The Crucifix Teleportation

I was engaged in what has been called the second oldest profession in the world. I and my partner were wet, and grappling with our paraphernalia in the middle of the night in this dark and secluded place. Two torches, crowbars, ropes and backpacks were all we had. Grave robbing did not require sophisticated equipment: a nose for locating possibly rich graves, believing your hunches and a bit of hard work was all it took. Both of us understood that it was a grave crime. But while we knew the wrong we were committing, we could no longer resist its lure. It permitted us to live in Fontainhas, the aristocratic quarter of Panaji.

We were in the cemetery near Merces near Panaji and had broken into a family crypt. The crypt was made of locally popular laterite slabs and was covered with years of moss growth. The ancient lock had posed no difficulty to break, as it had been weakened by years of rust.

The place reeked of feni. We were loaded with it. A little raw spirit helps to keep up your spirits if you have to deal with spirits, though many people would not agree with our definition of little.

My partner, Alvito Braganza, owned a bar and always had loads of stock. His clientèle was small, as most locals preferred to own their own bar rather than patronise another. He was his own best customer in terms of consumption, not sales. None of his neighbours knew what he really did for a living – they thought he ran a late night bar successfully, came home in the wee hours of the morning and slept through till lunch, in the extended susegaad * spirit. If at all we Goans learnt something from the Portuguese, it was concept of socegado*.

 * Being laid back, carefree and least concerned with the world at large, especially during work or siesta

  **

Of the three graves in the crypt, two were very simple and one was very ornate. Obviously, our first choice was the highly decorated one which had the legend Abbé José Custódio de Faria. We knew this name, better known as Abbé Faria, was the stuff of legend in Goa and elsewhere. It is celebrated folklore that this priest was beset with stage fear, when faced with the prospect of addressing an august audience. Noticing his discomfiture, his father had urged the young Abbé with the now famous disdain in KonkaNi: Hi sogli baji; cator re baji (these are all vegetables, cut the vegetables). And the father had created an orator out of the padre in the process. The Abbé was further reputed to be a pioneer of hypnotism.

Alvito and I, who had been schoolmates, had read Alexandre Dumas’ The Count of Monte Cristo in school and heard of the riches to which Edmond Dantès had been guided by a monk Abbé Faria. We had a hunch that the story was not fiction after all. But his grave had never been found – till now. Alvito recommended that we open that grave first. But being a god fearing person, I felt the violation of the grave of a man of cloth would invite divine retribution. With great difficulty, I was able to persuade my partner to look at the other two graves.

Of the two remaining graves, one had the name Senhora Mercy D’Sa on it and while the other one bore the cryptic letters ED. We decided ‘Ladies first’, more out of the hope that a lady’s grave would contain more jewellery than a man’s, than out of chivalry. Chivalry is not a quality grave robbers possess – at least when pursuing their profession.

Just when we had opened her grave, after an hour of hard labour, our last torch gave out. I used the light of the torch facility of my mobile phone to look into the grave. I could only see one item of jewellery in that grave- an ornate crucifix. With the mobile clutched in my left hand, I reached out with my right hand for the cross. As soon as I touched it, I felt as if I had been hit on the head. My last thoughts as I passed out were that either a rival grave robber, who must have tailed us to our find, had hit me or Alvito had decided to foreclose our partnership.

When I came to, I found myself still inside the crypt. I had a little blood on my forehead where I must have hurt myself as I fell. I saw only two graves in the crypt, that of the priest and the lady. The other grave seemed to have disappeared. I was stunned when I realised that I had been transported into another time when the person in the third grave was yet to be interred. I went outside the crypt into a rainy day and looked at the Povitra Khuris, as the Sacred Cross was locally called, in the daylight. It was exquisitely designed. It was made out of gold with a translucent figure of the crucified Jesus. I weakly found my way to the nearest house, with my mobile and the crucifix in my hands.

  **

It was a stately house in the style popular with the gentry of Estado da India of the colonial period and probably belonged to the family which owned the crypt. I knocked on the door and told the doorman that I required help since I had fallen down in the wet graveyard and was bleeding. I was taken to meet an old gentleman in the garb of a fidalgo of the times. He bade me to join him for dinner in a large chandelier lit dining room with a high ceiling. He was inquisitive about the mobile in my hands. I explained the use of the gadget, but could not demonstrate it for two reasons: there was no service provider in those times and there was no other phone anywhere on the planet.

The table had been laid with exquisite crockery and cutlery emblazoned with a coat of arms and the initials ED. Putting two and two together, I conjectured that my host was none other than Edmond Dantès. However, I kept my silence as it was too premature to ask a personal question. The dinner was a long winded affair consisting of signature dishes and vintage wine and we unwound over it. When I felt that I had established enough rapport, I made my gambit: “I am Desmond D'Souza. You must be Edmond Dantès, the Count of Monte Cristo. It looks like Dumas did not tell your complete story. He refrained from letting us know where you finally went.”

“Some stories are better left incomplete,” he said, a momentary flash of lightning lighting up his face unexpectedly and catching him off guard, the expression on his face confirming the truth of my conjecture. It was indeed the Count of Monte Cristo that I was dining with.

He too was good at putting two and two together and having now been convinced that I was from another time and age, did not contradict me. He went on to reveal his story over the wine.

He had hidden his trail well. He had not left with Haydée as indicated by Dumas, but with Mercédès as his wife. Haydée had accompanied them as their daughter but had died at sea on their voyage to Goa. He explained that he had learnt the knowledge of restorative potions and powders from the Abbé and put them to good use many times in the past. He had even used the knowledge to fake the death of Mercédès to get her body loaded on to his escape ship. “Having fully satiated my desire for revenge,” he continued, “I turned to constructive work. We had this house built and named it after Mercedes. That is how this settlement here came to be known as Mercedes.” It must have later got corrupted to Merces, I thought.

“I first paid my homage to the Abbé by building an ornate cenotaph on which I had the name of the Abbé inscribed, and which I used as a repository for my riches,” he continued.

Mercédès had taken on the nearest phonetic equivalent name Mercy D’Sa and he had taken the name Eduardo D’Sa. Mercédès had died due to the ubiquitous mosquito infecting her with malaria and had been buried with her favourite cross in her hands. He had given instructions to a few trusted servants that his grave should bear just his initials, when the time came for him to be buried in the crypt.

“Tonight, I have mixed a powder with your drink to put you to sleep and send you back to where you belong,” he said. “Put the crucifix back with her,” he ordered, with his hypnotic gaze over me, “and do not violate the Abbé’s grave. Ignoring my instructions can prove to be extremely dangerous.”

“Your secret is safe with me”, I said, “at least for a couple of centuries, when you will be beyond harm. The world deserves to know the truth about you.” And then I passed out.

  **

When I came to, I was back in the crypt with my mobile and cross in hand. The crypt had three graves once again. I put the cross back into her grave as ordered by the Count. As I eased the covering stone back into place, my mobile phone started ringing. There was no number, only the words ‘Merci, Des!’ flashing in the display. I thought that the Count was a gentleman, probably clairvoyant, a quick learner and now even tech savvy, though I confess I do not know how he did it without a phone or network. He must have had some influence in the Akashic circles.

