In Deep Waters ... and Shallows

Meena was swimming in the warm waters of the Laccadive Sea just off Kochi, a city in Kerala – a state in the southern part of India, which probably has the largest number of female swimmers in the country. She was an excellent swimmer and liked to swim in the waters of the continental shelf that extended to about one-and-half kilometres from the shoreline and the various inland waterways in that region. She did not venture into the waters farther from the shore where big fish would be apt to lurk. She did not like to rub shoulders with big fish. She was approaching the colonial settlement of Fort Kochi.

Vasco da Gama, the hero of Os Lusíadas, had once been a part of the mercantile establishment of Kochi. After landing near Kozhikode (Calicut), he had come to Kochi. He had passed away in Kochi on Christmas eve of 1524, a victim of malaria. He had continued to be a resident of the St.Francis Church for around 14 years till he was disinterred and sent to Lisbõa in 1539, one of the many entrepot exports from that fabled town.

Meena swam around the promontory on which the church was built.  A little further ahead she could see the Chinese fishing nets at the northern end of the Fort Kochi beach. These nets, on the southern shore of a channel that was around 400 metres wide at its narrowest, were having similar counterparts on the northern shore too.  She stuck to the centre of the channel in order to stay away from both sets of nets. The central part of the channel, however, did have a risk of encountering marine traffic, but that was easier to tackle than getting enmeshed in the nets. She was well aware that any fisherman would have loved to catch her.

There were a few boats, with outboard motors, fishing in these waters. Typically each boat had a couple of fishermen in straw hats and they spread a net to form a rough circle with about 50 metres radius. These nets could be identified by the little plastic buoys, attached to them, that floated on the surface. Meena kept away from these and swam further inwards.  She kept a lookout for the regular ferries that serviced Fort Kochi and kept away from their paths.

She had now crossed the container terminal on the northern shore of waterway and was now in a relatively deep part of the Vembanad lake system which was a part of India's National Waterway No.3. She swam some more and surfaced for the umpteenth time and beheld the squat but towering building of the Cochin Port Trust on Willingdon Island. She then swam along the channel on the eastern side of the island. Several naval ships were anchored in the area. An aircraft carrier was visible to her left, though she could not read its name. It was time to turn back, she decided.

As she was about to pass the Customs jetty at Fort Kochi, she heard the blare of ship's horn close to her and realised that she had been complacent and had let down her guard. She swam quickly to her left to get away from the path of the naval ship that was about to run into her. She swam faster and faster to get away from the inevitable wake created by the powerful engines of the ship.

In doing so, she got into the perilous shallow waters close to Hotel Seagull. Shallow waters are always more treacherous than the deep. To a good swimmer, it does not matter whether the water underneath  is just ten feet deep or a hundred. But shallow areas inevitably result in localised small and stagnant pools and have things like bits of ropes, seaweed, junk, and garbage, which can be hazardous to a swimmer.

There were quite a few bits of fish discarded by fishermen. The flesh on many of these had been eaten by other creatures till only their vertebral columns, the centrums and their accompanying arches, remained as single units.  Meena, being a fish eater herself, was not too bothered by these.

The restaurant had two piers extending into the water, the smaller of these was in disuse. The larger one was used as a seating area by diners in the evening. At this time of the day, the sun was bright and diners were sitting at tables under a large canopy. As she passed under the waters of the larger pier, she looked up and saw the skeletal remains of a huge fish. It was clearly around 20 feet long, larger than anything she had seen before. She wondered what kind of fish it might be and how it had landed in these shallow waters. She thought that like her, it had been forced into the shallows to escape some ship and had perished there. She shuddered at the prospect of an end like that.

                                                                                 **

A diner at the restaurant noticed Meena swimming under the frond and pointed out to his wife, "Look at that large fish under  that coconut frond stuck between the columns supporting of the jetty. I wonder what the fish thinks of the frond. Doesn't it resemble the fish skeletons on our plates?"

                                                                                *** 

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.

Hogmanay Estate

Note to readers: Those of you who have not read The Day It Snowed in Ooty may read that story first, though it is not essential to this one.

I was the only lodger staying at the guest house of the Hogmanay Estate, a tea estate about forty kilometers by road from Darjeeling. I had just been appointed as the manager of the Estate and was yet to be allotted the Manager's Bungalow. My predecessor, who was yet to vacate the bungalow, had gone with his family to Darjeeling.  The present owner of the estate, a Marwari from Calcutta had purchased it from Captain Mc Donnell's brother's grandson, who inherited the estate on the Captain's death, and was not keen on running it . The owner was a busy man with many business interests and came to the estate once in a way. In his absence, the Manager was the lord of the estate.

