Romance In The Park

                                        

                                                      ( Courtesy Freevectors)

    Age did not seem to diminish his energy or the penchant for wooing women. He jogged into the park  every morning strapped with a kit, his closely cropped salt pepper head bobbing over the rest of the early risers. He was seasoned, one could make out from his correct jogging shoes and the accessories. Only his shorts were a bit too brief for others' comfort. 

   The green square fringed with the amaltas, neem and a couple of teak trees was a source of freshness, entertainment and a balm for the tired eyes. At daybreak, the denizens of the surrounding tall buildings streamed in. Some jogged, strolled, walked, exercised or attempted to shake their limbs between gossip sessions and discussion of the futility of present day politics.

   There were some  old ladies barely managing to reach the park wobbling with a stick and then there were some who quite defied their age and seemed fit enough to park their legs on the back of the benches to bend forward. A couple of those women who ambled along the track talking of their daughters-in-law, never seemed to be in a hurry to excite the lards resting peacefully on their ample frame.They most likely went right back home and gorged on the parathas cooked by those very  daughters-in-law. The ring of  benches under the kikar tree, in the center of the park, was the permanent meeting place for a group of just- retired, on -the -verge -of- retiring, retired -for-decades gentlemen who strolled a couple of rounds around the park and then got down to their favourite pastime of lambasting every Government programme worth their byte in the media. And for breathers, they  shook their hips from side to side and attempted to touch their toes between topics of conversation. Everytime, their fingers barely managed to reach beyond the knees. These rare attempts were further abandoned when the discussions got juicier where they could provide their two cents worth of wisdom gained from the years of experience. 

  And so life went on in the green square fringed with the amaltas, neem and a couple of teak trees. The birds warbled to fill in with the perfect morning notes. Happy little groups, relaxed twosomes and threesomes and inscrutable singles within the confines of  invisible circles drawn around them.  She stood out from the lot  practicing her yoga  facing the sun, happy to be in her own world; letting the grass smear her palms with  dew that she massaged into her face; singing bhajans clapping her hands as though she was the only one in the park.
" Namaste! What a lovely morning it is, isn't it! " she bowed to the old couple stretched  out in the snake position on the grass.
They waved back at her.
" Oh! It is so good to see you! May God bless you! " she smiled at an elderly man in the middle of his breathing exercise. Her smile stretched to brighten up her face with fine lines that wrinkled at the corner of her eyes and lips. They waved back to her always. Sometimes engaging in little conversations. But she never seemed to stay with anyone for long. She flitted with quick steps  like the butterflies hurrying on to catch up with all the other flowers.   

   It was after she came into the park that the salt and pepper jogger usually entered, going around the track for a couple of rounds. On many occasions  he did his sit ups and push ups quite close to where she was. At first she did not seem to notice him. She went about her routine oblivious to the new pattern that was setting in. As days went by her hands quite frequently smoothed her hair. She stole quick covert looks from the corner of her eye as she massaged the back of her neck.  His arrival was alerted with an American drawl on the pedometer, "You have done five kilometres in forty five minutes! Congratulations!" While he front rolled and squatted, she walked past him on her toes and arms raised to the sky with a quick surreptitious glance at him. He watched from afar as she closed her eyes and released her breath in spurts. One day he walked upto her while she was in the middle of executing surya namaskar. After a brief conversation he followed her movements like a student learning from a teacher. He was a seasoned one alright.

   It didn't take very long for both of them to jog into the park together. Taking up their former spots on the grass, each one followed their own set of stretches. The cheerful woman and the salt and pepper jogger. The petunias around the trees were growing into scraggly, unkempt shrubs and the amaltas pods above were waiting to burst open into golden chandeliers. Everything else went on. The same set of people. The same set of indulgences. Life went on. 

  One day, the cheerful lady and the jogger entered the park separately. She came in first and went about her asanas. He jogged in later stopping near the little mound of grass while the American drawl confirmed his target for the day. He did not look at her once and continued with his squats like she did not exist. She tossed her head to the other side and continued to balance herself on a vrikshasan. He did his back rolls and front rolls while she avoided looking in his direction. She then left with a sideways glance at him and he focussed on balancing himself on the lurches. This new pattern of aloofness soon replaced the older one.

  It was one of the usual mornings. The woman  folded her hands in obeisance to the sun rising over the buildings before she sped out on a round around the park. Nothing unusual there. The familiar brisk walkers were out pacing each other. Suddenly a small group assembled in the far corner, under the neem tree. People at the back of the gathering were trying to peer over others shoulders. Someone had fallen on the track. It was the cheerful woman lying on her back with a dazed look in her eyes.  Some of the other ladies in the park had reached and urged her to rise up but she  looked around confused at the faces peering at her.

