Crisis Angel

                                         



                                                   

                 He was perched on the roof of his half constructed house. The ground floor was the only one that had been inhabited so far. The first and the second wall-less floors above had just the support beams and the roofs. Keeping him company were hundreds of other men, women and children of the neighbourhood. He didn't know exactly how many. After a point he had stopped counting. From where he sat, he could see a mother and a child clinging to each other on a tin roof surrounded by the swirling waters across what was once a road. The tin roof  was all that could be seen of the twelve feet high structure. He looked on helplessly.

           It was a little before the year's Durga Puja festivities. It had been raining incessantly for the past few days. That was nothing new. The sky didn't seem like it was in a mood to relent. He would have to take his car to the local primary health center. He generally preferred walking to his work place or taking the rickshaw. With the rains, it most often got a tad bit difficult to get one. He didn't like to keep his patients waiting, most of whom came from the villages around Dudhnoi. Reversing the car out of the gate onto the road that had ankle deep water, he reached out for the ringing mobile. 

"Doctor saab, where are you? "

"I am on my way. I will be at the hospital in ten minutes. Is it an emergency?" he answered.

"Saar, don't come!" his assistant shouted wildly down the phone, " they are announcing that within an hour the water will drown  Dudhnoi ! Saar, stay at home!"

" Who asked you to drink early in the morning? What's wrong with you?" he thundered back at his assistant.

"Saar, I am not drunk! Listen to me! Go back! "

Getting out of the car he concentrated on the road. On the water. It was more than ankle deep now. It was rising. And fast. He quickly took his car back into the compound and rushed into the house yelling for his wife. His mind was in a spin assessing his sparsely furnished new home. A few phone calls had confirmed his assistant's warning. He rushed around stuffing the important papers and documents in a briefcase, some which seemed to elude his muddled brain.The water had reached his top door step.  Next he tried to pack his medical books, kit and case studies. He stashed his laptop, chargers and other gadgets and dashed them all to the roof of the half constructed first floor  with a polythene sheet trailing behind him. When he came down, the water was playing at his feet. His wife was rushing around to salvage as much as she could . They carried up whatever food they could take and all the medicines they had in the house.  The rains continued to lash in a dance of madness.

      The cloud burst over the Garo hills had washed away  many villages in the furious flash floods. In it's wrath the water was filling up in all places that it spread to. From the first floor, he could see the water submerging half of his ground floor home. And then they came. Wading through the rising water, carrying whatever they could in little bundles. Men, women, young lads, old people looking up at the owners of the house in apology. He beckoned them all in directing them to the stairs. People continued to stream in and soon the first floor was full. The new people who came in now moved to the second floor. People shifted and  sat on their haunches to make space for all. Weary mothers soothing the frightened children. Wisened old people looking on in acceptance, of what fate had in store. Looking down at the rising water, the men were trying to fathom the grim future, now with their homes submerged. All through the night they kept vigil and at the same time  trying to call for rescue. 

    It was in the wee hours of the morning that he saw them from where he was perched. The mother and child clinging to each other on what now looked like a tin float, what was once a roof. It was a matter of minutes  before the hungry water swallowed this island of hope and the two refugees. Just then a rescue dinghy appeared swiftly making it's way towards the duo and pulled them on. Minutes later the tin roof submerged in the water just as his own ground floor home was lapped up. 

     All the people on the two floors above, kept an eye on the water level with  bated breath. If this continued, where were they to go? By a stroke of luck, the water had stopped rising after devouring his ground floor home. There was nothing anyone could do except wait and watch. Gradually some of them were rescued. The swollen waters also relented and gradually  receded after showing it's might. What was left behind was soiled, ravaged homes, scarred people with an uncertain future. And yet they did not forget to thank the doctor and his wife for offering them their home to save their lives and keeping their families intact. Life limped back to a semblance of normalcy as people went about picking up the threads, sorting out their own bewildered thoughts and also what was left of their belongings.

   "You know, I feel blessed despite the losses" the doctor said to his wife as she pulled out her soggy silk mekhela sadors from the bed box.

  "Yes, at least we had space for all those people" she observed tossing away the unusable children's sweaters stowed away from last winters. She couldn't bring herself to discard the tiny pink frock from her daughter's first birthday.

" We have never had a house warming because we didn't believe in it. But I think we could never have had a better house warming than this. All of us together over coming the perilous times and sharing the grief of our losses...They came like angels in the hour of crisis."