It was a cold night in winter and the fireplace was blazing to keep the room warm. The splitting of the aromatic wood made crackling sounds now and then. From time to time, 'Bahadur' poked at the burning logs piled on the andirons. It was almost dinner time and he started setting up the dining table for my supper. Bahadur is a sort of generic name used for a Gurkha whose name you didn't know, or, in the case of many an employer, didn't care to know. It means 'brave', as most Gurkhas certainly are. It is also a common name in the community.

As he placed my plate, I asked him in Hindi, "What's your name, Bahadur?"

He was a bit surprised, and replied, "No one staying here has ever asked me that question, sahib."
He added, "My name is Jung Bahadur Thapa."

I smiled, thinking that a Gurkha had to be a Thapa, Gurung or Chettri, for these were their most common surnames. During my time with the Gorkha Regiment, I had been surrounded by a flood of these names. I had also picked up a bit of Nepali.  Though it had been a long time since I had spoken the language, I made my first overture with a simple, "I can speak a little bit of Nepali."

Thapa gave a big smile and encouraging said, "Sahib's Nepali is very good. Where did you learn it so well?"

I told him of my military service with the Gorkhali, as my men had called themselves, and said that they were the most loyal and bravest soldiers to have at one's side.

"My great grandfather was in the army," he replied. "He was an orderly to Captain McDonnell sahib," he said, adding, "and that his how our family came to this estate."

"Come and sit here at the table and tell me more about it," I invited.

"How can I sit at the same table as the sahib?" he demurred, his native deference for the master surfacing.

Relenting, I said, "Okay, bring your chair from the kitchen and sit here."

He went and brought a low stool from the kitchen. He placed it near my chair and sat down and started narrating the estate's story.

**

The Captain sahib had started his military service as a young subaltern in the Sirmoor Battalion of the British Indian Army. When Indian soldiers had risen in mutiny in 1857, a milestone in India's struggle for freedom, the unit had marched to Meerut to quell the rebellion. The colonial administration had called it the Sepoy Mutiny. The uprising had been crushed, at least according to the administration's records.

Some years later, as a Second Lieutenant, McDonnell had married an Englishwoman and in time had a daughter, who was named Kathy. He had inherited a substantial sum of money and had decided to retire to the hills. His orderly, Sher Bahadur Thapa, had suggested that he buy a tea estate near Darjeeling, and McDonnell had seen wisdom in the advice.

Hogmanay Estate had been purchased by Captain Douglas McDonnell in the 1890. The previous owner had died and the next generation, which was staying in London had no interest in moving back to India. So, they had put it up for sale and the Scotsman had got it at a rather cheap price. But it had been badly maintained for years and it took him quite a few years to get things rebuilt and repaired to his satisfaction. The estate had prospered and in time, he appointed a manager to take care of its routine responsibilities.

The Captain had also got the chapel renovated and, as he was musically inclined, had got a pipe organ imported from Europe and installed in it.  He used to spend his free time practicing on the organ as he felt it gave him peace, especially after his wife had passed away. He lived for only two things in life – his daughter Kathy and the pipe organ. It was his greatest delight that his daughter too had become proficient in playing the instrument.

But, one day, Kathy informed her father at breakfast, that she desired to marry the son of the owner of the neighbouring estate. Subroto Mukherji, who frequently took her to Darjeeling in his jeep, was, like his father, an Indian. Long drives, for it takes quite a bit of time to cover forty kilometres in the hills, on winding roads in a cold climate amidst beautiful surroundings, can be quite intoxicating – especially if one's companion is comely or handsome. The Captain was incensed at the idea of his daughter marrying an Indian. He specifically forbade it and ordered her not to leave the estate in future.

That night, at dinner, Kathy informed him that she had gone to Darjeeling during the day and had got married to her beau. The Captain's pink face glowed red – redder than the flames in the fireplace. Wordlessly, he got up and reached for the shotgun which was mounted over the mantelpiece. Kathy, who knew that the gun was always loaded, was scared for her life. She opened the door and ran for the shelter of the chapel which was quite close by, in the belief that he might not shoot on hallowed ground.

She entered the chapel, sat at the pipe organ and started playing his favourite piece of music, hoping that it would soothe him. The Captain was not in control of himself. He walked into the chapel and unloaded both the barrels into her. Seeing her dead, he realised the destruction his rage had caused. He collapsed next to her and never recovered from the tragedy. Both had been buried near the chapel.

**

Thapa ended his narrative saying ominously, "People who have peeped into the chapel say they still see her hanging around the organ, though no one has heard her play it."

I reasoned with him, "A ghost, even if there is one, does not have a physical body, so it cannot play an organ."

Curious, I asked him, "Have you seen the ghost?"

"No, sir," he responded, adding bravely, "I have always been a bit wary of the ill effects that the ghost may have. But, if the sahib is willing to venture into the chapel, I shall be glad to accompany him. I am not afraid."

"Let's do that tomorrow evening," I told him, saying that I had to make some purchases in Darjeeling the next day, before I ventured into the chapel.