" Are you okay? "

" Come on! Get up!"
" Here, let me help you."

Everyone seemed to know her.

" Are you feeling sick? Are you giddy?"

" Come, let's clean you up"

She shook her head and lay as though it was the most natural thing to do. To lie on her back, on a walking track early in the morning. After a few minutes of coaxing and cajoling she reluctantly allowed to be helped to her feet and made to sit on a bench nearby. But that lost look stayed scanning the faces like a child searching for the parent. While the others dusted her t-shirt and sweat pants, she turned around, looked over her shoulders, craned her this way and that way. She was desperately searching.
" What do you want?"
" Do you want some water?"
She shook her head.

" Are you looking for Vikram?"

" Where is he..." she said weakly.

" He should be here, don't worry" a brisk walker said. 

" Will someone please call Vikram?" a lady suggested.
Now everyone joined in the lookout for Vikram turning their heads around to see if they could spot him.

" There he is! Vikram! Vikram!"
Two more voices joined in summoning him.

Vikram had just entered the park and had continued his last lap. His machine confirmed another five kilometers for the day as he walked up to the group. 

" Vikram, please take her home...she doesn't seem to be well..."
" She fell suddenly while taking her walk"
She clutched onto his arm frightened as though he was the last hope.
 Vikram held her hand tenderly and led her out of the park taking slower steps, wiping away the sweat on his sleeves. The group dispersed and went back to their lives.

   The amaltas trees were in full bloom now spreading a golden hue in the fringes of the park. The women still strolled and lamented about their daughters-in-law. The men continued with their animated discussions under the kikar tree. The focussed ones counted the number of laps completed. It has been quite a few weeks now but the spots by the grassy mound are now occupied by new faces bending and stretching to touch their toes. 

  

A Wait In the Salon

                               
                                                           Courtesy Google Image

     I waited patiently for someone to attend to my scraggly hair that was growing independently in every perceivable direction. It was quite an enjoyable wait though, observing the hair being streaked, lips contorting to accommodate the thread neatly plucking out those abominable little hair growing in the wrong places. What business does cilia  have on the upper lips? The look of bliss as another surrendered the feet in the warm soapy water to be cleaned, caressed and plumped up. Tired housewives looking for minutes of succour before the brats of all sizes barged back through the front doors. Stressed out working women probably making the most of a day off. Everyone looked relaxed except the aproned, nimble fingered girls working behind the chairs.The air conditioner hummed discreetly along with the soothing music being played. A faint squeak of the front door gently whispered the entry of another customer. A young bright eyed  mother walked in with a chubby and cute eight year old. The mistress of the parlour turned her chemical blond head from a hair styling she was attending to. With a smile plastered on her face she cooed, "Oh! After such a long time! So, how was your trip?" 

   

" Oh! It was good you know!" the shrill voice of the mother sang along.

" Where did you go? Thailand? " asked the mistress of the parlour taking a few seconds off her work.
" No! No! We went to Kathmandu this time."
" Ya, I have also been to Kathmandu so many times. It is always nice. Did you manage to go to the Temple?" asked the mistress looking over her rimless specs. Her tattooed arms moved expertly over the young girl's hair, snipping away a bit of hair here and there, and gesturing to one of the trainees to offer a glass of water to the young mother and the child, all at the same time.
" The trip was good and we had a good darshan at the Temple. It was only the return that was exasperating!" exclaimed the young mother in a snug pair of jeans and t-shirt, both a size too small. A thick gold chain slung around the neck was clamouring for attention. She tossed her hair back
 
  A raised eyebrow over green shaded eye lids of the mistress was all the cue she needed to spill the words that she was dying to blurt.
" You know how they are at the immigration. 'Are you bringing back any gold?' 'Please, declare any gold.' Oof! There was no respite! Did we look like smugglers or what?" the young mother declared and looked around carefully without seeming to look around, to see the effect.
 The air conditioner hummed on. The other customers were deeply buried in some old issues of the Stardust or Femina. Some had their ear plugs on. A tattoo machine was inking a rose on a supple arm.  I looked out of the floor length window at the traffic jostling by quietly, enjoying every bit of the conversation.
The young mother continued in a voice one notch higher, " I don't have to bring gold from Kathmandu. I have enough here and no place to keep. Pinky! Stop fidgeting with the dryer and jumping around!" she admonished her child who was looking for something to keep her occupied. And Pinky gave one long mournful look to her mother before going through a door to explore the room beyond. Stretched out on two of the beds were  ladies in their forties and sixties, eyes weighed down with cucumber slices over cotton swabs and faces masked in a ghostly greenish layer, in a desperate bid to bring back the glow of the yesteryears.