This post is inspired by a true incident in the recent Assam Meghalaya flood fury and written for http://incrisisrelief.org. In my recent visit to Assam, I was told of this incident of hope and brotherhood. Wish more stories of #MyCrisisAngel are told.

Game Of Blogs - Siege Saga - Chapter 23

Team Name: Story Weavers
Read the first part of the story here.

Read the previous part here.



      Jennifer knew she would eventually get around Kareem's directives. She just had to get into  the hotel now. This was  payback time for the little goodness that life had shown her. She shut her eyes for a few minutes to steady her heart. It was a decision she would have to live with all through her life. If she survived this madness, that is. There were two results she could foresee. Either Kareem would be sacrificed or both would be sacrificed. In the past few minutes, Jennifer had realised how the promise of heaven had been a lure for promising jihadis. Would Allah, or any God for that matter , ever be happy with this blood bath? Which God would ask for children to be slaughtered ? Which God would demand it's pound of flesh in return for a seat in heaven. She had caught herself pondering  over those words in her college text book. 

         'The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven..',

 Good Lord! Was she nuts? Taking the crutch of the blind poet, Milton, long dead centuries back? Steeling herself with this rediscovered wisdom, Jennifer approached the platoon that was preparing to move in. Suraj indicated Jennifer to join them with a slight tilt of his head. Jennifer knew she would be watched like a hawk from now on. It was going to get extremely difficult to get to convince Kareem and at the same time help the hostages in her own way. A faraway  vision from childhood danced in front of her eyes. She had seen a little girl in a long, frayed cotton skirt balancing her self on a two edged sword...

        She trooped in with the soldiers, ducking and stealthily moving from one point to the other. The moment they were inside the premises, she side stepped towards the fire escape. She slithered up the iron rungs one by one, the metal grating against her bare skin. She had just one thought in mind. To reach Kareem before the troops did. To convince him to give it all up. 5th floor was a long way to go. And the rate at which she was moving seemed like ages. Unknown to her, she was covered by  a squad of soldiers under orders, who followed her from two spirals down. Jennifer was under the delusion that they were sent to keep an eye on her. How was she to get a few minutes with Kareem alone with them following? She had to think of a way fast to give them the slip. She crawled on her fours and opened the door to the third floor. Kareem had mentioned that they had the fourth floor to the eighth floor covered. She very well couldn't walk into the fifth floor with those following and be a witness to the weepy melodrama between Kareem and her. The moment she let herself in, she made a dash for the service room holding her hands over her ears in an act of shutting out the noise. She was in reality allowing herself the lag of few minutes before those soldiers turned up to shake them off. She had to think of the camera in her ear ring too. 

        She hid herself between the aprons, mops and array of other cleaning equipments, holding her breath in the darkness. She could hear the thudding of the boots out in the corridor. She waited for a few more minutes trying to discern footsteps amidst all the din. there was only the staccato of the automatics and reports of the single barrels. Could she take a chance with the service elevator? It was just a few strides down her corridor, built away from the view of hotel guests. She knew Shekhar's men were alerted about her disappearance from the group. But she had to find Kareem. She peeped out of the room. The corridor ran all around the cavernous space that rose up from the reception lobby of the ground floor. Soldiers were stationed around the corridor. She slipped out and gingerly slid along the wall to the service elevator. Thank God for small mercies! She didn't have to wait for the elevator to come up. It was already on the third floor waiting for her with open arms. She slid in and went up to the fifth floor. This was one thing she liked about posh hotels. The noiseless elevators. She loved it even more today! 

     At the fifth floor, the door opened softly. She peeped out. There were more gun shots mostly coming from the floors above and below. Where was Kareem? She couldn't call him unless she wanted all the others to know. The cavernous well of the floors below had solidified into a huge conference hall on this floor that stretched out into a terraced garden outside. This was the space where the hotel organised the huge parties. She had to find him fast! Just then she heard some footsteps and almost whirled around. A large hand clapped over her mouth almost stopping her breath. She struggled to free herself from the tight grip of Kareem's. She would know those hands and skin even if she was blind. He pulled her to the terrace outside. Now they would know where she was. She couldn't hold her hands over her ears without Kareem getting suspicious. 

  " Kareem! Look, don't you think we have had enough of this! We don't have much time" Jennifer said with as much composure as she could muster.