He, no doubt, thought that I was planning to buy some amulet, charm or, perhaps, a crucifix, to carry into the chapel.

**

The next evening, we had a Patiala peg each before we embarked on our spiritual enterprise. He had lit a hurricane lantern to carry, since the chapel did not have power supply. He had spent a good part of the day cleaning and sharpening his khukri with its chakmak, though I am not sure what damage it could cause to a non-corporeal being. He probably did it to comfort himself for the impending ordeal, if any.

As we approached the chapel, he touched his belt and was reassured by the presence of the khukri in its scabbard. He pulled out a long and heavy key for the chapel door. Though the lock had not been opened for long, to our surprise,  the key turned smoothly and noiselessly in the lock.

He pushed opened the heavy double doors, which too swung without a creak. He held the lantern over his head and ahead of him to illuminate the innards of the building.

The chapel was modest in size and the pipe organ was quite large. In fact, it actually dominated the small altar. As we entered, some unknown disturbance blew some dust off the organ. Thapa muttered, "I think, she is here." 

Right next to the organ was a large window with four shutters. The glass in the windows was coated with decades of cobwebs and dust. Each window had a horizontal curtain rod above it.  I opened my little bag of tricks and pulled out four different wind chimes made out of metal tubes. Each chime had seven tubes of different lengths and a metal striker in the middle to hit the tubes. Every one of those chimes produced a different note making up an octave. I hung each of the four chimes,  covered four octaves, to the curtain road grill in each opening. 

 All was silent, as I put a napkin on the stool in front of the organ and sat down and started to play. 

I had gone over my repertoire during the day and had selected Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor. Composed in the 18th century. it is considered to be the most terrifying music ever written. But I simply loved the piece. Also, it was old enough to be recognised by the Kathy or her father. The organ, which had holes in some pipes and dust in almost all pipes, produced an even more scarier and distorted version of it. After playing the prelude,  I stopped and waited. 

And then, as foreseen by me, something peculiar happened.  The silence of the night was broken by notes emanating from the wind chimes. There was no wind, but the chimes were being agitated by some unseen force. Initially, they produced random notes, as if being tested. And then, to my delight they continued into playing notes of the Bach composition. Though the original piece had multiple voices in the fugue, limitations of the instrument used here resulted in the constraint of being in a single voice. But it was quite clear what composition was being played, though in a diminished form.

The presence seemed to be utterly in love with music. But I am not sure whether it was Kathy or her father who was playing the chimes. Maybe, some day I shall be able to figure out how to ascertain that. For the time being, I resolved to continue playing duets in the chapel with my new friend.

***


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.

Yet I think I met a Yeti

We had crossed the upper snow line,

And left it far behind.

To see the Yeti, a fond hope of mine,

Was at the back of my mind.

The mountainside was steep and cold,

My hands were feeling rubbery.

There was hardly any crag to hold,

The climb was very slippery.

Suddenly I saw something very queer,

Large footprints in the snow.

And saw as I went some more near

Small footprints were in tow!

Large feet in front, small feet behind,

Almost like a reverse kangaroo.

Another thought jumped into my mind

Was it one or were there two?

I looked for it everywhere around,

Up and down and all about.

I thought it might be behind a mound,

And felt I should check it out.

When I neared the snowy outcrop,

I noticed a smell almost like a goat.

Then I climbed over the mound top,

And saw it came from an old fur coat.

As I saw more my heart beat faster,

That she was not all alone.

In her lap was her li’l young master,

A small kid, her little clone!

To see a Yeti, many climbers dub

As their lifetime’s pinnacle.

But to see a Yeti and her little cub

Was nothing but a miracle!

I stood still, my heart quickly beating,

Snowing had now increased.

The magical moment was fast fleeting,

As visibility became decreased.

I heard a loud growl behind my head,

And turned around to see,

The father, eyes glowering bright red.

It was time for me to flee.

Shouting, jumping and scared I fled,

Waking up in the dark night.

Found myself safe in my warm bed,

Woken up early by my fright.

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.

An Ancient Cryptic Society's Meet

Note: Basic understanding of how cryptic crossword clues work is desirable to understand this story

Circa CE 30
Jerusalem
Running commentary of a meeting of The Cryptic Society (adapted into English)
Location: A Crypt
Time: Evening

A dozen members troop in, one by one. One of them is holding a bag. Each makes an entry into the attendance book. After they are done, it looks like this*:

1. Domesticated animal sits next to the queen (5)
2. Sweet preservative and egg sandwich, for starters (5)
3. Prohibit the endless spinning of wool around Middle East (11)

4. Jerusalem's chaotic, in absence of rule (5)5.
5. Move - adjust endlessly (5)
6. Wander hither and tither (6)

7. Son, I'm worried (5)
8. Greek letter's border (6)
9. Had duets composed (8)

10. Hydrogen atoms spin around (6)
11. For starters, terrible toothache hurts Englishman in mouth (7)
12. Trojan horse turned, ejecting roaster (4)

**

Author's Note: Rules for writing cryptic clues were still evolving and none of these had any definition. Arthur Wynne was yet to design a crossword grid to hold answers to the clues . Readers interested in solving cryptic clues are advised to take a pause here and solve their entries.