Alvito, who had still been in a drunken stupor when I got back, woke up. He questioned me on my sudden disappearance. On hearing that the Abbé’s grave was the Count’s storehouse of wealth, he aggressively demanded that we open it up. When I declined to do so, reminding him of the Count’s parting words, he set upon me. It wasn't probably the place to be cryptic, but I had a grave crisis on my hands. After the end of the fight, I left the crypt. For the first time in my career, I had left back something in the crypt instead of taking something away. When I had entered it there were two bodies in it, now there were three. I had graduated from one crime to another and the partnership had ended. My mobile flashed with another thanksgiving message from the Count for saving the Abbé’s grave from desecration. I thought it was time to retire from the profession.

  ***


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.

A Fork in the Forest Path

He clearly remembered the place and time he had come across the blue bottle which gave him the power to 'manage' things. Not a genie in a blue bottle. The blue bottle was a Portuguese man o' war. As you might have expected, it was in the erstwhile Portuguese colony of Goa, a part of Estado da India. It was not a warship as one might be mislead to believe. It was a marine creature;  Physalia physalis or the Portuguese man-of-war otherwise known as the blue bottle. It was as mesmerizing as it was dangerous. A bright blue coloured creature with a sting that was over 10 metres long. It had got stranded on the Velsao beach when the tide had receded. He found it lying in the sand when he was taking his evening walk.

He knew that it was venomous and knew touching it was out of question. He did not want to be stung and nurse the extreme inconvenience for days. But he thought it would be a nice addition to the aquarium in his living room. He was not sure of the effect it would have on the other residents of the fish tank - a couple of angel fish and a small family of sword-tails. He went to the shack on the beach which was the only source of food and drink to the few tourists who visited Velsao. Velsao beach is one of those seaside wonders, as opposed to 'popular' crowded beaches like Calangute, where lifeguards outnumber the number of bathers.The proprietrix was an old friend of the family and he requested her for a container.

She gave him an empty bottle of Skyy Vodka left behind by a customer. Incidentally, it was a blue bottle. But he refused. He explained that he wanted a container with a wider mouth, like a can, but without sharp edges. She fished around and got him an appropriate tin. He took it and thanked her for it. Then he went back to the beautiful creature. He looked around for an appropriate instrument to handle the creature and found a twig of flotsam that had washed ashore. He had to take care that his skin did not come in contact with it. He gingerly pushed the stick under the polyp, when he heard a voice. "Wait, what do you plan to do with me? Are you planning to put me in a fish-tank?"

He jumped back in surprise. A talking marine creature, that too seemingly aware of his thoughts, was not an everyday occurrence. He mumbled, "How did you know that?", not feeling a bit silly on talking to it. After all it seemed capable of reading his mind. But he did feel violated.

"That is non-consequential," it replied. It seemed to have a good vocabulary too. It continued, "That's not what I want you to do." A bit rich, he felt. It was now instructing him. "I want you to throw me back into the sea. I don't want to spend my life in a fish tank," it added. It was now bossing over him, he felt. He thought he could reason it out. He asked, "You will look nice in my fish tank. Why should I throw you back? What's in it for me?"

"Well, I would like to continue living in the sea, not in a fish tank. Let's make a deal," it offered. "Tell me more," he insisted. "What would you say, if I could bestow the power of managing things to happen in the way you desire them to happen?"

"That sounds fabulous, if possible. How do I trust you?", he asked.

"Try it out for yourself," it countered. "Tell me what you desire."

"Well, I was contemplating on having king-fish for dinner, but was not able to go the fish market," he said. "Can you get me a king-fish right now?"

"Certainly. But I will only grant you the power to make things happen. You will have to do some little thing to actualise it."

"Tell me how," he asked.

"Any wish that you make when you are scratching your chin will come true," it said.

"Any wish?," he questioned.

"Except one thing. But I can't tell you about the exception. You will know it when it fails to happen. Every other thing will happen as you wish," it explained. "Try it out now."

"I want a king-fish now," he said, scratching his chin. A true-blue Goan. Fish, the first thing that came to mind.

All of a sudden, a live squirming king-fish materialised on the sand.

"You can go home and cook it after you throw me back. If you don't throw me back, it will disappear," he was warned.

It teased him, "If you had thought it out a bit you could have done better and asked for a dish of king-fish balchão accompanied by a plate of boiled rice. It would have saved you cooking. Think well before you make a wish. Now throw me back into the sea!"

He threw the creature back into the sea and picked up the fish. He took it home. That evening, he sat on the balcão, the balcony of his house, and kept the fish in a earthen dish on the table. He wished for fish balchão, while scratching his chin. The king fish remained unchanged. Disappointed, he picked up the fish and walked into the kitchen, hoping to prepare the dish himself.

As he passed the dining table, he noticed a casserole lying on it. He opened it and the strong smell of fish balchão wafted into his nostrils. He was delighted. He tasted it. It was delicious, but it was made from shark, not king-fish. He decided he had to be more clear when enunciating his wishes.

He decided he had to think through what he did in case he did not want to attract attention. He realised that though since he had no magic lamp, no one could rob him of it. At least, he was safe on that front. But life would become unbearable and he would lose his privacy,  if he became famous. So, he decided to use the power for simple things. Though he could have got along without doing a job, he decided to continue working.

**

He was working as a techie in a small software firm in Goa and as many techies in India do, he decided to move to Bangalore. Writing any code was child's play for him. Though he was quite proficient technically, debugging was a mere matter of scratching his chin. He, however, refrained from letting his chin write the whole code, for he was not sure where it would lead him. He liked to be in control, but did not mind a little help in sorting out issues.

He also liked to play pranks and his chin helped immensely in that field. He had 'magic fingers', as his friends called his abilities. An elevator stuck between floors required just a touch of a button to get it going. A vehicle that would not start required just his hand at the ignition. Anything was possible as long as it was accompanied by the scratching of the chin. It got him a lot of popularity. Very few knew that the malfunctions they had encountered had happened at his bidding too.

He never materialised anything in public view as it would give the game away. But he was not hesitant to add a few currency notes away from prying eyes in the safety of his pocket. He was a little hesitant to do this initially, as he was not sure if the money was real or fake. He checked it out with a banker and found that it was not counterfeit. But he was not sure if a duplicate note bearing the same number existed elsewhere. He was not sure too if the money was disappearing from some other person's holdings, and that bothered him a little. On the other hand, demonetisation had not bothered him at all. It was no skin off his chin.

