Fading Mehendi

Mehendi as it fades,

is a sight no pretty.

Same was with her,

as she brought her face down

and cast her vision on her delicate hands.

Yes the mehendi was there,

but no, the mehendi was not.

Just a month ago,

was the dream wedding.

Adorned in her regal costume,

holding the hands of the man she loved,

as they stepped out,

into the glory of the basking sun.

It was then the war broke out,

those enemies attacked their motherland.

The dutiful soldier he was,

he had to report back for duty.

He hugged her

and told her he had to go back.

Back to the frontier,

back to the forefront.

The parting was tough,

but it was inevitable.

The brave face she put up,

was all a façade,

For she was all tears inside.

And it was the day before,

the news reached,

that he was martyred.

That she was no longer

the wife of a brave soldier.

But instead, there she was

the widow of a martyred warrior.

The sun that shone bright

on the day of their union

that sun had gone,

replaced by the wrath

of the untimely monsoons.

The rains quenched the thirst

of the grounds and grass so parched.

As she waited to receive

what precious little of him was left,

the mehendi adorning her hands

was fading into oblivion.

She stood there,

all alone in a savage world.

Not the wife of a brave soldier,

but the widow of a martyred warrior.

Jacob Uncle

As instructed by wife over phone a while ago, when I got down at the bus stop, I crossed the road and made my way to Gopal’s Milma booth to buy a packet of milk. As I approached the booth, I saw an entry under the “Obituary” section of the public board erected by the Gram Panchayat. Curious, I moved in closer to see the person who passed away. Mine was a small village, which, in spite of the urbanization phenomena engulfing the entire country, had retained its village charm to a commendable degree. Everyone was everyone’s acquaintance some way or the other and with that, it made it highly likely that the person who passed away would be someone I knew.

On the board, below the text, there was a black and white photo pasted as well. Human mind has a general affinity to pictorial information over textual information and thus my eyes made their way to the photograph before the short text that preceded it. There was no doubt - the photo was of Jacob uncle. The photo was definitely not contemporary, it was in no way an accurate representation of how Jacob uncle looked over the last few years. Probably the photo was taken from his electoral ID card or something. It showed the Jacob uncle at least a decade and half younger. But there was no mistaking that it was Jacob uncle indeed. The text above mentioned that the death occurred late yesterday night.

I have been seeing Jacob uncle from my childhood. I remember vaguely a young and handsome form of Jacob uncle during my childhood. During those days of bell bottomed pants and hippie culture, Jacob uncle used to was the village hippie. I have heard my mother say that he was the first person to wear a pant in our village. Probably inspired by Amitabh Bachchan and Jayan movies, he used to have a distinctive angry young man flair. Those were the days when the whole village was without any fences. Houses continued one after the other, without being interrupted and gridlocked by fences and no one needed to ask permission to pass through when they were moving from point A to point B in between which were always situated, a few houses.

Jacob uncle lived a few houses down from ours and used to pass through our home en route to the marketplace in the village which was where the bus stop was. If my mother was sitting in the portico, they would greet each other and gossip for a few minutes. I could remember days when I would be woken up from sleep hearing the incessant (what appeared to me to be nonsensical) banter ongoing between these two people who were great talke chatter could range from a variety of topics, almost all of them centered on the universe called my village. Both of them liked each other’s company and there were instances when Jacob uncle ended up missing many a bus because he would squat on our verandah and talk with my mother for hours on, oblivious of the fact that he was just passing through my house and was supposed to be somewhere else by that time.

My mother once told me an incident from Jacob uncle’s childhood where Jacob uncle was with his father who was a lineman with the state electricity board. Once when Jacob uncle’s father was atop a post for repairs, someone accidentally turned the line on and his father was seriously injured by electrocution due to coming in contact with the high voltage line for an instant and fell off the post. Even though he fell on top of a pile of hay which absorbed most of the impact of the fall, the injuries caused by electrocution was extremely severe. Seeing that no one was around, and out of options, Jacob uncle, who was in high school at that time, carried his father to the nearest junction over a kilometer away from where he got a taxi to take him to the hospital. Eventually his father survived and the legend of the son stayed on.