* Remember, these people saw well ahead of their times, and somehow used terms not yet in currency in those days.

**

The last entrant into the hall takes a look at the attendance register. As he goes through each entry, he smiles. He muses aloud, "Maybe we can interlock the answers so that they cross each other ...".

He writes below the dozen entries: "That's correct. HE's universally admired by leaders (6)"

Twelve persons are already sitting along one side of a long table. They rise as he approaches... He bids them to sit down. He sits in the middle of them, half a dozen on each side of him. He looks at the man with the bag and says cryptically "The sack is beginning to bulge with silver ..."

Supper is served. He says, "Now that we have sat down to sup, could someone please pass the salt across?" The man with the bag passes over the salt container and it topples over spilling some of the contents on the table. No words are exchanged. No one gets cross with him.  The cross performs its role a little later ...

At the end of the meal, their leader gets up and says, "I shall be going away on Friday, but will return on Sunday."

Author's Note: People have speculated as to why all of them are sitting on the same side of the table in this famous painting by Leonardo Da Vinci.  The answer is quite simple, really. The diners were sitting just like people sit at long tables at most Indian festive or religious meals. The other side of the table was the pathway for use of the people serving the food.  On second thoughts, if  some people were sitting facing away from the painter's perspective, you would not be able to identify the dramatis personae in the painting, which would have made it a bit odd, to say the least. After all, 13 is an odd number ...

**

Ancient prospective cruciverbalists' fixation is an event that preceded crucifixion.

**

**

Solutions: (* indicates anagram of letters preceding the sign)

1. Domesticated animal sits next to the queen (5) PETER (PET ER)

2. Sweet preservative and egg sandwich, for starters (5) JAMES (JAM Egg Sandwich)

3. Prohibit the endless spinning of wool around Middle East (11) BARTHOLOMEW (BAR THe WOOL* around ME)

4. Jerusalem's chaotic, in absence of rule (5) JAMES (JERUSALEM-RULE)*
5. Move - adjust endlessly (5) JUDAS (ADJUSt)*

6. Wander hither and tither (6) ANDREW (WANDER)*

7. Son, I'm worried (5) SIMON (SON I'M)*

8. Greek letter's border (6) PHILIP (PHI LIP)

9. Had duets composed (8) THADDEUS (HAD DUETS)*

10. Hydrogen atoms spin around (6)THOMAS (H ATOMS)*

11. For starters, terrible toothache hurts Englishman in mouth (7) MATTHEW (Terrible Toothache Hurts Englishman in MAW)

12. Trojan horse turned, ejecting roaster (4) JOHN (TROJAN HORSE - ROASTER)*

and finally

YES H U A

***

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.

मैं होली क्यूँ नहीं खेलता - Why I don't play Holi

आज सुबह माशूक़ा मेरे घर मुझसे मिलने आयी,

वह प्यार से  बोली, "होली है, जान,  मुझे रंग लगाओ
मेरे माथे पर थोड़ा नीला और गालों पर हरा लगाओ" ,
मैं रंग पहचानने मेँ अक्षम हूँ वह शायद भूल गयी,
फिर आइना उसने देखा और लाल पीली हो गयी !

Translation:
Today morning my beloved came home to meet me,
She said lovingly, "It's Holi, dear, apply colour to me,
Put some blue on my forehead and some green on my cheeks,
But she seems to have forgotten that I am colour blind,
She then saw the mirror and became red and yellow*.

* That is the literal translation. In idiomatic Hindi, becoming red and yellow is to become very angry.

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 Day Amidst the Canidae

Like any other day, I got up at 5. After spending an hour on household chores, I laced up my walking shoes at 6 and went for my first 'short' walk of the day. I went around the block twice. It took, like every other day, around 20 minutes and I covered around 2 kilometres. This was just my usual 'warm up' walk in preparation for the 'long' walk. I usually walk alone, for I am a lone wolf and do not prefer to be burdened with conversation during my walks.

The 'long' walk usually lasts a minimum of one hour and sometimes two or more hours. The daily one-hour walk is in a small wood near my house and does not involve much gradient. The two-hour walk, once a month, is more of a trek at a nearby forest. It involves walking up some mild as well as steep slopes and also scrambling up some rocks. It is much more strenuous, especially in the hot summer months. Considerable sweating is involved in this trek, necessitating carrying some drinking water to replenish the loss of fluid.