" Ahana, we have no other life now. It's this way or that now," he smiled wryly.
" We can help the Forces to free the hostages and they will be lenient with us," Jennifer tried reasoning.
" And we will live happily ever after in this beautiful world, is it? Where will you hide, Ahana, from 'them'? You know it is not possible!" Kareem barked sarcastically.
" You know it yourself how they hunt the traitors and bleed them to death. Either we die fighting now or live with fear and die brutally eventually" he continued. 
" It is not easy. Who knows it better than us... We could try at least. I've had enough of this cat and mouse game. Enough! I am tired...Don't you see how wrong we have been?" Jennifer tried again. 
" Don't weaken me now, Ahana! You think I haven't thought of it? It's late! Too late! All those hostages on the sixth floor have lived with fear ever since this drama began. Some have been shot while too smart for their own good. And a few oldies have died because their weak hearts couldn't take it. And behind those menacing looks of six of our friends up there, there is fear lurking. Fear of being blown away! The only fanatic idea that keeps them hooked is that damned place in heaven!" raged Kareem.

He turned around to face Jennifer, his Ahana and looked into her eyes for a moment,
" Either we are dead or we are living dead..." he said quietly.

      Shekhar and his men got the information they needed, thought Jennifer. She hoped they got to see the desperation in Kareem's voice too. Just then there was a renewed burst of shooting. Kareem and Jennifer ran and ducked behind the out door bar. 



Read the next part of the story here.

Me and my team are participating in ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com.#CelebrateBlogging with us.”

       

     

                           

Ma Durga In Mekhela

                                                





                                 
                                                        Courtesy Google Images


      

               It is that time of the year when the slant of the sun's rays goes down a few notches.The memories in the mellowing sunshine stir up images of celebrations from childhood. At this time we invariably fall back on the Durga Puja celebrations of the places we grew up in. The little  metallic pistols, the tiny paper cases with red ammunition roll coiled in; the tik tiki that made a clackety sound when pressed between the thumb and the forefinger; the plastic wrist watches where time literally stood still; the array of bangles and beaded necklaces...

                        Decades back, in the 70s, while going to Dibrugarh for the Durga Puja holidays,  we crossed many tea gardens by the highway. The towns and villages came alive with the local Puja fairs. The bright pin wheels, the balloons twisted into animals and flowers, the pretty girls of the tea tribes attired in bright sarees and frocks,  adorned with coloured ribbons giggling along the roads. They were such a delightful sight building up anticipation for what awaited  at the end of the journey. It gave a sense of homecoming to us, the three hour long weary travellers from Nazira. 

                       The moment we entered Khalihamari in Dibrugarh, we were infused with a renewed sense of vigour and pride. Although we tried not to make an ado of the many relatives who dropped in to see how much we had grown, secretly we delighted in the attention. Happy to be in the middle of his kith and kin, my father's dialect changed and took on the drawl characteristic of Khalihamari lingo. While the grown ups were busy exchanging notes and some robust camaraderie, we rushed out through the driveway to take the best possible place near  the gate. It also happened to be an advertisement of our arrival. Nobody was a stranger here. 

"Aren't you Dulu's daughter? When did you come? Let me go and say a hello to him." 

And in they walked. Our interest was, however, on the other side of the road.  Right across the gate was the Khalihamari Puja pandal. It wasn't exactly the grandest one in Dibrugarh but it was unique for many reasons which was revealed over the years. In our growing years, it was the perfect place to strut around since the members of the organizing committee were family. The excitement of the Devi's arrival and her pratishthan reverberated with the dhak beats and the grace of the arati with wafting smoke from  the dhunadani. The nip in the morning air fragrant with the little orange stalked white xewali flowers is synonymous with Durga Puja. Even now in Delhi, the fragrance of the xewali takes me back to Khalihamari. It was the many fashionable new clothes that Puja pandal hopping crowd attired in, that caught our attention. Sitting by the gate with morahs and folding chairs, we scrutinized the crowd turning out in locally tailored copies of their favourite Bollywood stars. If one year it was the Ashiqui style, the next year it was reminiscent of Tridev with the loud accompanying Bollywood music from the pandals adding to the feel. The girls limped braving the  bite from the new sandals chaperoned by the matrons in starched new saris. 