And then he saw her at an offsite arranged by his office. She was Chinese and was sitting at an adjacent table. He observed her keenly and found her charming. He wished to talk to her and to know her better. They had a couple of chats during the day and he was very impressed with every aspect of her. He wished to take the acquaintance to another level. So he engineered her transfer to his team. He also got her allotted a place where he could constantly keep an eye (actually both) on her.   He was not worried about distraction from work as work would be completed whether he worked or not. He could actually have transfixed a CCTV camera on her and got the feed to his monitor, without lifting a finger. Okay, I admit I was leading with my chin on this one;  he actually did need to lift a finger to scratch the chin.

Over the next few weeks he had the opportunity to squeeze in a few chinwags with her.The more he interacted with her, the more infatuated he became. He wanted to propose to her but in a more romantic environment, and not in the office. He planned his next move. He organised a trek for his team on a weekend.  He hoped that it would give him the required opportunity. Or else he would see that one arose.

The trek was at the Turahalli reserved forest off Kanakapura Road. It was a small forest, extending to just under six hundred acres. At one time it was mentioned on a board that the public were prohibited in the park. But that sign no longer existed. On any given morning, a few dozen trekkers could be found in the forest. There were no wild animals in the park, though it was rumoured that security cameras set up at a nearby real-estate development had captured images of a leopard or two. Now only an assortment of birds and minor animals were found there.

It was not a very tough trek but involved a bit of scrambling over rocks for those interested in doing so. Belying her petite build, she was quite nimble and climbed quite fast.  The sun was blazing when they were the first two persons to summit. She was a bit exhausted and said, "I wish I had brought an umbrella. There's no shade here."

He reached into his backpack and pulled out an umbrella for her. She was surprised and said, that bag looks too small to have had an umbrella in it. Are you some kind of magician?"

He smiled and answered, "Sort of... Ask for anything and you shall have it". 

"I would love to have a suanmeitang," she said, adding, "I don't think it is easily available in  Bangalore."

He reached into his backpack again and produced a chilled bottle of it.  She was awestruck and her eyes widened in amazement.  She was absolutely sure that it had not been in the bag when she had checked it.

He decided it was the right time to pitch his proposal. He said, "I can get you anything you want! I will ensure that all your needs are fulfilled."

"Will you marry me?", he awkwardly finished and nervously scratched his chin, wishing for a positive response from her.

"I can't do that," she replied, "I am in love with Jimmy Ching and we are getting married next month."

His world came crashing down around him as he realised that the only exception to his chin's abilities was the consent of a woman. That had to come from her and could not be the subject of any magical power. He felt he had lost everything in the world. All that he had till now and could have in future meant nothing without her presence in his life.

As they came to a fork in the path, she took one path and he turned into the other. He decided to make one last wish ...

Click here if you think he took the right path


Click here if you think he took the left path

**

The Right Path

A few steps from the fork, he scratched his chin and made his final wish.

All of a sudden, there was some sound in the shrubbery nearby. "Was it the rustling of a Russel's viper?", he wondered. Then, a menacing growl was heard as the predator lunged at its prey.

**

The other trekkers discovered that they were one person short when they regrouped for leaving the forest, so they doubled back. An hour later they found a badly mauled corpse on the path. Looking around they saw tiger-like pug marks on the muddy patch in the path. They were sure there were no tigers in that forest. Suspecting murder and the pug marks to be a prank by the assailant to throw investigators off track, they called the police.

The post-mortem revealed that death had occurred due to stabbing by large fangs. The Forest Department categorically said that there were no tigers in that forest, nor were there any reports of any tigers missing. They took a cast of the pug marks. The Chief Conservator of Forests made it clear that the size of the fang injuries and the size of the pug marks was much larger than any known tiger. An amateur wildlife enthusiast managed to get a cast of the pug marks and suspected that it was similar to the pug marks of the Smilodon populator found earlier in Argentine. But the sabre-toothed tiger, as it is better known has been extinct for long.

Had he taken his revenge on her for rejecting his proposal? Or, was it something else altogether. Let us take a couple of steps back on the path ...

He had continued walking after separating from her at the fork. He felt he was being followed by someone. Had she come back, he wondered? He looked back. She was not to be seen on the path.Just after he had crossed a patch of soft mud, his stalker burst out from the shrubbery and launched itself on him. He was defenseless against it. He had not even tried.

Did our protagonist make a wish to be killed in an attack by a sabre-toothed tiger? Was it the right thing to do? After all, he had taken the right path... Or, had he?

Click here if you want to know what would have happened if he had taken the left path

***

The Left Path

A few steps from the fork, he scratched his chin and made his final wish.

And instantaneously, the clock wound back and he was back on Velsao beach trying to push the flotsam twig under the marine creature, when he heard a voice. "Wait, what do you plan to do with me? Are you planning to put me in a fish-tank?"

He pretended not to hear it and maneuvered the creature into the container. He took it home and put it into his fish-tank. It lived in the tank till it died of natural causes. It continued to attempt to talk to him, but he ignored it. He did not want its bountiful help. For, he had the left the future behind. After all, he had taken the left path... Or, had he?

Click here if you want to know what would have happened if he had taken the right path

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 Predator

His name was Ajeet Chakravarti and he was one of the best Scrabble players in the country. He had a way with the tiles - both on the rack and on the board. He just had to give one little glance and words formed themselves in his mind. And not just any words. His mind analysed the value of the tiles and their positional value on the board to maximise his score after taking into account the doubling and tripling of letter and word scores. It automatically considered the bonus of using all the letters on his rack in the same turn and also thought of where he could tempt his opponent to give him a bonanza on the next score. But there were many others as good or better than him. And he did not like to lose.
He was Ajeet (invincible and not defeatable, in Sanskrit) and Chakravarti (emperor in the same language). How could he lose? At Scrabble or anything else ...

His Scrabble skills were well known in the fraternity but few knew that he was also a predator. He went for the brainy kind of victims. He preyed on them through engaging them on their skill of Scrabble. He lured them by playing a mediocre game and letting them win a few times with a very narrow margin once in a while. He was also very jovial and kept them well wined and dined, so that their senses were lulled into complacence. And then, when they least expected it, he struck. All his victims were from the Scrabble crowd, but the fear of ridicule kept his victims silent.

Once he had them eating out of his hand, he usually invited them home to see his custom-made
Scrabble board.  They usually took the bait willingly. And it was a splendid board. He had made it himself out of rose and teak wood. He had meticulously carved the designs and the text in the bonus squares. Each tile was hand-carved from ivory and the letters and letter values were painted in jet black in bold Roman font.  Though it was truly an artistic masterpiece there was something more to the board.

The back of his opponent's tile rack had a digital display. A strategically placed camera in one of the light fittings captured the image of the tiles on the opponent's rack on a real-time basis and sent it to a computer under the table. The computer ran optical character recognition software on the image and sent it to the display. So he knew what exactly his opponent had in stock. But that was not all.

Another camera captured the image from his rack and sent the same to the computer for identifying the tiles on his rack, though these were not sent to a display. His rack, of course, did not have a display behind it. A third camera kept track of real-time position of tiles on the board. All the data was analysed by a complicated but efficient program on the computer, which worked out his best options. He could see these options on the same display by just raising his eyes from the board when it was his turn to play. He was not taking any chances. He had to ensure he won.  There was no way he could lose at this board. But he still lost.