I prepared myself for the trek. I packed my backpack with a few essentials. A bottle of fresh drinking water, a roll of crepe bandage, a pain relieving spray, and a collapsible alpine stick. I had to take these along as I am prone to missing my footing and twisting my ankle on gravelly and uneven surfaces. If I twisted my ankle, I would need to follow the RICE routine for recuperation, but though rest and ice would have to wait till I got home, I could apply compression immediately with the crepe bandage. Exercise, of course, would have to wait, though getting back to my car would expose me to some of it. The stick would help me hobble along. And my pack also contained a trophy Swiss Army knife which had never been used for any real purpose.

**

It is an unfortunate truth that our people dump garbage. No, I am not talking of the trekkers in the forest. They are quite eco-conscious and carry their garbage to designated bins placed at the gate of the forest. Some even carry garbage all the way home. I refer to the house-holders living on the periphery of the forest. Many a time they senselessly dump their garbage at the edge of the forest. This includes not only plastic and glass but also contains food scraps, which attract the local mongrels.  

There are a few packs of dogs in the forest and each pack has demarcated its 'home' territory. They guard this territory fiercely from other packs which may sometimes make adventurous forays into their territory.  But this does not deter them from raiding other packs' territories. It is generally a free for all, as the alpha male of a pack leads the raiding party from the front, armed only with sharp fangs and nails. 

Sometimes two packs confront each other and make threatening growling noises at each other and try to out-stare the opponents. This may or may not develop into a melee. Sometimes, one or both packs call off the staring match and slink away with their tails tucked between their legs. I don't blame them. It's a dog-eat-dog world, anyway.

As these dogs usually hang out near garbage dumps, they do not bother trekkers unless one walks into the dump. But,  as the house-holders were becoming more aware and had started using the city's garbage clearance services, the dumps were running short of edible scraps. This dearth had caused the affected packs to foray out of their territory and venture into other parts of the forest looking for small creatures to fill their bellies.

The dogs had, of late, probably got tired of the same items being on the menu regularly. An enterprising pack had decided to try something new. Recently, there had been reports of some trekkers being attacked and bitten by these dogs. Groups of trekkers had approached the forest authorities with a request to round up packs that had become feral. They had advised the forest department to seek the assistance of the city municipal corporation's dog squad for necessary help. But nothing had happened as the animal rights lobby had approached the court for a stay and got one.

**

Court orders, however, do not apply to animals, and little did these dogs know or care about such matters. Lack of food in the belly can lead a creature to desperation, and today they had decided to taste a trekker. As I turned a bend in the path into a clearing in a secluded part of the forest, I saw several dogs lounging about fifteen metres ahead of me..As I slowed down, they got up and gave a low howl. That was an indication to another part of the pack which had hung out among the trees. On hearing the signal, they trooped into the clearing a few metres behind me. It was clear to me that I was their target today. 

No human being can face a pack of a dozen dogs, especially if they have not eaten for a few days. The whole of me was desirable, of course; but if not feasible, at least a few large chunks of my arms and legs would be welcome, I supposed. I tried using my stick to shoo away the dogs as they closed in upon me. I made threatening noises, which I hoped would dissuade them. But the rough circle around me in the clearing  got progressively smaller and smaller as they kept just outside the swinging arc of my stick. 

The leader of the pack, an alpha male, was getting restless. As I was turning with the stick to shoo a couple of dogs which had got uncomfortably close to me, my back was momentarily facing the leader and he pounced upon me.

My tough and thick jeans afforded me some protection as he tried to take a bite. He did bite through the denim, but just managed to graze my calf before he fell back.  Something came over me in that moment of desperation. 

I turned round and grabbed the dog in my bare arms. My talons drove into his sides as I lifted him up and sank my fangs into him. The other dogs cowered and backed off. They had seen the change that I had gone through. They had heard the lupine howl that I had let out when bitten and seen my face turn into a snout and my bare hands develop thick fur. I broke off a chunk of the dog's side and wolfed it down. I am sure they must have seen the ferociousness in my eyes as they backed off from the clearing. They knew they had to elect a new leader.

I was left with the carcass of a rather well fed dog on my hands. It was obvious that the leader always got a lion's share of the takings, for his other pack-mates were definitely scrawny by comparison. Well, now that I had a few kilos of a freshly slain dog, it was a shame to let it go waste. 

As my body returned back to its human form, I took out my Swiss Army knife and tried to hack off a few pieces of meat. I was very unsuccessful in this enterprise. So, I used my teeth, though not as sharp as a wolf's, to good effect and cut off a few choice pieces of the meat and wrapped it in the paper bag which was holding my trail food. The left over carcass would be eaten by some scavenger.

**

I will use the  pieces in my bag to prepare some Boshintang, which will no doubt delight my date for the night, So-young, a young lady from Seoul. I sincerely hope to click with her. She has admitted that she admires men who are lone wolves and chart their way distinct from the pack. We plan to have dinner on the terrace and it can get a bit cold in the night. A light woolen sweater seems to be in order. I am sure she will like this wolf in sheep's clothing. On the contrary, she might feed me most of the soup, as I understand Koreans believe it makes a guy more virile ...