       

                        As I look back now, I notice a unique feature of the Khalihamari Puja. And on further query it is affirmed that I am not mistaken. Khalihamari Durga Puja that started in 1947, claims to have been  the only one, where Ma Durga was seen vanquishing Mahishasura, attired in either Muga mekhela and riha or muga mekhela sador. Flanking her were Ganesha and Kartik in dhuti and muga or paat (Assam silk) kurta with gamusas. Now of course, there are many pandals where the Devi has shown a penchant for the Assamese mekhela sador in place of her usual  brightly coloured embellished sari. Nobody remembers who thought of it in the late 1950s but the tradition stayed on and also spread to other Puja pandals much later. At present I believe, there are atleast four to five such idols in Dibrugarh alone.  Back then it came as a surprise for the Bengali people of Dibrugarh drawing them to Khalihamari to pay their obeisance to the mekhela -pora -Ma ( mekhela attired Ma).  

                  You may ask what  is the big deal about it? It is the same as seeing Jesus Christ in a dhoti kurta and Lord Muruga in shalwar. The big deal is  when some festivals go beyond religion to embrace a community and share it's identity. Here in Khalihamari, the residents are mostly followers of Srimonto Sankardev who was a Vaishnavite saint. But when it came to celebrations, religious leanings were not the yardstick. Or maybe it was the other way round. To accept and assimilate the 'different ', it was essential to lend it a familiarity. It could  have been an offshoot of the political turmoil simmering with the Language Agitation when most Assamese scoffed at Bengali affiliations. But then Devi Puja was not a novelty in the land of Kamakhya temple.  Only, the Brahmin stronghold had dwindled with Srimonto Sankardev's ideologies sweeping the state veering off many from the exploitative  clutches of the priest class.

       Or maybe I read too much between the lines. In this case, reading too much between the folds of the garment.  The reason behind mekhela-pora-Ma  of Khalihamari could also have been a bright spark of a brain storming session to figure out a way to hold the Puja innovatively.  Through the generations now, the ladies of Khalihamari, clad in mekhela sadors seek 'their' Ma's blessings. That we have a mekhela wearing Durga shouldn't come as a surprise when the Sikhs of Morigaon celebrate Bihu with pithas and the Guru Parav with equal élan. After all, don't they say, that happiness doubles when you share it? On this day of Shashthi, as I key in my musings, Ma Durga takes her place on the pedestal in Khalihamari,  resplendent in her mekhela sador while Ganesha and Kartik look on with gamusas adorning their shoulder.

                     

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.

         

          

Game Of Blogs - Part 14- Unfolding

Team Name: Story Weavers
Read the first part of the story here.

Read the previous part here

                                                  

             The events did not quite unfold as planned. Or did it? Jennifer kept close to Tara for more than one reason. The attack at the New Delhi railway station was foiled. Thankfully. Ever since she could remember, all of Jennifer's actions were propelled by her staking her claim for survival. Even if it meant selling her soul to Ibrahim Rehman. Being beautiful and alone in the world attracted all the wolves. Even those in the sheep's skin. By the time she had the world figured out, Jennifer had none less than Ibrahim Rehman as her mentor. It was in the orphanage that she had met him first. It was the feeder for all the jihadis in the making. There were many such centers from where the terrorist organisations recruited. Only the brightest and the most lonely were marked for training. Jennifer was then sent to a college to live a dual life. They were to lie low till the clarion call came to prove their worth. 

         She had been a part  of the outfit ever since. And Ibrahim Rehman was her abba. For that matter, he was every orphan's abba. It was strange that this abba managed to keep the identities of his children to himself. For how could one explain that Jennifer never had an inkling of Kareem being a full fledged terrorist! To think that she was so close to him! She thought she knew him like the back of her hand. Technically, she was also one. But at least she didn't go around spraying people with bullets. Being trained as one and actually being one, there was a difference. The difference was in the   first  pull of the trigger. Coming  face to face with Kareem by that yanked door was a shock to her. And Tara. Could she make Tara her sacrificial lamb for the assured ticket to heaven? Tara had introduced her to a world, she never knew existed. A world where people bonded, loved and lived without Machiavellian designs. Despite her indoctrination, she was drawn to this warmth. She remembered the couple of diwalis and christmas celebrated with her family.  She had almost forgotten what it was like to be in a family. It was like the butterfly in her tattoo had come alive drinking in from the colours around. Tara had literally dragged her for these occassions, during their college days, refusing to let her stay alone in the hostel. 