"... If I have to buy gold I will bring it from Dubai during that Dubai Shopping festival" the young mother continued her supposed indignant conversation with the immigration officials whom she had left behind at the Nepal border a month back.
" Hmmm, the next time  wear an imitation chain while going to Dubai and wear the real one on your return. That way they will not say anything" suggested the green lidded mistress. " So, what will you get done today?" she finally asked getting down to business.
" Oh! Today let it be only a hair wash and a body polish and massage. It is so difficult to wash and manage the hair at home. People do lose weight with the massage, don't they?" queried the young mother.
" Oh yes, they do! Only you have to be regular with it. If you stop in between, it all comes back, you know!" said the mistress taking a long hard look at the young mother, over her rimless specs, before going back to the last few strokes of blow drying the newly stylised hair.

 The young mother settled herself into a plush chair  next to the floor length window with an old issue of Women's Era. Pulling down her T shirt that kept riding up and stretching out her legs in the too tight jeans she called out " Pinky! Pinky!! Come and let aunty wash your hair and give you a massage!"

    

By The Window

                                                                                                                  

          The  afternoon sun filtered through  the neem tree  that grew by the window and sidled into her room. Little particles floated in the beam tossing about in the warm space. I often saw her sitting on the chair in front of the  brand new mirror that was pushed against the wall next to the window. The dancing leaves flitted across her face.  I caught her many a times looking forlornly out of the  window. Despair seeking a sliver of hope. Everyday reflected the same story. No changes. Except maybe, the intensity. There were days when she looked drained out. Spent with pain. I watched her helplessly  from the other side.  And then again there were days, when I thought she would end it all one day. Release herself from the drudgery.

          There were days also when she did not come by the window. And when she did after the absence, it might as well have been the dark moonless, starless night. But it was always at this time that she came. Late in the afternoon, when the rest of the house retired for a siesta. This was her only time. It was funny how one lay claim to something as elusive as time. Milch time, dung cake time, cooking time, cleaning time, vomit cleaning time, in-laws time, beating time, untouchable time, lying silently time while the job was being done... savagely...

          Every day was the same. Only the earth continued to move as people went about their daily lives. Nights changed to days and back to nights in a never ending cycle. Relentless summers changed to the mild autumn, cool winters and the colourful boisterous spring. And one day,  she sat in her place by the window, in the tell- tale white sari with a blank ebony forehead. Like a blank slate. The despair had given way to a calm. A calm that descends when the storm has passed. And this was where I saw the changes that take place in a life. Little printed floral patterns took up the white canvas of her sari. The patterns became bolder with passing days. Colours crept in to fill up the gaps within the patterns. A hint of a smile now lurked around her lips. The dark eyes shone with a zeal.

          One morning she sat on her chair, looking out at the chirping birds and rustling leaves. Suddenly a voice called out," Arrey! You are not late? The school bell will ring in five minutes! "
"Coming, Maji!" she jolted out of her reverie casting one last glance at the mirror before grabbing her bag. I smiled  at the happy stranger that beamed back.




This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.

         

          

Behind the Lines

 


                                            



                                                       
                                    
                                           Courtesy   www.rediff.com



  Straddling little Seep on her hips she walked down the road, pushing  the perambulator laden with the monthly grocery. The street lamps lighted up the path ahead while throwing everything else into the shadows. There weren't  many people out now. She wished she had asked one of her friends along. Seep was getting heavier and it was getting difficult to push the grocery too. She paused on the roadside and let Seep down who instinctively clutched on to her mother's knees and buried her face in the soft familiarity of the clothes. Tousling the little one's head she rested for a few minutes before hoisting her on to her hips again. The sooner they got home the better.

   Home. It was a little over two months since they had shifted to Ranchi from Leh and settled down quickly. however these days when the shadows grew longer, their home became a stranger.The cheerful sunshine streaming through the windows left behind cold frames at dusk. Each room was an empty space bound by the indifferent walls. It was strange how the homes  turned into huge voids swallowing everything that gave comfort. She latched the gate behind her and sat Seep on the platform around the frangipani  tree. She then pulled the pram up the steps and unlocking the door pushed it inside. She sat down with Seep inhaling the sweet fragrance of the white blossoms. They sat there for a while. She reluctant to go in and Seep happy anywhere as long as she was with her mother. In each of those homes across her's, only a couple of lights were on. Behind those hesitantly closed doors were women and children, putting up brave fronts only to shed tears under the quilts and wet one side of the pillows unknown to each other. Little  Shreyan, across the street, had kept his father's photograph under his pillow kissing him a teary 'good night'.  She swallowed her own lump in the throat and pulled her daughter closer crooning to her, more to comfort her own self than to cuddle her child.