***

Post script: I forgot to mention what I heard just before I returned to my human form in the forest.

A father and son were coming down the path and the kid saw me first and exclaimed, "Wolf!". The father asked, "Where?", for I had regained my human shape by then.


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 Day it Snowed in Ooty

It was in January 2019, that I visited a hospice in Ooty. It also gave me an opportunity to try out my new car. A group of us had raised some funds for the hospice which took care of old people and we thought we would hand over our little contribution in person. Our employer had added a handsome amount to the collection and our Regional Manager was travelling with us to deliver the cheque. The weekend before Pongal was approaching and Ooty would be crowded, as people would swarm there in droves. The roads from Coimbatore and Mysore would be clogged too. So we decided to go a few days early to avoid the weekend rush.

When we passed Mettupalayam and started driving towards Coonoor, we felt a perceptible drop in temperature. That was quite normal and usual when we left the plains and started ascending the hills. The increase in elevation and dense forest cover, not doubt, had a role to play. But I had never felt so cold on that route earlier. I had to roll up my windows to avoid shivering. I suspected the light woolens we were wearing might not be sufficient for the night ahead of us.

We were discussing the modalities of presenting the money. I got an idea and said, "Why don't we hand it over to their oldest resident? After all, it is an old age home."

The boss, hugged his jacket a little tighter and nodded approvingly, adding, "That's a nice t-t-touch!"
Mr. Chatterjee's teeth were chattering due to the frigid temperature.

**

It was at the hospice that I met Stella Urquhart. She was introduced as an Anglo-Indian and as the oldest inmate, the person designated by the hospice to received the cheque. I found her to be of sharp intellect, though frail in structure. No one knew her correct age, as there were no birth certificates in those days,. Nor did the local church records have any mention of her. But she was definitely the oldest person in the hospice. The fact was attested by none other than the second oldest person in the hospice, a person who did have some record of her own birth. This lady, who was 99 as per church records, had on several occasions mentioned that Stella had taught her English in her teens as a private tutor. This conclusively proved Stella was older that the second oldest. But no one knew her real age.

When I asked her, over dinner, whether she had been to Scotland, which was obviously the source of her surname, she said, "My late husband Sean, had taken me to Drumnadrochit once. We had stayed for a week and walked along the shores of the loch every day. I like the place but was disappointed for I did not get an audience with our legendary neighbour Nessie. I wish I had seen her. But what I miss most about Scotland is the snow. How I wish it snowed in Ooty!"

Someone remarked, "I have never heard of snowing in south India. Wish it had snowed during Christmas!"

Stella responded, "The newspapers mentioned that it had snowed in Munnar just a couple of days back!"

"May your dream of snow in Ooty come true," I said, and asked her out of curiosity, "How do you spend your time? Which newspapers do you read?"

Her reply was quite perceptive: "I read Wodehouse. Nothing can beat him for humour. I get several newspapers, but they are quite biased these days and are always promoting or debunking some point of view based on their political leanings."

She continued, "I read all news with a pinch of salt because they exaggerate so much. Politicians 'slam' and 'mock' each other, and call each other names on a daily basis. The courts 'pass strictures' daily, though nobody cares about it or bothers to follow its rulings."

Then to my delight, she confided, "It is for the crossword puzzles that I ask for the papers, not for the news. I really enjoy them.They give me a lot of pleasure everyday." 

I bent my head towards her conspiratorially and confided, "I too am into crosswords."

"Which setter do you like most?", I asked.

She replied, "I specially like Gridman in The Hindu. He has a wonderful way with words."

I said, "I have had the pleasure of meeting Gridman a few times and have enjoyed every minute of our interaction."

She requested, "I would like to meet him too. Since I don't travel out of Ooty, could you please try to bring him here some day?"

I replied, "I certainly will. Though he is over 70, he still travels quite a bit. I am sure he would love to meet you."

"Sounds like an interesting young man," she observed.

She said that she had heard that I was interested in music and that I played music on my mobile phone too. She asked me to play something. I pulled out my phone and played a few bars of 'Auld Lang Syne'.  The eyes of the old lady with Scots lineage became moist, as she murmured her thanks.

As we retired for the night, I resolved to spend some more time with Stella and find out what kept her so sharp at an age when most had memory and reasoning issues. It was a very cold night and the fireplaces in the rooms definitely contributed to our comfort.

**

When we gathered for breakfast the next morning, we were informed of the incredulous thing that had happened during the night. It had snowed in Ooty. A thin blanket of white was visible on the lawn. It was the topic of discussion at the breakfast table and we recollected the previous night's conversation.

Stella was excited. "Your good wishes have worked," she told me.

She continued, "But this is too little to be enjoyed. It used to snow heavily in Mussoorie when I used to stay there. Himalayan hill stations are something quite different."