    She was torn between the two worlds, a world of ruthless allegiance where the price was death and the other, a world that beckoned with life. And so Ahana, with the pen drive tucked in her pocket sought out Inspector Arjun. There were too many amendments to be made. Just then her phone vibrated. She recognized the number.

           “Ji huzoor. Agar yahaan par kuch gad bad hui toh aap ke pass toh Rani hai. You have the main chess piece in the game, Ahana. Usko apne muththi main jakkad ke rakhiyega. We both know that hamare shattir dost Shekhar koh sabse zyaada dard kaise pahunchaya jaa sakta hai.”

"Who is it, Jenny? Is it your fiance checking on you?" asked Tara without turning her head  from the hotel in her vision line.

"Yeah..." nodded Jennifer thoughtfully keeping her camera trained on the scene in front.  

"You know, you were lucky with Roohi. I still can't get over it that it was her...You should be home with her. She must be shaken..."said Jennifer cautiously. 

"I know how  you feel, Jenny, but she will be fine with my parents. She's safer  there" assured  Tara. 

  Just then a shot rang out.

It was like someone had frozen the entire scenario and captured it in a frame for a second. All hell broke loose. And then there was a volley of bullets from both directions for what seemed like ages.  Glasses erupted in splinters sending out showers of  shards. Columns of the NSG were closing in taking advantage of the confusion. It stopped as suddenly as it had started. There was a sepulchral silence. Tara peeped out from behind their crew van. Inch by inch. They were at a safe distance behind the men in uniform taking position. But the scene in front looked like it was hit by a cyclone. She thought she was dreaming. She heard it again.

    “Mummy. MUMMY!!!Red Riding Hood! RED RIDING HOOD!” 

"What the f...!"  she wheeled around to see two pigtails bobbing over a flurry of a frock running towards the barricaded area. 

Read  the next part here.

“Me and my team are participating in the ‘Game Of Blogs’ at BlogAdda.com.#CelebrateBlogging with us.”

Game of Blogs : Story Weavers (Part 8) - Zeroing In

This post is part of #GameOfBlogs team name 'Story Weavers'. 

You can read the first part of the story here

And the previous part here

                                               

    Tara was besides herself in a frenzied madness. It was like an entire building had collapsed on her head and she lived to witness the destruction and desolation. For all her cool, no-nonsense and crisp facade of a professional, the call from Shekhar, undid the years of building up this image of hers, crumbling down the masks she donned. It was the school that informed Shekhar. His worst fears had come true. And she had been so blaise!  She could afford that luxury despite being a mother of a nine year old, taking comfort in the arrangement that Shekhar worked from home. She could pack and move at a minute's notice because Shekhar was there to look after their precious. But for how long could they insulate Roohi from the harsh world outside? And now... Roohi was thrown into an abyss straight from the cradle...Her little baby... Suddenly Tara found herself drowning in a deluge of mayhem none of which made sense to her. They were no longer detached news to be covered now and walk out with the plumes. This was real. Her Roohi was in the railway station. And she was going to be the sacrificial lamb now. Her Roohi. She rushed to their media van parked outside to catch the footage. The terrorists were intent on making this into a horrific spectacle for all to see. To drive home their terrible potency in pursuit of jihad. 

    Through blurred vision, Tara could see the masked man with a gun pointed at a child out side the station. Roohi, little Roohi. He must have dragged her out to catch the media's attention. After all what was the point of execution if there was no audience to gasp at the terror. He made her the human shield from all the shooters and the snipers. Tara slumped to the floor of the van. From somewhere deep within, a force made it's way up through all the grief and disillusionment, pushing all of them into the periphery. There was not a second to lose now. She tucked the flying strands of her short hair behind her ears and  called up her boss. She asked for a switch explaining the twist in the situation that affected  her. After patiently listening to her forced coherency, he said,

    " Right, Tara! I suggest you reach the station without the paraphernalia, immediately. The crew in the van will handle till Rahul replaces you. And you say your friend Jennifer is inside ...God knows how you managed that... but move now! Flash your card wherever they stop you and call me if you are stuck!"

 " Yessir..."

"... and Tara, take care. Have faith..."

