. Al. He doubles as our keyboard player and lead singer. Maybe he'll sing an Indian song for you tonight. After a couple of drinks on the rocks, he really rocks!" 

The pizza boy handed her the receipt which she subconsciously dropped into her purse as she was led to her cabin by a steward.

**

The Entertainment Manager, Albert had a habit of having a drink or two at the ship's bar before he had his lunch. As he was about to walk in, he stopped as if he had seen a ghost. On a stool, at the far end of bar, was a person he recognised. He was not sure whether it was appropriate to approach her. He decided to be cautious.

**

The live music started just after sunset, and she struggled to see the stage. The blinding lights prevented her from seeing anything clearly. Albert too could not see the audience clearly, but hoped that she was in the audience. The band played several popular and classic songs. Some of these she recognised, as Herbert used to play them. 

After around ten songs, she heard the singer announce, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I hear that we have an Indian aboard this boat today.  I am told that she has been kind enough to pay for my food. I am grateful to her generosity. In return, I would like to play a couple of Indian songs for her. My only regret is that, as my other friends in the orchestra are not be familiar with these songs, I shall be playing it alone."

He announced, "The first one is a song in my mother tongue Konkani called GoDDacho Pão1."

Margarita had heard this one before. At Herbert's.

Al came back on the mike after the song and announced, "And now, a Hindi song that's close to my heart. Friends, please bear with me if you are not familiar with it. I shall sing a popular Elvis number after it."

Before he started playing, there was a little faux-pas, as the words of the steward who delivered his drink to him came over the sound system, "Here's your fifth Margarita, sir. The last one for today."

As the first few notes of "Pal pal dil ke paas tum rehti ho"2 came over the system, Margarita had an odd feeling. This was Herbert's favourite too.

She clapped heartily at the end of the song, for it had evoked dormant feelings in her. Al announced that he was now going to play the last song for the night, Marguerita3 . He added that he sought the audience's attention to an extra stanza that he had added near the end. Several stewards gathered behind him to assist him in the opening chorus as he started playing.

As she heard him say Marguerita, the way he pronounced it awakened some memories. She suddenly remembered that Herbert had been her name for him. He was earlier called Bert by his friends. After getting to know her, they had started calling him her-Bert, and she had happily adopted the nickname. She had used Herbert so often that she had relegated his real name Albert to a distant part of her memory.

She recalled him saying, in another world, long ago, "I drink, eat, sing and dream Margarita". With a strange premonition she dipped her hand into her purse and pulled out the pizza receipt. The receipt showed a charge for one pizza – a Margherita, as her intuition had told her. Her mind in a whirl, she fell into deep thought.

When she came out of her ruminations, the song was still going on. Al was singing the additional verse:

Once she and I had a difference,

Somehow we drifted apart,

But still, I feel, both of us,

Should have tried to make a new start.  

Margueritaaaa-aaa-aaa-aa-aa ....

As she heard this, and the song started ending with a crescendo, a tear rolled down her cheek ...

  

The ship's horn tooted announcing that they had arrived at Réunion.

***

1. Sweet bread, in Konkani. Video of this song from the movie  Amche Noxib can be seen here.
2. Video of this song from the movie Blackmail can be seen here.

3. Gentlemen are welcome to sing this song using their sweetheart's name. It works specially well if her name ends in the letters "ita". Try it, guys. Ladies whose names end in "ita", may imagine their names in the song too. Try it, gals.  If her name does not end in "ita", try substituting a generic Señorita. It should work well too, though not as customised. Video of this song from the movie  Fun in Acapulco can be seen here.


Copyright notice: The contents of this blog may not be used in any form without the express written consent of the blog owner, who may be contacted at kishoremrao@hotmail.com.