Our boss, who claimed to have slept in due to the extra-ordinarily cold weather turned up at the breakfast table. I knew his excuse was fake. He  always rose late and often snoozed in his cabin. 

He was also a person with quixotic logic. Seeing the snow, he asked, "How come it is getting colder in Ooty than ever before if the world is going through global warming?"

Stella had a ready answer. She theorized, "This must be due to eruption of Anak Krakatau in the Sunda straits near Sumatra last month. The ashes from the eruption must have created a dust cloud leading to drop in temperature to its west." She smilingly added an obiter dictum - "Both Sunda and Sumatra start with my initials, SU!"

The boss was unconvinced. He said, "That's in Indonesia, isn't it? It's probably too far away to matter."

Stella struck to her theory and explained, "Volcanic eruptions in Indonesia have caused tsunamis and other climatic disturbances in India several times earlier too. Nothing is too far for cataclysmic natural events."

The boss argued, "But has it ever snowed in South India because of that?"

Stella patiently explained, "A couple of years back, some newspapers reported that it had snowed in Madras two centuries back as a result of the dust clouds, formed by eruption of Mount Tambora, which traveled towards India.'

The boss pulled out his tablet and browsed online to cross verify this statement. He rebutted, saying, "It says here that temperatures did go down below zero in Madras in 1815 and lakes froze, but it was unconfirmed if the reports of snow were true."

Stella, not to be beaten, hammered in the last nail in the argument, saying, "I don't know where online sources get their information from. They just tend to quote each other or cite unnamed sources. But, Mister, I assure you that it did snow. And I can give you the source of my information unlike your untrustworthy media. My mum was twenty at that time and she told me that it did snow in Madras in the last week of April, 1815. Are you telling me she was a liar, young man?"

I got busy trying to compute Stella's age. Even if she had been born twenty years later, she would be 170 – definitely more than 150!

The boss too had independently performed a similar computation and with an incredulous look, had asked, "I don't get it. Then you must be over ...?" He did not complete the sentence.

She continued, "My younger brother Douglas McDonnell was serving in the army during the Mutiny and later settled down in Darjeeling after  buying a tea estate called Hogmanay. I have letters from him, which I have not disclosed till date, which can convince you. I am sure you can also verify the dates from the land documents in Darjeeling if you wanted to."

"Do you want to carbon date me?", she asked, arching an eyebrow. 

I wrote "CL+? Date?"  on a paper napkin and pushed it to her. She reached for the little sling bag that always hung by her side, pulled out a pen, wrote something on the paper and returned it with a conspiratorial wink. The paper now read "CL+?" "EVER". It also had a heart drawn in red, accompanied by a smiley and a few Xs, and followed by the words "Will you be my Valentine this year?"

I smiled back at the young lady and nodded, wondering whether the red colour was from a pen or a lipstick.

**

Post Script:
Today's the date of our date. It is also her favourite author's death anniversary. I am at the hospice in Ooty. I am shattered to see Stella lying. I gaze upon the young lady lying  in repose, a serene smile on her face. She has gone to Sean during the night. As my hand placed the red rosebud that I had carried for her across her chest, I was sure that she must have seen, if she could see through her closed eyelids, a silhouette of Nessie. And thus fulfilled another of her wishes* ...

* I am not sure if her wish of snow in Ooty was really fulfilled.  "It might have just been frost, after all," naysayers may say, adding, "Everyone knows it does not snow in Ooty," but any doubts that may arise may be scotched on the authority of a lady with Scots blood in her.

Please read more about her brother's story at Hogmanay Estate

***

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. 

.

Somewhere on the Western Front

It was in the dark of a cold night in December that the enemy attacked. They came over the sand dunes in large numbers and were supported by several tanks. The defending troops were small in number and the weapons they had were no match for the strength of the attack. Reinforcements and air support were not forthcoming – at least till the morning*. They were given the option of strategic withdrawal, but the CO decided to stay put. His men too welcomed his decision and hoped they would last the night. It turned out to be a long, long night.

It was nothing like the Battle of Thermopylae, where a force of a few thousand, facing a much larger attacking army, defended a narrow pass. Here the canvass was much wider than a narrow pass; the sands stretched in every direction. There was no bottleneck to hold the invaders and the invaders were in armoured vehicles.

Subedar Major Janjua was mortally wounded in the first few minutes of the attack on their outpost, and fell into a shell crater. Though he was old, weary and injured,  he was determined to do his best. He slowly dragged himself over the edge of the crater and crawled to his billet. He pulled out his PIAT** and three  expired bombs. He planned to outflank the tanks and get behind them. He skirted to the right where a jeep mounted RCL*** had got stuck and its crew were struggling to move it. He lent a shoulder and helped to move it out of a crater in the sand.