The losses were intentional. He lost or at least kept the score fairly even for the first few games. All the while, he kept his victim well supplied with alcohol - laced with a drug. When he sensed that the victim was losing inhibition, he proposed a game of Strip Scrabble. An entertaining offbeat variant he explained where, when one person used all tiles on the rack in one go, the other had to discard a piece of clothing. The computer ensured his superiority. It never stopped with the victim discarding the final piece. It always went beyond it - with or without consent.

**

He never played at the national level as he did not want to attract attention to himself. The state level pool of players provided him enough prey and that too on his home turf. He first saw Mahi at the State-level Scrabble championships.  He had not seen her at earlier championships.  He looked at the list of competitors, mentally ticking off all female ones as "Done". One name was new -  Mahi Date. That was her full name. Probably a Chitpawan Maharashtrian, he thought. Quite a few of them had grey-green eyes, which were rare in India. But he could not see here eyes. For reasons best known to her, she was wearing a veil. It added an aura of mystery to her. It piqued his interest and added to his appreciation of the rest of her. 

He played the round robin games in the championship defeating all the seven others, except her. He let her win. She had won all her games. The elimination games against others were won by him and her and they ended up pitted against each other in the final. This time he played a ping-pong scoring game. He just surpassed her score every time by a small tantalizing margin which she easily made up on her turn. He let her win in the end. He had identified his next victim.

She was crowned the State Champion and he hosted a party feting her victory. Somewhere during the evening he mentioned his unique Scrabble board. Though she was still veiled, he sensed her curiosity as evidenced by her further conversation. Ajeet had not only lost the game, but for the first time he had lost his heart. Her silvery voice pleasing to his ears.  He had not seen her face yet. And for the first time, he wanted to see her eyes. But old habits die hard...

**

His modus operandi remained the same. And they were down to their last bit of clothing. His boxers and her veil. The veil still tantalizingly stood between him and the face. He was still not sure of the colour of the eyes. He had enquired about the veil and she had said, "Some secrets should  be saved for the last."

It was his turn now and he was ready with his coup-de-grace. He played his winning move and said, "Now I want to remove your veil."

"Me too,: she joined in.

He bent across the board and disrobed her face. And shrank back in horror. The eyes were grey-green as he had expected. But they were ensconced in the sockets of her skull without the protection of eyelids. There was no flesh on the bone and she had a deathly grin on her face..

And just before he went into paralysis, the last thing he heard say was, "Times Up! I am sure your have figured out that Mahi Date is an anagram of 'I am Death'. But death is an easy release for your kind. You shall live on and suffer for what you have done in the past. I shall come for you when your punishment is completed. In the meantime, I have to attend to several more predators."

**

I got this story from Ajeet himself. His massive attack of paralysis after the event had left him unable to do even the simplest things. It was with great difficulty that he narrated the above events, as he could not speak clearly. He gave me the story tile by tile and that took quite a lot of time.

I did not know of what to do with his story. I did meet Mahi several times during the next one month and we played games at the club. She was still wearing a veil. I asked her about it and the time she wore it for the competition. She said, "I was suffering from a skin condition and had to keep my face protected from the sun. When I went indoors, I thought I would retain the veil to spare my competitors from being un-nerved by my patchy and unsightly face."

Over the days, in spite of Ajeet's tale, I was getting attracted to her even though I had not seen her face. I am the type of guy who gets turned on by women with high IQ. One evening after I won a game, she tilted her head in a characteristic way and asked me appraisingly. "How about on a date tonight?" I punningly replied, "A date with Miss Date is definitely welcome. In fact, I was hoping you would ask."

She asked in a husky voice, "Your place or mine?"

Rather direct, I felt, but I was smitten too and beyond redemption. "Mine", I replied,. "We can have dinner at my place. I have something unique for you."

**

After we reached home, I re-steamed the string-hoppers from the fridge and served it with a bean curry flavoured with Szechuan peppers, to the accompaniment of kokum sherbet, which she found delightful.

I asked her, "I was feeling that this might be the right time to remove your veil."

"Me too," she replied. I braced myself for the worst, as she proceeded to remove it. "Who knows what evil lurks in the minds of men," as The Shadow says. Those grey-green eyes were delightfully attractive. They were framed by eyelids sporting long lashes and accompanied by eyebrows which gave me a questioning look.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Beautiful," I stuttered. Everything was splendid.  And then, her pretty lips opened to reveal her pearly teeth as she asked me if she could stay over.

The next morning the face was still there and I am still fit and fine enough to type out this story. Maybe Ajeet had had hallucinations, or maybe Schezuan peppers were an antidote. Or, maybe (I flatter myself here), Miss Date "Death" could not resist me.  I convinced myself it was the last option that was true.

Or maybe, I was one of the few who hadn't invited the wrath of the #MeToo movement ... or maybe, Mahi had been possessed for some time ...

***


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 Flight

I was excited and scared. The reason? I was excited because I was flying. That too for the first time ever. Well, most first time fliers are scared, many of you will agree. You will nod understandingly, recollecting your first flight in an aircraft. The inertia of the mind to accept that a heavier-than-air object can fly and stay aloft will be readily appreciated by you. Well, that too was accurate in this case. I was heavier-than-many-things. Birds, in spite of the much talked of hollow bones, are heavier-than-air, as are many other things. They get their lift from flapping wings and soar because of aerodynamic structures and large wing areas. In fact, it’s rather difficult to find many things lighter than air. He is lighter than air – I cannot think of any other thing other than Helium right now.

I had been in aircraft before. I had flown across continents and oceans. I had sat in small aircraft where every seat is an aisle seat and a window seat. I had sat in very small aircraft, where there were no aisles and one had one’s own doorway and unhindered view through the cockpit windscreen. On the other hand, I had travelled in wide-bodies luxury air-planes which had in-flight entertainment systems, and wining and dining services. These helped you tide over the miseries of being in a seat slightly bigger than an infant’s car seat. Sitting and rubbing elbows with a belligerent individual staking claim to be the world’s largest producer of natural gas was a torture one had to bear. But, as I said earlier, this was the first time I was flying. There was no pilot. No one to announce technical delays, turbulence or engine flame-out, or to bring you down to earth safely. You nod again – this time a little less understandingly.

You think I am flying solo! I had no clearance from ATC, nor any parachute or emergency breathing equipment on hand.

My apologies for making leading you to think the way you did. I wasn’t lying. Let me reword my first few sentences for your benefit. “I was excited and scared. The reason? I was exited because I was flying.” Now you nod again, as you understand the import of one italicised letter. Yes, I was flying. And it is an exhilarating and scary experience, when you know you can fly. It unleashes you from the drag of gravity at your feet. There is no height to which you cannot ascend, you feel. The sky, is the limit. But then, the sky doesn’t exist. Just like the horizon, it is one of those fake things our hyper-active minds have made up and transferred to other humans for ease of communicating our ideas.