If one were to see Jacob uncle in contemporary times, one would have found it really hard to believe such a story. Over the past half decade or so, the deterioration in his health was unbelievable, to say the least. Especially to someone like me, who had seen uncle when he was at his healthy best from the time when he was in his late twenties onwards. The fact that up until that point a few years ago, he was healthy and active and the sudden deterioration of someone who would be considered much healthy for his age around eight years ago was shockingly painful.

During my school years, it seemed everyone had a role to play in my life. Essentially, my life could never be viewed in isolation, it was a reflection of the life of the village. Like the newspaper guy Pathrose chettan, who used to occasionally give me unsold comics without taking any money. Or the village coconut climber Madhu chettan (so appropriately named because he was also the official drunkard of the village, and, by greatest of coincidences, alcohol is a synonym of the word Madhu in Malayalam) who gave me the first taste of toddy. He used to regularly ask me when I was in school, “Son, are you studying well? If you have to get a good job and live in a big city, you have to study well, only then you will get a good job.” On the day I got my job offer, after informing my parents, he was the first person I broke the news. He beamed with happiness and had wished me luck in my new job. Whenever I came home on leave from work, he used to prepare me a big bottle of fish pickle for me to take back to town. He was not a rich person, in fact he bordered on either side of meeting both ends meet and fluctuated too often than he would have liked. On my own volition, I had set up a job for Jacob uncle’s son Jibin at a workshop near my office as a mechanic. But the grime and dust of vehicular maintenance, couple with his asthmatic conditions meant he ended up quitting the job in town in a little over six months and went back to our village. Jibin did well after going back to or village, he finished a carpentry course from a nearby training institute and quickly became a well sought after carpenter in the vicinity. Jacob uncle was extremely disappointed that Jibin could not hang on to a more stable job in the city but I knew what Jibin had gone through and used to side with Jibin in his decisions. He looked up to me as his elder brother whenever he had to take some important decision and I was only happy to oblige Jibin because I felt I owed Jacob uncle after all these years he cared for me.

Meanwhile, my life was undergoing transformations as well. I married a lovely girl who continues to be my wife, had kids. As my familiar responsibilities moved from my parents towards my wife and kids, my visits to the village reduced in frequency and duration. What used to happen regularly every month and quite frequently more than that, was reduced to quarterly and semi annually. And without realizing, I was also losing touch with my village and the other people around whom my life used to revolve once upon a time, including Jacob uncle. My village changed as well. There were fences separating houses and boards against trespassing appeared. Small kachcha roads, over course of multiple election campaigns and promises, became pukka roads. Not everyone knew everyone else. The fabric was transformed, even if the changes were a reflection of what was happening elsewhere in the state and the country as well.

As my visits to my village became few and farther apart, so proportionately did my encounters with Jacob uncle. Since there was a pukka road from his home to the village square, Jacob uncle never really came to our house as often as he once used to. But still, whenever I met Jacob uncle, there was a lot of warmth and affection. He always used to be keenly interested in my professional and personal lives, and by association, with the lives of my wife and children. I had grown up in the strata to what is called by contemporary socialists as the middle class, but Jacob uncle and his family, weren’t quite there yet. They were still on the fringes. He knew that I was well off but he never asked me money, directly or indirectly. There were occasions when I felt I should help, but I backed away due to the fear that it would affect his pride, and subsequently, the rapport between us.

Someday, during the local pooram at the temple, during a casual conversation, one of my neighbors said to me, “Do you know that Onamkaleikal Jacob? He’s the father of the carpenter Jibin.”

“Of course, I know him quite well.”

“The other day, they diaganozed him with cancer. In his mouth.”

I stood there, shell shocked, unable to respond. He used to chew paan, much like everyone else in the village. If I were to throw a dart in any direction from the middle of my village, in any direction, I can tell you that the probability that it would hit someone who does not chew paan will be minimal. Paan was abundantly prevalent and popular in my village and everyone, men and women included, were regular users of paan. The cancer was probably as a consequence of chewing paan for over half a decade even though no one I knew had got oral cancer prior in my village. Sadly, this could probably be the first time.