He then crawled slowly and painfully between a couple of approaching tanks, dragging his PIAT. Once he was past them, he turned around till he faced the rear of the tank. He loaded a bomb into his PIAT, took careful aim and shot at a tank. His aim was as true as ever despite his age and injury. He was taking a chance as both the weapon and the ammo were decades old.The expired bomb worked as if it was new. It easily penetrated the tank's armour. The tank burst into flames, further fuelled by the extra fuel and explosives it was carrying.

The tank's crew did not know what hit them or from which direction they were shot at as they did not survive the attack. Neither was he noticed by other tanks which were facing to their front and engaging his unit. Even if they had, he was too low on the ground to be hit by their main gun even at its lowest position. The RCL crew aiming for an adjacent tank were surprised as they seemed to have got two tanks with one shot. They presumed that a mortar shell had destroyed the other tank.

He changed his angle of shot to the right and got one more tank in a similar manner. He then turned left and repeated the process. He had ensured that the three tanks had turned into blazing infernos.

He had no more ammo for the PIAT and was fully drained of energy. His role in the battle was over.


* The planes did arrive the next morning and destroyed the tanks still functional at that time in what the pilots called 'a turkey shoot', resulting in victory in the battle, but if the army had withdrawn in the face of the enemy, the tanks would not be sitting ducks. They would have advanced and dispersed, making it more difficult.

** Projector, Infantry, Anti Tank: A portable anti-tank weapon of WW2 vintage, forerunner of the bazooka. More details here

*** Recoilless rifle. More details here

 ** 

The Subedar Major had joined the British Indian Army as a rookie a year before the second World War had ended. He had been underage and, like many others, had reported his year of birth wrongly by a couple of years to circumvent that. His large build strengthened the illusion of being of recruitable age. Adding to his credentials as a potential soldier was the fact that his community, the Janjuas had been designated as a 'martial race' by the British. Janjuas were Muslims, Hindus or Sikhs by religion and soldiers by profession. There were no birth certificates in those days and the recruiting officers, tasked to enlist large numbers, were only too keen to get sturdy and willing men. They did not mind overlooking some minor details, which anyhow were not verifiable. They took him on and after a short training course, sent him to the front.

In that one year during WW2, Janjua had been trained and assigned to use a PIAT.  Most PIATs were operated by a team of two soldiers, one assisting the other in loading the gun. Lot of men shorter than him had difficulty in cocking the gun. But the tall and well built young man was quite comfortable handling it alone. He had a reputation of deftly loading, cocking and firing with an unerring aim. Each platoon had one PIAT and Janjua was fondly called the Paltan ka PIAT* by the other men.

In due time the war ended and the British Indian army was partitioned. PIATs went out of service, but Janjua retained his trusty weapon as a souvenir. He also had a few rounds of the HEAT** for it, well past their official expiry date. He had risen through the ranks, become a Junior Commissioned Officer – a Naib Subedar at first and finally, a Subedar Major.

* Platoon's PIAT

* High Explosive Anti-Tank warhead. More details here

** 

The defenders held through till the reinforcements arrived. When the battle was over and a quick count taken, the 2-IC noticed that the armour of three tanks had been penetrated from the rear side. He was sure that none of his men had got to the rear of the tanks. At the most, they had got to their flanks. And then, his driver pointed out that the size of the hole in the armour was inconsistent with the ammunition used by the mortars of the RCL.

When he reported this to his CO, the superior officer was puzzled. The CO was also informed by the RCL crew that Janjua had helped them to move their jeep and that it seemed more than once that they had destroyed two targets by firing just one round.

The CO said, "Soon after the tanks attacked, I saw Janjua being mortally hit and fall into a crater. I jumped in and checked his pulse. He was dead and there was nothing I could do for him. His body must still be in there How could he have assisted you, when he was beyond all help himself? It must have been someone else."

Janjua's body was found in one of the nearby craters, as described by the CO. Adding to the puzzle was the fact that neither the PIAT nor his three souvenir shells were found among his personal effects when they were being packed to be despatched to his family. However, when the area was being cleared later, the weapon was found a few hundred yards away from crater that his body was found in. How it had moved to that location was a matter of conjecture and discussion at the mess.

Though he was listed in the casualties of the battle, Janjua's post-mortem activities remain unacknowledged till date, except in the whispered lore of his unit. It was clear that both expired bombs and expired soldiers sometimes worked after their official expiry dates. It was probably how he would have wanted it to be. He wasn't after medals and citations. He was the quintessential unknown and un-thanked soldier who did his best for his unit, army and country. Nothing else mattered to him.

Subedar Major Janjua had never read the poem; but it was clear from his actions that he had endorsed these words from Thomas Babbington Macaulay's poem Horatius:

"To every man upon this earth

Death cometh soon or late.

And how can man die better

Than facing fearful odds,

For the ashes of his fathers,

And the temples of his gods."

He had only taken them several steps beyond death. He had followed the thought in letter and in spirit.

***


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 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.