Okay, I concede. This is the first time I was flying. I did not know if I have any operational limitations or absolute ceiling, as aeronautical engineers call it. To further baffle such engineers, I had no idea of what provided the thrust and lift to my flying. I wasn’t even flapping my arms. Real reason I was scared in spite of such extraordinary buoyancy and pure joy? I had no idea of how to land without turning into puree. And I did realise that I would have to land at least to consume water and food. Flying was dehydrating. And I did not know how to hunt edible prey on the wing.

That’s when I felt as if someone had clasped my hand. I turned to look. But there was no one. It was getting scarier by the minute. Was this actually the end game of the roulette called life? Was I about to cash in my chips? It was getting scarier by the minute. Then I heard a disembodied voice.

“Don’t worry,” it said.

A moment later another flyer materialised next to me. And baby-sat me through the mechanics of my maiden flight. This flier seemed to not only be skilled at flying, but also at de-materialisation and re-materialisation. Now that I know the identity of this Master, it’s time I learnt those skills too.

I can only tell you the call-sign of the skilled flier, which I had immediately assigned to him as soon as I had recognised him. I had called him that for nearly as long as I had known him. “Tiger”. Some of you might have a penchant for remembering nicknames. Tipu Sultan, MAK Pataudi, AAK Niazi, ET Woods or JH Shroff, you enquire? None of the above.

***

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Freyja

When my life's hourglass runs out of sand,
She's the only one who will hold my hand.

She may wear a crown and a pretty gown,
But won't turn my hourglass upside down.

She may smile a bit, or just remain mum,
But I shall know when my time has come.

Her eyes will be shining very very bright,
That I shall surrender to her without a fight.

Then I shall succumb to her deadly charms,
As she enfolds me in her embracing arms.

I realized, as into her clasp I sank and sank,
That she is the only one on whom I can bank,

From the time I heard of her, I surely knew,
She is the only consort who's eternally true.

Others may cry and some others may weep,
As I bid adieu - it's time for my eternal sleep.


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 Lieutenant’s Grave

Kodaikanal, Christmas week, 2010

I was staying at a research station in South India set up by an Englishman near the end turn of the 19th century. The station was located at one of the hill stations primarily because of the nature of research and not because of the climate, as was popular with the British during the days of the Raj. The estate sprawled over 100 acres of woodlands and had a few colonial houses apart from the research facilities themselves. The guest house, where I was put up, soared to a maximum height of around 25 feet at the apex of its sloped roof, but was overshadowed by trees that rose to heights of more than a hundred feet.  It had walls nearly two feet thick and was, I understood the residence of the aforesaid Englishman in the first decade of the 20^th century.

It was the week after Christmas and there was a chill in the air. Night comes early in these places in the hills and it was pretty late when I was walking back to my quarters, tired after finishing a day of demanding work. I decided to take a short cut through the woods instead of taking the long winding path. There was nothing to worry as the lights of the guest house would be visible once I reached the crest of the ridge that separated it from the office building. Anyhow, I had my electrical torch to light my path up to the top of the ridge. Using this I started trudging up the incline and when I had just crested the ridge and spotted the light on the guest house roof, there was a power shut-down and the lights went out. I pulled out the torch, and it somehow managed to slip out of my grasp and die a sudden death.

This did not perturb me considerably as I had a fair idea of the bearing I had to take. However, in reality, walking down the slope, trying to avoid tree stumps and fallen trees, I somehow managed to get lost in the woods with only a matchbox at my disposal. I lit one and checked the box. There were two more matchsticks in it and in the light of the one I had just lit, I perceived that I was well and totally lost. I knew I had to go downhill, and downhill I went. I had a strange feeling I had travelled more than I should have and sat down on a tree stump to review my situation. The stump felt cold and I realized that I was sitting on a stone and not a tree stump as I had thought at first. In the light of my last match, I saw that this was no ordinary stone, but a grave stone and etched on the stone in capital Roman letters were the words ‘LT. CABLE’. There was no further information on the stone.

I shuddered and recalled the character of Lt. Joseph Cable of the United States Marines in the movie ‘South Pacific’, but reasoned that there was little chance of a U.S. Marine being buried in India. May be someone who had been consumed by consumption or the local wildlife, I thought rather irreverently. Having spent my last match, I had no option but to wait out the power outage.

**

When the lights came on again, I perceived that the guest house lights were uphill from me and not downhill as I had surmised they should have been, making it clear that I had wandered off my course. I made my way back to the guest house and narrated my adventures to the chowkidar at the guest house. It was cold and I was shivering and not only because of the light drizzle that had wet me in the woods. So he lit a nice little fire in the fireplace of the drawing room, where I sat down to record my day’s observations on the computer that was provided for the use of the inmates of the guesthouse. I made enquiries with the chowkidar about the grave. He informed me that the Englishman’s son had been with the army and had died of tuberculosis when visiting to his family for Christmas. This confirmed the post-mortem diagnosis of the cause of death that I had made earlier. He then retired to his quarters for the night, leaving me alone in the building,

My usual companion for such outings used to be a collection of horror stories and I was in the middle of Bram Stoker’s story ‘The Squaw’, where the main protagonist was a female cat. As if to remind me of the story, the resident cat leapt on to the computer table and sat behind the mouse. I had given her the sobriquet ‘Blofeld’ in spite of her being a female, after the villain from the Bond movies, as she used to settle down on my lap for hours together, when I used the computer, probably making me one of the few persons working with a desktop computer with a mouse and a laptop cat.

Some time passed and I sensed a sudden excitement on the part of the cat, which bounded away with a shriek. I turned around to see a young Englishman attired in the colonial British army uniform sitting on the armchair behind me. He had a pleasant smile on his face and appeared to bear no malevolence. He too had a laptop cat. I, however, noticed that there was something odd about his uniform. At one shoulder he sported the pips of a full Lieutenant while there were no pips on the other.

"So, the chowkidar has been telling you stories," he said, continuing to smile bemusedly. "I am Lt. Joseph Cable, but of the Skinner’s Horse and not the U.S. Marines as you thought. I was surprised at the coincidence that you not only got my first name right but also the cause of my death. Nothing as romantic as the young Sahib being consumed by his shikar. It was tuberculosis that got me."

"I used to come back here around Christmas time to visit family. I continue to do so for old times sake and relive my memories so to speak," he continued.

"I am sorry that I sat on your grave," I apologized, for there appeared to be no need for anxiety. "I notice that you have a laptop cat too and the pips on your shoulder seem to be missing."

"Oh, my cat is the ancestor of your laptop cat, and that is why your cat got spooked. And there is no need for that apology," he smiled. "That was not my grave you sat on."

"You seem to be quite an observant and bonhomous chap", he said, "many would have been spooked by seeing me, let alone notice the absence of the pips."

"That's the second time in a month a military officer has called me bonhomous", I said.

"Well, it’s the truth", he said, continuing, "My grave is about a hundred yards south of the stone you sat on. Look around tomorrow morning in proper lighting and you will understand why I am so amused with your discovery."