The next day I went to Jacob uncle’s house. The house was almost exactly as I remembered from a few years ago. There were changes, the kind you expect with the passage of time, but the feel and essence remained. Jacob uncle wasn’t there, neither was Jibin. Jibin’s wife, a cheerful young woman whom I had known for years was surprised to see me. She told me that Jibin had taken his father to a hospital in the nearby town and weren’t expected before sundown. I had to return that day afternoon so as to start in office from tomorrow. Reluctantly I left, making a note to myself to come back in a couple of weeks and meet Jacob uncle. I missed that deadline, as I procrastinated. It was two months after the pooram in the village temple, the first time I learnt of Jacob uncle’s illness that I was able to visit my village again.

As I got down from the bus, I made my way to Kumaran’s tea stall, the focal point of the village news and gossips, just adjacent to Gopal’s Milma booth. There among a lot of familiar faces, I saw a lean figure, with a white towel over his head, sipping tea in a style that reminded me of someone. I took a careful look. It was Jacob uncle. Suffice to say that fter all these years of knowing him, I had to look astutely to actually make out that it was indeed Jacob uncle I was looking at. As if understanding my predicament, he smiled weakly. With the oral cancer inflicting a heavy toll on him, the smile was not pretty, but it was heart warming. “Coming from town?”, he asked me. I replied yes. Both of us took our teas in the hand and stepped outside. I was standing muted near this person, who was only a scant part of himself. “How are you?” I managed to ask. He didn’t reply.

I reached into my pocket and took out a wad of notes which were there. It was a spontaneous reaction, I hadn’t planned on that. I didn’t know how much cash was there. There were a few twenties and fifties and a small number of hundred rupee notes. I didn’t count, I didn’t bother to. In that frame of mind, etiquette was not even close in consideration. I turned around to make sure no one was watching and I tucked the notes in to the pocket of the shirt that hung loosely on Jacob uncle’s shirt. He tried to resist, but his protests were feeble, I was not going to heed to that. It took great effort on Jacob uncle’s part to speak a few words. In due respect, I didn’t talk anything. As we stood there, long after our teas were finished, we heard the sound of an approaching auto rickshaw. Jibin’s wife was coming in that. While we helped Jacob uncle to get into the auto, Jibin’s wife explained to me, “He wanted to come to the the junction and have a tea at Kumaran’s. It had been a long while since he had got out of the house so I told him to go ahead, I said I will come with an auto rickshaw to pick him up after some time. Jibin ettan hasn’t come back from work yet. Do you want to come home?”

“No, not right now. I’ll try to come by sometime later.”

I smiled at Jacob uncle, who was by now inside the auto. He said with his usual warmth, “Do come by if you have time.” I said I will.

I stood there without moving as the auto rickshaw carrying Jacob uncle and his daughter-in-law sped away and disappeared around a curve.

A lot of philosophical questions rushed through my mind. Why had God done this to this person, such a noble soul who lived an honest life and hurt no one, almost verbatim as the Bible preaches, I said to no one.

A few days later, I came to know of an incident. There was an NGO working amongst cancer patients in the nearby town. The oncologist Jacob uncle was undergoing treatment under was a part of their network and as a result, they contacted Jacob uncle and Jibin offering Rs. 10,000 towards funding for Jacob uncle’s treatment. Jacob uncle was weak and tired of repeated treatments, and by contemporary standards had lived a long life. He was in such a state that his doctor was not much hopeful even though he didn’t say as much. But his mind was sound and his thoughts were very much rational. When they approached him with the offer to give a cheque for Rs. 10,000 he politely but sternly refused to take it from them. They pressed Jibin but Jibin said he would abide by whatever decision his father takes without question because it was for his treatment and it was his prerogative to make a decision, not Jibin’s. I got in touch with one of the representatives of the NGO who had visited Jacob uncle who told what Jacob uncle had told them, “It is not right for me to take this money considering the fact that I have gone past the curable stage. I have enough money saved over my life to see me and my treatment through till I breathe my last. My son is doing quite well in his job and can comfortably support his family with his job. Please take this as a request from a dying man - give that money to someone who needs it more to come out of cancer.” In this day and age, where you occasionally hear of people and organizations fudging records to inappropriately claim governmental and non-governmental organizational benefits, that statement from Jacob uncle was indeed an eye opener.

I was woken up from my reverie by a hand which came over my shoulder. Matthew, one of my neighbors. “He was a good man”, Matthew said with a deep sigh. I nodded.