*

Shekhar was hunched over a blueprint of the station in a van outside, refusing to look at the screen that flashed Roohi's scared face. He would never forgive them. Even if he had to hunt each of them to the last corner of the earth. He marked on the blueprint  barking out orders to those around him. This had to have the laser precision of a surgeon. Not an inch here nor another there. He could concentrate on the station now having appraised his superiors  about the two other terrorist attacks on the hotel and the BARC. Other RAW and NSG teams would tackle that. He would not budge from the station. As of now. Suddenly  the officer at the monitor motioned to him,

." Sir, there is a slight movement..."

Shekhar craned into the monitor.

"...there...can you see?...just behind that shutter at the entrance..." he pointed towards the screen at a dark body.

Shekhar noticed it. It was there. Definitely a movement. Someone was trying to inch towards the lunatic. A rush of hope flooded every cell of his being. He spoke into the walkie- talkie, alerting all the men positioned.

" Alpha calling all vectors. A movement  behind the 'bull's eye'. At the slightest hint of surprise he will turn for a fraction of a second. You have only a fraction of a second. Vector 10, you are closest. Move as close as you can and pull the child out. You will have only a few seconds before the others join in. Do not miss!" He kept the walkie - talkie on and prayed Roohi would remember to duck and run behind the lunatic. That was the safest spot. All other directions she would be a sitting duck. He was glued to the screen waiting to bark the minute that angel acted. And then he remembered. He switched the channel of his walkie talkie.

" Black out all media. Now!" 

 And across the country, the horrifying unfolding of events at the New Delhi railway station went blank. 

*

   Jennifer removed her shoes as she went into the hotel. It was such a pity, all those extravagant interiors were reduced to shambles. And to think that the rich always believed themselves to be immune to such carnage. At the end of it all everyone was at the same level. When death stared squarely at you, it didn't matter what your bank balance was or the number of countries you had travelled to or the number of strings you could pull or where the next meal was going to come from. Death was a great level player. Absolutely impartial. Didn't she know? Losing her father before she saw this world and watching her mother give away to cancer, she had toughened up from her childhood. She crawled into adulthood in an orphanage learning the vagaries of the adult world when she should have been playing with barbies. She had learnt the greatest skill of all in there. Like a trained doberman she could smell the routes to survival. 

   She tip toed into the kitchen kissing her butterfly tattoo. Her lucky mascot. It was a replica of a locket her mother wore once. She had to be extremely careful here. This was the first place those fanatics would ransack to refuel. She picked up a paring knife from the counter and tucked it under her belt. It would be difficult to hide a bigger one. Not when she was in her shorts. She could have kicked herself for not wearing her jeans. 

    She moved stealthily towards the door ducking behind the counters. She peeped out  of the glass door. No one was out there. Where had everyone gone? She didn't know the layout of the building. Climbing that spiralling grand staircase would be a dead giveaway with nowhere to hide. There should be a service elevator somewhere. Elevators were a no no. She finally zeroed down to the fire escape. She could hear some one talking now although it was not clear. It was coming from the floor above. Sidling up the iron stairs which took ages for her to reach the first floor, Jennifer stopped at the door. She strained her ears to listen for footsteps or voices. All seemed quiet. She turned the handle down little by little and made a small opening. She peeped in through the sliver of the opening. The coast was clear. Were all those fanatics stupid enough to be in one place? Feeling like the Lord himself over the helpless, whimpering hostages? She moved to the second floor now taking the emergency exit. And here she saw all the hostages pooled into the centre of what looked like a lounge. And around them were six armed masked butchers. Jennifer didn't know how many of them were in the building. Were all the hostages here or was anyone out in one of those rooms without these buggers realising. It was a chance she would have to take. She couldn't tackle these bastards on her own, a la Jhansi ki Rani style. Get your facts right, she reminded herself. You are here to cover this not dive into a major rescue operation and commit harakiri. Thank God, this hotel had just three floors sprawled across a mammoth area. She steadily crept up the stairs amazed at  having survived so far. And just as she reached the door to the third floor it opened leaving her exposed.

     Read the next part here.

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The exams, the clouds and the blue sky

                                                                                    

                                         

                                                              

           Looking wistfully  out of the window at the floating clouds gathering in the blue sky, the Whatsapp ping brought me back gently to the room. Just as I cajoled my nine year old's wandering mind back to her Hindi matras and it's quirky grammar. The joke that was doing the rounds, was for all the mothers whose children were taking the exams for the year. Especially the ones, who were appearing for the first time. 