I promised to do so and the cheerful chap carried on, "I have a present for you to remember this night". So saying, he kept a small ‘baccy pouch on the mantelpiece above the fireside. "Take it after you discover the truth of the gravestone you sat on", he instructed me, adding "I shall watch your progress with considerable interest" before disappearing into thin air of the hill-station.

**

The next morning I went around and located his grave which not only mentioned his rank and regiment but also his date of birth and death unlike the stone I had sat on. So, after all the stone I had sat one was not his gravestone. Then what was it, I pondered and what was the truth that he was so tickled about? As I walked back, I came across the stone I had actually sat on and it had exactly the same words I had seen the previous night.

For a moment, I really could not comprehend the truth. Then, walking back to the guest house I came across not one but two more such stones and realized to my utter surprise that the stone I had sat on was one of the few marking the alignment of the low tension cable that had been buried in order to carry electricity to the guest house and that the dot between the L and the T had got obliterated.

I rushed back to the fireplace, picked up the pouch and opened it. Inside were two pips from the uniform of a Lieutenant of the British Indian Army. They continue to be my proud possessions to this day. If you care to visit me, I shall be only too glad to show them to you.

***

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In Flesh And In Blood

It was in 1986, I think, that I first met Christopher. As a matter of fact, I have not changed his name, like many people do when narrating a past incident, when the protagonist is still around. In fact, if you promise not to laugh out loud, I will even give you his full name: Christopher Lee. He was neither a Caucasian or a Chinese as his name seems to suggest. He was just an ordinary old Indian in ordinary old Bangalore, which had yet to hit its fame as an outsourcing destination in a flat world. He was around 27 then and was working in the blood bank of a leading hospital. For convenience, I will call him Chris. He was probably named after the noted actor Christopher Lee, born Christopher Frank Carandini Lee in 1922. Fantasy movie buffs know the actor as Count Dooku in the Star Wars series, Saruman in the Lord of the Rings trilogy and as Jabberwocky in Alice in Wonderland. This actor is reported to consider his most important role as Jinnah in a movie by the same name. However, many old-timers remember this nearly six and half feet tall actor for his title role in the Bond movie ‘The Man with the Golden Gun’ as Scaramanga. And who can forget his role in a series of movies with Count Dracula as the central figure. Well, when the Bangalorean Christopher Lee was born in 1969, the actor had been famous only for one series of films, the one Hammer Films used to count upon for his battiness!

My maternal grandfather had been admitted to a hospital in Bangalore for removal of a cancerous kidney and required transfusion of copious amounts of blood. The quantities arranged for in advance ran out during surgery and we arranged for additional donation from some people who had been had lined up in case of need. One of these was me. Those days I was preparing for an examination and had to spend time in the hospital to be with grandpa and was therefore studying next to his hospital bed.

Seeing my interest and knowledge when I was a high school student, a leading doctor, who is today considered a pioneer of corporate medical services in India had asked me to take up medicine. So, though I had donated blood earlier, I observed the proceedings in the blood bank with interest. Blood banks in India had just switched over a few years ago to using plastic bags instead of glass bottles and use of the new anticoagulant CPDA-1. I had seen movies where the donor and the recipient are directly hooked up and had sniggered at this apparent folly of film makers. On enquiry, however, Chris told me that there had been equipment for this during the world war days but was not favoured now. In fact, he had heard of blood being drawn from arteries for direct link to the receiver, but nowadays only veins were punctured for drawing blood. My left median cubital vein was punctured with a 17 gauge needle, linked to a plastic bag containing anti-coags like trisodium citrate and I started pumping the little rubber ball I was given to hold in my fist. As we waited till for my 450 ml to flow into the bag, we got chatting, as he had nothing else to do. The chap, as expected was knowledgeable in his field and seeing my interest in the matter and hearing of the advice that I had received in my high school, he did not hesitate to tell me what else was in the bag and let me in on the processes that the blood passes through, for storage and transfusion. He, however, did not know of my true profession.

As you know, I had recently qualified as an auditor and was partly in an investigative bent of mind and somehow my thoughts strayed into quantitative analysis. He informed me that they kept the bags classified by blood groups and the Rh factor and separated the constituents into plasma and platelets for further storage. Arithmetically, there were 4 main groups along with the presence or absence of the Rh factor, leading to 8 permutations, and not counting the other subtypes, from the most common O+ve to the rarest AB-ve. I asked him whether he had any stock of AB-ve and he opened his stock register which showed 4 bags of 450 ml each, whereas his stock tray seemed to have 5 bags of 360 ml each. The total quantity was the same, but it seemed to be spread out in larger number of bags. He shrugged it off, saying that partly used bags must have been returned. I was curious and I later asked a nurse whether they did indeed return a partly used bag. I was informed that usually an entire bag was used for transfusion, unless of course, the patient stopped the transfusion in the middle, either by a rejection reaction or by checking out of the world. Both ways, the bag was discarded. So why was he lying about it, I pondered?

The doctors asked for some more blood, and we had to line up more donors. It was quite late in the evening when they turned up after finishing their office jobs and Chris started the drawing of blood. It was time for him to go, but his replacement had not arrived. I told him to go ahead and go saying, I would wait till his replacement came, and if required call the nurse. He packed his bags and left. After he went, I got busy with his lab. The bags discrepancy was there in some other blood groups too. But more surprisingly, the AB-ve was now only 4 bags of 360 ml; one having been issued during the day. The register now showed 3 bags, one having been issued during the day. I jotted down the patient number mentioned against the issue for further verification.

On enquiry at the patient registration counter the next day, I found that the patient number had been inactive for quite some time. Now fully suspecting foul play, I looked in his lunch bag just before he left and found a plastic bag of blood in it. Was he selling blood?, I thought. In those days there was a market of blood banks and few donors were available. I waited till the next day evening and when a doctor had come into the lab, I casually asked him, “Chris, I heard that you sell the blood from this lab to outsiders, is that true?”. The doctor perked up and asked me, “Why do you say that?” I said, “Look in his lunch bag and you will find a bag of blood in it, all ready to be taken out.”

A search of his bag proved what I had stated. Facing the prospect of an enquiry and a dishonourable dismissal, he came out with the time honoured cliché: “I did it for my mother’s sake.” He went on to explain, “She requires this blood and I can’t get it from any other source. Her very life depends upon it”. The doctor, out of sympathy for a fellow medico, decided not to take it up further. However, when I told the doctor that it was different blood groups that he was taking home and his mother would not need different groups if she required transfusions, and challenged Chris with this fact, that the real story tumbled out. And it was amazing. I will not call it horrifying, for every creature has a right to live, whether a predator or a prey, as propounded by animal protectionists; and anyone who denied them this right, would be “blood-geoned” by the very same protectionists, rendering him instantaneously extinct.