“The burial is in half an hour at the church. I am going there now. Coming along?”

I can buy the milk later. For now, I want to touch Jacob uncle’s feet one last time. To pay my homage to a great individual who lived and walked in this village till yesterday. With a heavy heart, I followed Matthew as he led the way in the direction of the village church.

One More Fall

Once again it is that time of the year,

the vibrant colors of fall,

and the grounded and unkempt foliage,

does little by itself to hide the path.

The path to her final destination,

hopefully one day,

my final destination as well.

God does what he can,

to cover my path with leaves.

As this year, so the previous.

The leaves are dry,

never the memories.

I will never forget,

the path to her dusty abode,

even if she wants me to.

Eons from now,

we will be together once again,

in some other world she resides.

The same way we were,

in this world she resided

Yesterday.

She is dead,

I will be dead tomorrow,

but the feeling, that never dies.

As I tread the familiar ground,

the ground no one wants to be familiar with,

my heart starts to get heavy,

I know, I can sense,

her stony grave aching for his heart.

Of all the seasons the creator envisioned,

this, for me, is the worst.

This, for me, will remain the worst.

September has passed,

October does prevail.

As the trees punctuated the mellow of the winds abound,

I turned around,

leaving a bouquet of flowers,

a few drops of tears,

and a memory of lifetime,

on her feet.

Or rather on the epitaph,

that marked her feet.

Your memories are older,

by one more fall.

I turned around,

back to the road which led me here.

Come I will next fall, if alive.

Else before, if not.

The Wrong Number

I like to keep my mobile phone almost perennially in silent mode. I have never quite determined the reason for it - whether it is my innate irritation to unnecessary noise or my misconstrued sense of civic propriety which makes me believe that it is duty-bound of every one to reduce the noise in a public place. I often hear flak for it because this habit causes me to often miss calls, especially from my mother. But I was what I was, I’d rather be scolded than to change some mannerisms. Stupid, me.

But I did not miss that call. Going by the usual probability I should have. I was in kitchen preparing dinner, and it is not common that I hear the vibration of my phone over the cacophony of noises in kitchen. But somehow I did hear it. I rushed to my bedroom desk where the phone lay expecting it to my mother calling. The display read “Private number.” Okay, so that was not my mother. This might be one of those tele-marketing companies who have made it a habit of calling from random numbers so that you can’t block their calls. Skeptical, I picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Hello dosth. Yaar I decided enough is enough. The credit card bills I had pending for the past few months, they’ve caught up with me. I begged them for an extension but they are in no mood to relent. They said categorically that they were going to press charges against me. You know how sever it is here, in Saudi Arabia with the Sharia law if I am sued for financial fraud. I begged them, I told them that I used that money for my mother’s treatment, but they weren’t willing to hear. I pleaded with them that I will start repaying once I complete my studies and I get a job. I begged them for a three month extension but they were in no mood to give in. I’m not left with any alternatives yaar. Of all people, tumhe toh pata hai. My mother and sister back at home depend on me with all the financial troubles back at home. I had taken education loan for my course after which I ended up with this job here. Visa ke liye bhi kaafi kharch karna pada. And two months after I came here, my mother fell sick and was hospitalized. Her hospital expenses made me max out my credit cards for three months in a row. It was not like I was spending lavishly on myself, but these people don’t understand. Mother’s hospital expenses, my education loan, all these huge credit card bills. I do not know how I will handle it. Till the other day I was confident that I will be able to take care of everything, that I will work hard. But last week, Lehmann Brothers collapsed and they were our biggest customers. My manager mentioned to me today that there were going to be layoffs in the company, and if that happens, junior staffers like me would be the first to be chopped. I’m done with facing all these problems yaar. Am sick, tired, and dejected. I have decided to end my life. Future kuch dikh hi nahi raha hai yaar….”

The trailing off of his voice was the first time since I initiated the conversation that I got a chance to speak up.

“Hello sir, I think you have got the wrong number. But jo bhi hai, aapka problem unsolveable nahi hai. We can…”

“Oh shoot. Isn’t this abc-xyz-4710?”

“No brother. This is abc-xyz-4711.”