    It was getting late and soon it would be Seep's bedtime. She hurried inside to get the dinner for both of them on a plate. That's what her dinner was mostly after her daughter was done. The left overs. She was never hungry now.
     " Mama, story!" demanded Seep rolling onto her side as they both lay in bed.
She pulled out a Ladybird book from the bedside table. Seep listened to the oft repeated story and finally fell asleep lulled by her mother's voice. As for her, she could barely sleep.

       The last one week she had been waking up from her light sleep in the dead of the night, listening to the convoy of loaded trucks emptying the cantonment. One after the other, the one tonnes, the two tonnes, the hired Ashoka Leyland with posters stuck on the windshield " On Army Duty",  rumbled past  with the men and the machines. Each rumbling truck came in faintly, then roared louder  before fading away as they drove past the houses. And with every rumble, fear clutched her heart. She sent out a prayer with each of the rumbles to all the men. Everyday the vehicles would assemble in the open ground with the men methodically loading it up and every night they would move out in a long never ending stream...thirtynine ...forty...forty one...with one of them carrying the red cross flag and another with the fluttering religious flag.

    With the first ray of the sun peeping into the cantonment, she was up and mechanically went about her chores. Warming the milk, keeping the dal to boil, kneading the flour for the rotis, soaking the clothes for the maid to come and wash. And all the while her eyes were at the gate waiting to catch a glimpse of the rolled newspaper tucked into the latch. The moment she saw it, she rushed down the steps and snatched it out. Did she miss anything on the TV last evening or the late night radio news? With trembling hands she opened the paper and spread it on the floor  scouring it with every cell of her being concentrating on the black prints.
         
 She was rudely interrupted by the phone ringing shrilly. Her heart lurched at the ominous ring.
    " Hi! Hope you remember the lunch potluck at my place today!" said Megha whose house was a lane behind her's.
 " Of course! I am bringing over the dal"  she said sounding relieved.
" No, just come over. Rashmi is getting the dal. You relax, you have got little Seep to keep your hands full."
" No, no please! Isn't it Akhil's birthday too? I'll get some noodles for the kids. They will love it " she offered.
" Umm ... okay! Rama is baking a cake, so okay, I guess we will have a nice birthday lunch after all."
Megha hung up after a few minutes.

    She cooled the dal and kept it  in the refrigerator for another day. She had actually forgotten about the lunch get together. She brought out the noodles packs and the vegetables now. The cooking would be  finished before Seep woke up. She finished her chores before settling down with the newspaper once again scanning the pages for any updates on the battle ready front. The fate of thousands  of those in uniform waited for the green signal at the borders.

    He had promised her he would come back, avoiding her eyes and kissing Seep before getting into the waiting Gypsy. The entire night the men were out loading, supervising, checking stocks and getting things in order. The women were busy packing the uniforms, the shoes and the boots and all the other things their men would need. The cantonment did not sleep that night.  She had stood there by the purring Gypsy with little Seep sleeping in her arms. It would not do to get silly and emotional now, she had reminded herself. Movies are different. This was real life. She had to think of the driver too. He was also leaving his family behind. She made a note to look up the families of her Flight as the vehicle pulled  out of the gate into the darkness of the wee hours. Minutes later, with the first ray of light, she had heard the choppers take off one by one thundering over the cantonment at the break of dawn, rattling the window panes as they flew away. She had counted each one of them till the sun crept in with a deathly silence.

 The phone ringing brought her back. It must be Megha again she thought.
" Have you heard?"
It was Ragini. She felt numbness inch up. Her hands and feet  were turning cold.
" No, what?..." she heard her voice escaping the constricted throat.
" A chopper crashed in Leh and...it was fatal."
" Who..were in it?..." she managed.
" Major Ganesh and Captain Roy..."
Her stomach turned and her knees wobbled. She felt something building deep inside her and rising threateningly to erupt into hot streams.
" I'll call you back..." is all she could muster before she put back the receiver and collapsed on the floor as her knees gave away. All the fears of weeks, days, hours and seconds smothered and buried deep inside burst out from every part of her. She found herself gasping in the flood of tears howling unashamedly. She clutched her head leaning back on the bed. She pulled bewildered Seep to her, woken up by her mother's wails. They hugged each other and cried for what seemed like ages.
 
     The clock by the bedside ticked away. She slowly came back to her senses. She released Seep from her grip and kissed her on the forehead. Wiping her face she sent up a prayer for both the unfortunate families to give them strength and courage. Captain Roy was the father of a  month old girl. He had just replaced her husband two  months back in one of the Leh Squadrons. .. What if it was...

 

   

" See see, Imli!"