                    The after effects of exams on a mother. 

                     A woman goes into a restaurant and for the life of her cannot remember  the word                           'menu'.

                     So, she calls the waiter and tells him

                     "Please get me the syllabus of this place..."

                     I had decided earlier on that I would not lose my 'cool' mother status to the frets of an over zealous one. I thought it was made amply clear to both my school going girls that their studies was their responsibility and not mine. That I would not be the one to pounce on their notebooks the moment they arrived from school to check for incomplete and unchecked work. If they were stuck in their understanding of the concepts, they would be helped but not to complete their homework and other such things. That the number of  hours they studied and when they studied,  was their business. If they brought in less  grades it was theirs to face and if they brought in good ones, they would take the credit. 

                    Having drummed my Commandments into their heads on numerous occasions,  I thought I was relatively free from the travails assailing other proxy- student - mothers. I had no intentions of waking up at ungodly hours so they could benefit from the 'freshness' of the divine hour. Nor was the the idea of revisiting the mensuration, algebraic expressions, the golgi bodies in a terrific combo with  the Northern Plains, photosynthesis and four digit multiplication, a particularly alluring situation. That lasted till the exam schedule arrived. Curling up with a novel, my ears strained for the sounds of two reading voices. And if one of them stopped, the third one would pitch in shrilly

        "What are you doing there? Are you finished with the lesson?"

         "No, I went to the washroom."

         "You seem to be doing that a lot more ever since  that schedule arrived..."

         "Arey! What can I do if it comes?"

         Glare. Glares back. Glare again till she slinks back into the study hole. 

Now I plonk myself in their room. With the novel whose protagonist is facing a dire situation compounded by a bleak past.  The  pages of which I am reading repeatedly.  From the corner of my eye, I can see them escaping into their  imaginary world, conversing and smiling at imaginary characters. I let them for a while. And then, they are brought back.

             "Are you done? Can I take a test now?"

         The exams are on. I catch myself looking out of the window more often now. There is a request to wake them up at 4.30 in the morning for a particular exam. So I set the alarm for 4.15 knowing that there would be pleas for 'two minutes more', 'five minutes more'... So dutifully I get up even before the alarm goes off and coax them out of their slumber. They refuse point blank. 

         "I thought you had to study!"

         "No, I want to sleep now..." she slurred and went back to snoring. 

And I walked around the silent house, wide awake, having lost the ability to sleep anytime anywhere with age. The next time the request came in, I gave her the alarm and a piece of my mind with a rejoinder

   "Do not wake me up!"

Why is sleep such a precious commodity especially when the exams are on? I drifted back to my own days when I was caught napping having slid down from a sitting position with a book on my chest. Thank God for the book! My father peeped into the silent room.

"So, you are sleeping, eh?"

Without losing a second from my light sleep and with my eyes still closed, I replied to the distant voice,

"No, I am thinking..."

Taken in by the instant reply without turning a hair (that had even me flummoxed), I was spared from a dressing down. The next time he found me in the same position, he posed,

"So, you thinking again?"

"No. I am sleeping now..." 

This was also around the time when I discovered that I had this ability to sleep with my eyes open. This was also the time when the tufts of clouds bewitched me with their tantalising ever changing shapes, freely floating in the blue sky.

How enigmatic and sweet that elusive sleep was! Especially during the winters when the warm quilt seduced with the promise of a snug siesta as the  gentle afternoon sun streamed in through the window. And those bobbing leaves and the drifting clouds ( yes, those damn clouds again!) lulled one into drowsiness. I could almost write an ode to it!

     "What's there to eat now, Ma? I am hungry."

     And with that I come back to balancing the chemical equations wondering from where those extra molecules appeared on the other side.

       "You just had breakfast an hour back!"

       "So, I am hungry now. And don't give me those oats!"

     From the equations, I go to the kitchen to rummage through the shelves trying to remember hard if I could rustle up something that would not take more than ten minutes. Lesser, if I could help it. That's another added hassle during exams. Dishing out something 'nice' to eat  every one hour that would appeal to the two different sets of taste buds.  

     So, here we are. The three of us looking at the red circled 'last exam date' on the calender, striking off the ones we are done with, with a vengeance. Till then two pairs of eyes look out longingly through the window. And without their knowledge a third pair looks out over their heads, at those drifting clouds across the blue sky...