“Oh sorry bhai, sorry for the trouble. But thanks anyways, that you were patient enough to listen to my rambling all the while. You’re the last person I’m speaking to on this planet. Dhanyawaad. Khuda Hafiz.”

Before I could utter anything more, he disconnected the call. Khuda Hafiz, the final words trailed in my ears.

I do not know if he kept with his decision or changed his mind. Thousands of Indians commit suicide in the Gulf everyday, I have no means to know if he added himself to the tally. I do not know if he ended up calling the correct number. I do not know if the person on the other end of the line coerced him into changing his decision. I do not know. I will never know. Or maybe, I didn’t want to know what I already knew.

In The Lurch

Across the bantering rains,
mystic obscurity of haze and fog,
standing alone was I.


Me but a solitary me,
scared I was, alone I was
No light to guide, no shade to hide,
a lonely road is all I saw.


An alien world was busy,
who cared if an alien I wasn’t.
Hungry askance of ravaging predators
Oh but I had only myself to pray.
Through the raindrops the rainbow smiled,
only to make me realise it wasn’t beautiful, after all.
The thankings of a thirsty hornbill,
the elation of a novice peacock,
I never knew where they melted away.


In the lurch I stood,
waiting for an angel to lift me up
Crying, was I?
No I don’t know.
But God, I didn’t want you to send me here.


A life is what thou dreamt,
shattered dreams are all what I got.
A dwelling is what thou yearned
didn’t know I was destined a broken glasshouse.


So here I was in the lurch,
unsheltered in the deluge of rains,
when I saw thy angel.
The lonely road I took.
Sure was a tear in my eye,
a tear sent by God it seemed.
All I remember thus, my last second of life.
‘Coz it blocked my vision.
And there I saw thy four wheeled angel,
coming to take my life.


All over in a flash it was,
a new life after life I hope.
No more was I in the lurch.
And at last I realise,
the rainbow never looked so lovely.

Assassin

He never considered killing people a sin. Because his job demanded it. Because if you don’t do, then you die.

He was proud of his precision. With a custom made German Heckler & Koch PSG1A1 fitted with a Schmidt & Bender scope, he was lethal. Though his teacher had taught him in his early life that beauty was something that lay at the hands of the beholder, he considered his “job” as a work of art. As a work of craft.

Assassin.

A person of Spanish origin, he was popular throughout Western Europe as an “emerging player” in this “competitive world”. With a count of 23 under his belt, 9 of which were political assassinations, he was making an indelible mark.

He was in Espana. The southern port city of Mallorca. His latest assignment brought him to his homeland. To this city of wonders, hardly an hour from his native village. To the city which fascinated him from childhood-with its glitz, pace and diversity, all of which were absent in the sleepy village of his. It had been the city of dreams for him as a child. As a youth. He insisted on doing graduation from a college in Mallorca not because of his zeal for knowledge. But because of Mallorca.

He didn’t want to go to his native village. Because he didn’t have anything worth remembering there. Or at least, he liked to believe so. He despised villages. And continued to do so.

He seldom read newspapers. He preferred this modus operandi because he believed that knowing more about a person makes it more difficult to pull the trigger with a gun pointed at him. In fact, he insisted that he never be told the names of the persons to be eliminated in an assignment. And his clientele were in general too happy to oblige.

And hence, the Mayor of Mallorca was unknown to him. His new target. A revolutionary Left Conservative, the latter was making waves across Spain. His efforts to bring Mallorca on par with Barcelona and Madrid made him very popular among the people of Spain in general and Mallorca in particular. And in a country that was [ill]reputed for assassinations, it was only a matter of time before his political enemies got together in a cabal.

The meeting between the conspirators’ representative and Acilino’ happened in Sao Paulo, almost 6 weeks back. There were no negotiations. A black and white photo changed hands. 2 million dollars cabled to his account in Switzerland. And the deal was fixed.

October the 12th. Spanish national day. As per convention, there would be a grand parade at the Republican Square, presided over by the Mayor. The grand Republican Square was the trademark of Mallorca. With tall Gothic structures surrounding, the square was the symbol of Mallorca. And this is where the parade has been held all these years. This year being no exception. And that, hence, was THE occasion.