                                           


                                                   
                                                          

                                              

                                                                     courtesy wikicommons

         " See, see, Imli!" pointed Roma hesitantly to the tamarind tree. The other girl looked up from her heap of stones which she had collected to aim at the tamarinds hanging from the branches far beyond their reach. The ones nearest to the ground were already gone. It was one of the many trees that dotted the perimeter of the school's playground. Those tamarinds have always enticed the children, peeking through the swaying pinnate leaves. Raw green ones, to half ripe ones with their yellowing insides or the brown hollowed ripe ones with the sweet and tangy pulp. No amount of warnings during the morning assembly could ever deter the children. The mere vision of it was enough to send them into salivating raptures. It was this power of tamarinds that made Roma cry out,

    " See, see, imli!"   

    " You wantah ?" the other girl made signs like she was talking to someone mute.

    " Yes..." Roma managed nodding shyly.

   This was the first time Roma was attempting a conversation in her new school. She hated it here. She hated it when the sun rose with the sounds of water sprinkled on the courtyard of the ground floor apartment. Someone swept with the broom making an unnerving scratchy sound on the wet earth. But she liked to watch the white kolam being designed out of dots and criss-crossing lines and curves. She often stood fascinated at her window  watching the maid downstairs make elaborate ones with complicated twists and turns of the white powder. 

   " Malli poo, malli poo!" cried the flower seller every morning carrying a basket of spirally heaped fragrant jasmine flowers. Roma had seen these strands adorn every girl or woman's hair here. Well! She liked those and she liked the kolam. That was about all she liked in this new place. She hated going to school and she hated sitting in her class. She always had this impulse to run back home to her mother when she saw the green PTC 47B approaching the bus stand. She listened hard to understand what her classmates were speaking. Roma pretended not to hear their questions and when she could no longer avoid them, she answered in monosyllables. They spoke only in an English that sounded strange and Tamil. No Hindi. She was frustrated for she could speak only in Hindi and Assamese. Where she came from, these were the only languages spoken in school and every where around her. It didn't help that her curious classmates asked," Are you from China? Is Assam in China?"  Didn't they ever see a map of India? She felt alienated. With schools invariably shut down half the year in Assam, she realised she was at the bottom of the class in her new school. The bandhs, the class boycotts which they eagerly looked forward to then, had only made matters worse. She was shocked to hear her father say, " You'll have to attend Remedial  classes after school till your final exams. Your teacher suggested this."

" I am not a dumb student!" 

" No, you are not. But you have missed out on a lot. Here the students have almost completed their syllabus."

" I will not go for Remedial classes! I will not stay in that school more than I have to! I will not sit with the dull students, I will not..." she choked her eyes brimming with tears. She had always been near the top of her class. What was this new place doing to her? 

      Roma was bewildered, sad and lonely. She longed for the open clean air of Nazira. The beautiful little colony with the British bungalows, the bamboo grove, the river that flowed by the Club with the soft flowering reed grass in clusters. She longed to rush out with her friends in the evening to play; she loved the thrill of going for rehearsals for the functions that kept springing up every now and then. Why the other day, they were on stage, lustily belting out the " Do Re Mi..." that Borthakur uncle had translated into Assamese. Roma was given the high pitched "Dha Ni Ni..." in a segment of the song. What fun!

   She now lay on her bed looking out of the window of their two bedroom flat holding up the maths notebook in her hands. From the corner of the eye, she saw the clock ticking away, the hands approaching the dreaded hour of 7.30. Her time to take bath before going to school.She suddenly developed stomach cramps.She could feel  a hollowness in her chest and her stomach churning and tying up in knots.

  " Ma, my stomach is feeling weird!"
  "Weird? Where? Show me" said her mother placing her ironed uniform on the bed.
   " It's paining everywhere."
  Her mother looked at her thoughtfully.
   "Drink some water, you should be okay."
   "I can't go to school today, Ma."
   " But you have a maths test, don't you?"
Roma turned her face towards the wall. Silent tears seeped out of the corner of her eyes and rolled over the bridge of her nose, creeping into her ears.
   " I can't go to school. I don't want to go to school. I hate it here. I don't like the school....I have no friends....I have no friends...I don't understand what they say..." she sobbed rubbing her eyes with the back of her hands. Her mother looked at her and then at the doorway where her father stood with a towel over his shoulders and half lather cheeks, holding a shaving brush in his hand.
   "Get her ready. I'll drop her at school today and have a word with the teacher."