Darwin’s theory had been finally been proved right. Not by laboratory tests, but by them, in real life. Adaptation and at a speed unforeseen by Darwin had been going on for some time now. Having been hounded across the earth, they had mutated into an entirely new species, externally human in appearance. For survival, they had adapted to being able to live in sunlight, using some sort of sunscreen they had developed. Their canines had been not been used for the past few generations and had morphed into the normal humanoid ones. Rarely, one of them regressed and had an abnormally long and protruding canine, which their community dentists subjected to extraction followed by prosthodontic treatment. But they still feared the argentum bullet and still needed blood. They had caught religion and did not fear the crucifix any more. In fact, they liked the cross now, especially in the form of the Red Cross, being one of the channels of regular blood supply they could bank on. They were quite modern now - they did not sink their teeth into jugular arteries or carotid veins - they simply used the marvel of modern packaging. And to top it all, they took up jobs in blood banks setting up new standards of food security. Packaged blood was even used in some discreet hotel joints, he told me, where a new style of cuisine had developed: blood-bath was served along with the locally popular khara-bath and kesri-bath, into which they could sink their teeth.

Their mutation had been relatively very fast. Chris’ mother still had some of problems their species had faced over the millennia. But his generation was fit enough to mingle with the humans unnoticed. She was now over 150 years old and frail and not fit to venture out of home and had to be bottle fed. She had married a human and he had died a natural death, if it could be called that. It had been triggered by the disbelief when he found out the truth about his wife: that she was old enough to be his grandmother. And hence, the hybrid had inherited some immunity from the problems that plagued his kind. And Christopher’s mother’s choice of her son’s name was the ultimate irony of it all: Her son playing out his life in the name of the person who played out their lives on the screen.

He also told me that he had recently met another of his kind when he had gone to a college during a blood donation camp and he had fallen for her. They had decided to hook-up. It was a blood-less coup, he said. Or was it? They had met up and decided to tie the knot. ‘I hope it will not be in vein’, he punned. He was introducing her to his mother this Sunday at a feast he had organised at home, a feast at which various choice varieties and vintages of the red fluid from his cellar would be available.

He ended it by saying that I was welcome to this feast, as a guest, if I could stomach it, and not as a part of the menu. I passed............. out.

I came to in a hospital bed surrounded by anxious relatives. They said that probably the blood donation I had given coupled with my sleepless nights spent for preparing for the exam and accompanied by the anxiety over my grandfather’s hospitalisation had taken their toll on my health. I was advised to take it easy for some time to recuperate. But I knew the real story behind my fainting and also that no one would believe it. Now that over30 years have passed and probably Chris has retired (not because he had aged, but because he had aged as per the hospital staff records), I decided to declassify the story from my chronicles and unleash it on the public.

Post-script

I had a sense of déjà vu recently when I heard a little girl exhorting her mother to buy ‘blood’ in a supermarket. I did a double take. Was she Chri's grand-daughter?, I wondered. I tried to see, as unobtrusively as possible, if there were any tell tale signs. Then, I realised she was lisping and wanted ‘bread’’. Yet, she served her purpose to jiggle my memories and remind me to put this story about mankind (?) in writing.

(A large part of this story is true, believe it or not, since I can actually vouch for it! I am sure that, if the hospital concerned is still having old records, it can even confirm the name of the blood bank technician, though I doubt whether the then Chennai based cardiologist, who has even been decorated with a Padma Bhushan, would remember a casual (though hour long) chat with a high school student at MM Hospital, Egmore, Chennai circa 1974.)


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.

Quiet Flowed The Zuari - Part 1

- Vignettes from the life of a Goan

(A Novella in four parts)

Evening Time

Frank Ferrão sat in the shade of a peepal tree near the small beach near his house on the small promontory just west of Cortalim. The island of Saõ Jacinto was in front of him. His foot rested on a small stool and a saxophone lay on a table to his right. The table itself was made of jack wood and had been handmade by his grandfather. To his left, on another small stool, stood a bottle and a glass of  Cabo, a Goan white rum blended with coconut liqueur, which he sipped time to time enjoying its flavour. The sun was slowly slipping towards the horizon formed by the headland of Mormugao and Saõ Jacinto. In the Zuari, to his far right, a barge lazily ploughed its way towards the port, riding low in the water, carrying iron ore which was destined for export. A couple of barges that had been relieved of their load went the other way, plying against the moderate current of the Zuari. He took a small sip of the sweet and heady Cabo. He loved it as much as he hated feni which, in his opinion, was overrated. He had heard old timers rave about the excellent feni that was available during their times and rue at the quality now being made for dumping on unsuspecting tourists. Good feni was rare and only the cognoscenti knew where to get it.

He decided it was time to unburden himself. He picked up the sax and played a few notes of one of his favourite songs and smiled to himself. He played the trumpet too in local tiatr performances, but those notes could have fitted almost any song of that genre – they were so ubiquitous in Goan music. But the sax gave him peace. Peace – as memories streamed past his unseeing eyes. He was now 65 and the image in front of him was more in his mind than in his eyes, which were clouding over with the opaque screens of cataract that were becoming thicker every day.

***

Sancoale

Franklin João Carlos do Rosário de Brito Ferrão had been born on 19^th December, 1953, about a week before Christmas, in the village of Sancoale, just a few kilometres away. In true Portuguese tradition, his full name reflected his ancestry and the fancy of his ancestors. His full name had never been used, except in the church and school records. He preferred to introduce himself as Frank Ferrão. Sancoale village is a hamlet on the southern bank of the Zuari, a river that originates in the Western Ghats. The Zuari is prone to large tidal influences and also known by its ancient name Aghanashani. The village is located in the north-eastern part of the Mormugao peninsula. His house was located on the small promontory north of the Cortalim–Mormugao highway. Life in Sancoale revolved around the paddy fields and the local church. This church was originally a chapel near the old church, Nossa Senhora de Saude Igreja, which was damaged in a fire in 1834. Unlike many other churches in Goa which were usually painted white, the old church had a colourful façade, which continued to stand even after the fire. Life had alternated between home, school and church for the first 18 years of his life. But that was going to change on his 18^th birthday.

***

The Flight of Vasco-da-Gama

After India’s independence in 1947, Goa’s colonial Portuguese government had turned more benevolent than earlier, hoping to hang on to its Indian possessions with the goodwill of the people. But relations between Portugal and India reached a low in November 1961,when Portuguese troops stationed on the island of Anjediva fired on an Indian passenger ship, killing a passenger. Portugal did not have a large military presence in Goa. It sent some female paratroopers on a civilian plane – a Super Constellation – belonging to the Transportes Aéreos Portugueses. The plane landed in Dabolim on the 17^th December to help in evacuation of a selected few. Dabolim, the only airport in Goa, is not very far from Sancoale and, as a young boy, Frank had often gone there to watch the planes. It had been built in 1955 as Aeroporto de Dabolim and later renamed after the Governor General of Portuguese India as Aeroporto General Bénard Guedes. 