      Few weeks later, Roma sat in her after school public speaking class. She was comfortable here. All the students, like her, were not familiar with English as a spoken language. She was not afraid of making mistakes here. In fact her instructors encouraged them to make the mistakes!They recorded their speech and made them listen to the replays over headphones.She enjoyed these sessions. She felt herself loosening up gradually. Her class teacher was happy with her progress. In her final exams, she was back, not at the top but near the top of her class. The other day, after her little talk in the house assembly, which her speaking instructor insisted on, the Shivaji house captain had asked her to join the sub-junior inter house speech competition! Roma's face shone with excitement.
    " You think I can do it?"
    " You'll never know till you have tried, Roma" smiled her captain " Let me know when you are ready so we can have a few practices."


     Few years later, Roma eased her bicycle down the steps of their ground floor flat's  verandah, careful not to disturb the beautiful white kolam  that gleamed in the morning sun against the clean wet ground .
  " Romba azhaga irkuh, amma" she beamed at their maid who was gathering the broom, the bucket and the kolam powder tin.
Roma straddled her blue Hero bicycle, bought with her scholarship money, when paathi, Jyoti's grandmother called out,
" Roma, inda poo catch panna! Un venile potako!" Roma caught the jasmine strand dropped from the second floor, a ritual before she left for school. Deftly lifting a strand just above her braid, she inserted the flowers leaving it dangling on either sides of  it.
 " Nandri, paathi! Bye!"
Just then, Tripathi aunty came rushing to her fourth floor balcony.
 " Roma, come over in the evening. I'll make you some papdi chaat and plus a new maid is coming."
Roma grinned waving at both the women as she pushed her bicycle forward. Tripathi aunty, just a few months old in Madras, had trouble with the language. She was communicating mostly in sign language similar to the Sunday afternoon sign News on Doordarshan. Feeling the breeze caressing her face, Roma turned left to reach the main road, bustling with the morning school and office traffic.



 
      

A Loan Repaid

    I first met Zaheer at Motiram's garage where he often whiled away his time. He was unemployed like many other youths then. He helped me to get a chicken that I was desperately looking for, as we were expecting guests for lunch.

           Nazira, a sleepy nook in the late seventies, was grappling with the requirements of the oil personnel who were posted here from diverse Indian regions. Earlier it was a content little town evolving from the many tea gardens that surrounded it. With the discovery of  oil-fields around it, it was only natural for the ONGC to set up a colony here. 
          The means of meeting the household needs were the  co-operative store just outside the colony gates and other small kiosks. In the evenings, a “haat” sprung up selling local produce of vegetables, fruits, fish, poultry and eggs. The vendors’ cries mingled with the smell of kerosene flames as the people peered at the wares and poked the fish to check for freshness. This was the only time and place to stock up. That should explain my desperation when I met Zaheer. For it is sacrilegious to offer a meal to guests without the fish and the meat in any self respecting Assamese household.

 

            Assam  was in a turmoil with discontent brewing like a bubbling cauldron. The Student’s Agitation was gaining momentum. The youth across the state were swept away in its currents like the Brahmaputra ruthlessly eroded chunks of land when in spate.  To them the out-siders were exploiters looting away the resources of the place while the locals were left penniless.

     I met him outside  our colony gate one evening.

“Hello Zaheer! How’s everything? ”

He came up to me with an embarrassed look and gazed straight at me, “Can you help me to get a job, dada?” I was taken aback.

“Why a job? Why don’t you do something on your own?”

“Dada, I don’t have the money to start on my own and I cannot ask abba."

        I discussed Zaheer with my wife Moni. He seemed a nice lad to me. There was something latent in him, restless with caged energy.

“Why don’t we help him?” said Moni quietly, “ I've some savings, you know.”  I called him the next day.

“My wife and I thought about it, Zaheer. If you are serious about it, we will give you a loan of fifteen hundred rupees which is my wife’s savings actually. You can repay us once you make headway.”

    He was speechless. “You could start with a bakery since there isn't one here. Things like bread, cakes, biscuits…There would be a demand for them in the colony” said I.

Zaheer’s face lighted up as he saw the idea taking shape.

“ I've a friend who has a bakery in Sibsagar. You could begin by sourcing  the products from there” I said.

“Yes, I can tie up to get the stuff by the early morning State Transport bus,” said Zaheer his eyes shining.

    And so began Zaheer’s shop T-fin. Every morning his wares would arrive in a black tin box by the first bus from Sibsagar. Initially these barely managed to cover the shelves that his carpenter friend made. Breads, biscuits, puffs were suddenly available in Nazira. People started trickling in, first out of curiosity and then out of habit.

   

  After a long tenure at Nazira  I was posted to Madras, now renamed Chennai.   

   The next time I met him was during our home town visit when he came to take us to Nazira. 
    "Zaheer, you have done well for yourself" I said.
"Allah has been kind, dada!" said he.
 I saw a T-fin, all spruced up and swanky being handled by Bulbul, his brother.  Next to it was an electronics showroom flaunting gadgets from small transistors to televisions. 

"But I have had my moments of doubts as well" said he with a smile. 
"I took up a job with the Accounts department in ONGC for a couple of years leaving the bakery with a manager, thinking of a secured future."
This was news to me. 
"And now you are back to business again. Why?"
" You know I had five sisters to be educated and married off. I needed money fast and the salary was not enough for this. When I finally decided to leave the job everyone thought I was mad. They dissuaded me, counselled me...But I knew what I wanted and how to get it. No, the salary was not going to tide me over. " Zaheer laughed. We were sitting in his office room catching up after a long time.  
  

     After leaving the job he plunged into business building up from what he had. Zaheer, I learnt, had forayed into construction business soon after.  He built a reputation for himself for his quality of work and soon it was flourishing. 
Assam in 1990s had a parallel murky goings-on with the surrendered militants of ULFA demanding a fees for applying for tenders. And once you got the tender they were expected to be given a commission. This was eating into the business man's profit. 

"In such a situation, the quality of work would have to be compromised for I couldn't work on a loss. I spent many sleepless nights. My reputation was at stake. That was when I decided to give it up. I gave up my flourishing business of construction. It was tough but there was no other way" said Zaheer with a grimace. Just then the phone rang. Zaheer excused himself to attend it.
   
    Right from the beginning it has been a constant struggle. But Zaheer was a fighter.
I looked out of his office at the showroom. He had a couple of more branches. It was bristling with customers and salesmen.
"Your showrooms are also doing well" I said when he looked around from his call.
" Dada, I've realised that it is better to change route once you hit a dead end. So when I see a particular venture not doing well or not giving the expected returns, I start something different" said Zaheer, "something that I believe I can give my best to. Come dada, lets go for lunch. Manju is waiting for us."

      A young lad who was once scouring for employment now fed many homes. A reputed businessman, Zaheer never forgot his own humble beginnings. At a time when his contemporaries were fumbling to find their bearings, Zaheer realised his calling.  

      Every time I went back to Nazira, I saw him grow. He had long paid me back the loan. What I witnessed now was the interest.  I couldn’t have asked for a better repayment.




I wish to get my story published in Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul in association with BlogAdda.com

          

Changing Course

"I think it's time to change course."

The room went quiet with the weight of uncertainty bearing down heavily on the two people present - the husband and the wife.

 "We cannot continue with our dream if we always have to wait for others to provide us with the means", said Manoj quietly.

"That needs money...We will spend our entire life paying off the loan," reasoned Sabina.

"At least we will have something to work on. All those with whom we have liaised so far, are getting their own boats for the surveys. Very soon we will be left high and dry."

   Guwahati was warm and humid with sudden downpours of the monsoon rains. I sipped the glass of chilled drink sitting on the deck of Alfresco. The wide Brahmaputra, swollen with the waters fed from the hills, lapped against the hull of the boat. Today is the inaugural of Alfresco, Sabina and Manoj's first baby, taking the plunge into tourism. Sabina and I sat a little away from the invited guests, trying to catch a quiet moment. In the last ten years that I've known her, she’s always been chirpy and full of sunshine.  

    “Here, by the river every problem is dwarfed. I feel there is nothing that we cannot take on. These last few months that we spent over hauling the boat, I've been intrigued by it. The amount of trash that it tolerates, our efforts to tame it and yet it moves on" she said trying to tuck in her windswept hair 

    As the boat glided over the brown waters, all the guests soaked in the moment. Gradually the chatter died down and the only sounds were the drone of the engine and the whistling wind.

     Months rolled by. I got married and moved out with my husband. I was sporadically in touch with Sabina. From friends back home, I knew that Alfresco was doing well.

    The next time I went to Guwahati for a vacation, I got a call from Momy, " Lets meet at Alfresco this evening." I loved the idea but wasn't too sure, "You know Ma, Momy. We are here just for a week and she's very possessive about the time spent with her."

 ”I’ll speak to Aunty. As it is we don't get to meet you every day" Mommy insisted. Fortunately my mother agreed and I was excited at the thought of meeting my friends. Secretly I wished to flaunt the Alfresco and the enterprising duo in front of my husband.

  We reached the site where the Alfresco was anchored, well in time for the sun-set cruise. We were delighted meeting after such a long time.

   "How did you manage to get her out Momy?" laughed Sabina. You won't believe the promises I made to aunty!" said Momy rolling her eyes, "I promised to call her up every weekend, visit her once at least every two months and she promised me two bottles of her pickles".