On the 18^th, he heard the roar of the Canberra bombers of the Indian Air Force as they bombed the airport runway, as a part of India’s military action in Goa. His Dabolim had been violated – it definitely was an invasion. There were two Portuguese planes on the ground at the time of the air raid. One of them was the Super Constellation, ironically bearing the name Vasco-da-Gama – of the very adventurer who had brought the Portuguese to India in the first place. It was now destined to take them away. The other aircraft was a DC-4.

Both planes, which were not damaged in the raid, took off into the night after the runway was hastily repaired, and carried some government officials to Karachi. The next day, his 8th birthday, was marked by the surrender of Portuguese colonial forces. It came to be known as Liberation Day, because many Goans, both in Goa and in the Indian administration and armed forces, had participated in the movement for independence from the Portuguese. But for some Goans, especially those who lost privileges granted to them by the Portuguese regime, it was Invasion Day.

***

A Pilot’s Life

As a child, Frank wanted to become a pilot. In Goa, a pilot is a motorcyclist who ferries passengers on his pillion seat, for a fare.

On his 18^th birthday, Frank’s wish came true. His father gifted him a motorcycle and Frank lovingly got its mudguard painted yellow. The motorcycle was to be his companion for many years as he rode around the lush countryside, in rain and in heat, carrying people across the length and breadth of the coastal belt. He made a decent living with the generous tips foreigners gave him.

As Indian tourists inquisitively poured into Goa, he learnt snatches of Hindi and soon became reasonably proficient. He resented the invader’s language, but economic reasons forced him to learn it. The most appealing part of the language, from his perspective, was the large and ever increasing collection of film songs, which he found quite impressive.

The whole state was flooded with tourists who wanted a taste of the Carnival festivities that had been going on for the last few days. Valentine’s day had just passed a few days back but he did not have date on that day. Girls had approached him for dates – but he was looking for someone special. A bit downcast at not finding that special person, he decided to ride his bike on the scenic route from Ponda to Banastarim. He rode from Sancoale to Rassaim on the western bank of the Zuari as it ran northwards near the village of Loutolim. He took the ferry which, at 20 minutes, was amongst the longest in Goa. There was a shorter route, but he wanted to be on the river for long. He disembarked with his motorcycle at Durbhat and rode up to the highway.

He took a short deviation to ride past the ancestral family temple at Veling, but decided against stopping. He came back to the highway and turned left to ride towards Banastarim. The road was pretty steep and curved, and at a particular point, it afforded a bird’s eye view of the Ilhas – the island district – and the Cumburjua canal connecting the Mandovi and the Zuari. On a clear day, in the far distance, one could see the Mandovi and the islands of Divar and Chorão. That vista always perked him up.

***

The Angel at the Roadside

As Frank took the steep turn just before the place where he intended to stop and gaze, he saw a vision. He once had a vision earlier too, but this was a vision of an angel. The angel,- in the form of a lady, was standing next to a Suzuki motorcycle parked on the side of the road. She seemed to be having trouble with the bike. As he looked upon the luxurious tresses of the damsel in distress, the scenic vista behind her disappeared from his vision. Everything else, including the road and the bike, faded into the background and she became the centre of his attention.

Like every helpful pilot, Frank stopped his bike and went to assist. It looked like the rider had reached the level of frustration that only a stranded biker can understand. It was a terrific looking bike – every bit of it was designed aerodynamically to efficiently use the tremendous power delivered by its engine.

One word escaped his lips, “Wow!”

She looked at him surprisingly, “You are frank, aren’t you?”

Frank wondered how she knew his name. With a silly smile on his face, and he stuck out his hand and concurred, “That’s my name. How did you know? Frank Ferrão at your service. Now that you have found me, all your worries are over.”

She arched an eyebrow, still holding on to his hand, and asked, “Is that so? Obviously your name and attitude are in perfect synch.”

“Yes, and I really love your Suzy,” he said.

It was now her turned to wonder how he had guessed her name.Obviously having misheard him, her face blushed, as she asked, “What do you mean?”

He stammered, “I mean I love your bike, the Suzuki.”

She laughed, “Oh!, the bike!” Still clutching his hand, she said, “I am Suzanne Roberts. Friends call me Suzy. I was wondering how you knew my name.”

She explained her predicament, “I cannot have run out of fuel – I’ve just refilled from the bottle I was carrying. I have checked the battery and plug. The sparking is fine. But it still doesn’t start.”

He was used to monsoon problems with vehicles in Goa, but it was not the rainy season yet. The hotel where she was staying had arranged the bike and she had asked for an additional bottle of fuel, as there were few petrol pumps in Goa those days. But the room-boy at the hotel, either to play a prank or by mistake, had given her a container of water, which she had trustingly poured into the tank. This had messed up the carburettor and it took him some time to remove it and clean it with some fuel from his bike. He had to drain off the fuel tank to get rid of the tainted fuel. He decided to remove some fuel from his bike and put it into the Suzuki’s tank. He checked his fuel tank. There was just enough fuel in his bike to take only one of the bikes to the nearest fuel pump. He transferred whatever was available and decided to abandon his bike for the moment. He then kicked the Suzuki’s starting lever, and the bike came to life with a satisfied roar. He adjusted the tuning screw till it was emitting a steady rumble.

“There you are, madam. As I said earlier, all your worries are now over.”

“Not really,” she replied. “I have lost a lot of time here. I need to return this bike and check out of the hotel. But I don’t have enough time to get to the railway station in Vasco to catch the train. Can you help me, please?”

“My bike does not have fuel now. There is no time for me to take your bike and get fuel for mine, as I had first thought of doing. So, the only possibility is that I leave my bike here. I will have to ride your bike and take you through the inner roads and try to reach your hotel in time for the train.”

And so it happened. During that ride, for the first time he felt handicapped at not having eyes at the back of his head.

He felt very light-hearted as if he had suddenly achieved some great milestone in his life. The Indian invasion was complete. For, he had lost his heart! It had finally been conquered. A line from a Hindi movie song which he had recently heard seemed apt. He said a silent prayer ... in Hindi! Itna bhee door mat jaao, kepaas aana mushkil ho! - Do not go so far away, that coming near becomes difficult. Just as mentioned in another song from the same movie, his heart was beating –  like never before –and kept repeating “and when shall be then our next meeting?” He did not know about other Goans, but for the first time he now felt liberated, not invaded.

For want of a nail, a battle was lost, a philosopher had mused. But that philosopher must have been a pessimist. In Franklin’s case, however, a nail came to his assistance as he negotiated the rough road he had chosen as a short-cut. It punctured the tube of the bike’s rear wheel. He would have to push the bike to the nearest village as there was little hope of meeting any other vehicle on that inner road. Suzanne trudged along, knowing very well that her chances of catching the train were very slim. But she was also not sure whether that she still wanted to leave.

***

Continued ... Part 2

I am indebted to Ms. Lakshmi Vaidyanathan and Mr. Arun Rao for vetting this semi-autobiography and giving valuable suggestions. Any resemblance to any person, dead or alive, is entirely coincidental. I am sure you know how such statements work!


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