      Our chatter seemed a series of disjointed observations, and memories while our husbands endured patiently with sheepish grins.  And all this while, Sabina left us at intervals- sometimes to check on the operations, at times to inquire after the other guests on the cruise. I watched her slip into her many roles seamlessly - the mistress of the ship, the host, the friend... The hour long cruise ended too soon for my liking. We stayed on as the other guests trickled out reluctantly.

 "Come here I want to show you something," said Sabina with a toss of her head. She led us down the stairs to the other side of the boat.

 "What do you think of our new addition!" she asked with a smile. Another boat lay bobbing. The three of us trooped into Agam, treading over the gangway that was thrown across. The interiors were warm with cane furniture adding to the rustic beauty. The canopied upper deck was done up to accommodate parties and events. As we wandered around, Pradip, an old hand with Alfresco came in to announce dinner.

    "So, how is your family Pradip?" I asked him ambling as Sabina hurried off.

   "They are both doing well, baidew”smiled Pradip and followed Sabina. Momy let me into an incident.

 “His wife was due for delivery. It was late at night when she developed a sudden pain. You know how difficult it is to get a transport in Guwahati after eight in the evening. Manoj was not around, Sabina somehow managed to get an auto and took them to the hospital just in time. She managed to find a doctor also. Their baby was saved.”
" You know, I've noticed they are good with their employees and they in turn understand this" continued Momy.

   The river flowed on relentlessly in every season. In the monsoons, it gushed recklessly threatening to breach embankments, slashing away huge chunks of land and was always in  spate. During this time Sabina and Manoj  conducted local hour long cruises. When the fury died down  after a couple of months, they had  long distance cruises to Kaziranga National Park and Majuli, the river island and the Assamese spiritual hub, giving a glimpse of tea gardens and villages on the way. This was their elixir - navigating with a crew that knew the river like the back of their hands; respecting the river's ways and blending with it. During the winters when the water is low exposing sandbars, day long picnics or over- night outings are arranged under the starry sky.

   

   Once when I was in Delhi, Momy called up to say Manoj had to undergo a kidney transplant at Coimbatore. I spoke to Sabina, “Have you found a donor?"

   "No, it’s been three months but the doctors are hopeful" she sounded worried.

    "Don't lose heart. It'll work out just fine."

  "I can only hope for the best. I don't want to leave Manoj alone but our work is suffering back there."

  "So, what have you thought of?"

  "Manoj wants me to go back. I'll have to send someone to be with him. It’s going to be difficult but we have no choice." I agreed. Tough times called for difficult choices.

  Later I learnt that Sabina made several trips to Coimbatore till the transplant took place successfully. She trudged on, looking after her home and the ship operations with her family of staff. Manoj was finally back after many months but still weak. He couldn't stay for long hours at work. One evening he was home early taking rest, and Sabina was working from home. The ship was out on a local cruise with a party on-board in full swing.  They got a call late in the evening.
" Dada, there is an emergency! The ship with the Railways party is stuck in the sand in the middle of the river. It cannot move and there is a thick fog around it." 
 Manoj and Sabina immediately rushed to the river bank which was a little distance away. When they reached, they found the passengers already  safe on the shore and the ship being towed in by the rescue team of Inland Water Transport. Harilal, one of their  staff, had already swung into action sending SOS calls to IWT and river police.  Knowing his employer's condition, Harilal went ahead with the rescue operation keeping the passengers' safety and the organisation's reputation  in mind. 
    
      It was with the same sense of belonging and identity that some of Manoj and Sabina's employees refused to join the National Waterways Authority of India when it opened up lucrative opportunities. Although the couple sent many of their boys to join the organisation citing future prospects and job security, some of them refused. Harilal was one of them.
" This is my company also. How can I leave it and join someone else?" said Harilal when Sabina tried reasoning him.

     Two years back I came across some photographs uploaded on the Facebook.  Sabina was seen receiving an award in Bengaluru for a hospitality category. It set me thinking as I was myself staring at a crossroad then. When you truly set your heart and soul on your dream and follow it with a passion, it reveals a treasure at every bend.

     It was last winter, waiting to meet her; I gazed at the bend in the river. How amiably the river accommodated the turns and the twists, the little ferries and the launches on its back. Sabina and Manoj's indigenous Manasputra was homing in. This ship was the biggest and the most suave of them all. With decks on two levels, a restaurant and neatly tucked cabins, it was bustling with guests and smart uniformed crew.

     The last rays of the sun etched the silhouette of the ship. The somber river rocked it playfully. Sabina stood at the far end of the deck looking out at the river… for tomorrow was another journey ...for her and her crew.

    

I wish to get my story published in Chicken Soup for the Indian Entrepreneurs Soul in association with BlogAdda.com