He had managed to get into one of the unused apartments overlooking the square. With the amount of political backing he had, that part of the work was more easily done than said. He waited there for two days, preparing himself for the attempt.

The D-day dawned. Acilino’ was fully prepared. He knew the entire schedule of the function by-heart. The ripe time, he decided, would be when the Mayor would be distributing the Gallantry Awards to the personnel of the police forces. He went about checking his automatic and its accessories and one last time, he checked the view through his gun viewfinder. At last, pulling a chair to himself, he sat behind the window, opening out to the square.

9 O Clock. Half an hour to go before the Mayor arrived. He loaded his Heckler & Koch with 5 bullets. His lucky number. Like almost every other professional sniper, Acilino’ had his own mannerisms. One among them stemmed from his childhood affinity for Diet Coke. He preferred to wait for his victim almost always with a can of Diet Coke in his hands. He took out the penultimate canister of Diet Coke he had in his bag. Sipping his drink, he eased onto the chair beside the window. This was when Acilino’s attention was caught by a distant banner. One that highlighted the achievements of Mayor Marcos.

Marcos. A name impinged in his heart. He immediately remembered a young, naive and bearded Jose Manuel Marcos. A senior at college. Someone who was inspired by Che Guvera and someone who managed to inspire a lot of others by his ideological theses. At a time when revolution was the buzzword around the world, Marcos propounded revolutionary thoughts in the college. And had inspired a lot of students as well. Acilino’ sighed. How he was inspired by speeches of Jose Marcos. To change Spain. To revolutionise the world. As in a flashback, his mind went back to his college days. To those deeds he did to usher in revolution. It all seemed like a look through the kaleidoscope.

And one distinctive feature. Of Jose' Manuel Marcos. That famous Winston Churchill type double chin.

An announcement stirred him back to reality. The PA system announced the arrival of the Mayor, which was accompanied by a roar from the crowd so enormous that Acilino’ was almost shaken. Grimacing, he got up. He was irritated to find that his Diet Coke was only half finished. He had dreamt a little too much, he reflected.

The cavalcade, he could see, was approaching from a distance. It came till the crossroads next to the Civic Corporation statuette before it stopped. The Mayor and his wife alighted from the car and moved towards the podium. The stage was set. For the celebration of independence. For maybe something else.

As per the itinerary, the program began with the Spanish national anthem followed by the parade of the police forces. The award distribution would follow the parade. Acilino’ adjusted the telescopic lens one final time and took a sip from the half full can of Diet Coke. With his left index finger inserted into the trigger cabinet, he let out a tough breath of air.

He was ready.

Through the view finder, he narrowed in on the Mayor, who after inspecting the Guard of Honour, was on the podium overseeing the parade. He could see only half the face, but knew very well that half was lethal enough.

Deadly enough.

Suddenly he caught the Mayor turning to his side. He noticed, through the narrow confines of the telescopic lens that something in that person intrigued him. He didn’t want to search for the answer.

Until he noticed the double chin.

He was taken aback. No!! It couldn’t be Jose’. He zoomed further. Looking for that mole on his nose. There it was. No doubt. It was Jose’. Jose’ Manuel Marcos.

He took his left hand away from the trigger. He knew he had to shoot. But he knew equally well he couldn’t shoot.

After a gap of years, he found himself muttering the name of God.

He sat back onto the chair. He didn’t like it but his mind was on a flashback. He made attempts to drag it back, but all futile. He tried to weigh his options. Kill his childhood idol? Or abort the assignment at the last moment? He knew the latter option was impossible. Because that was treachery and his clientele would make him pay for it with his life. Then??

Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck ten. Ten melancholic beats drowned in the hubbub of the jostling crowd. He felt light. He had made up his mind.

He went back to his position. The award distribution ceremony had just begun. Now he could see only the back of the Mayor. He wished he had seen him only like this. The third name was called for the award when he took aim.

Muttering the sermon of God under his breath, he fired.

He was sure his count had incremented to 24.

Then with a placid expression, he knelt on the ground, with the automatic by his side. He was thankful that there was a picture of Holy Mary in the room he was in. He stood, as if in a trance, for over five minutes.

Possibly the five longest minutes of his life.

He got up. Went to the wash basin and washed his hands. He wondered if he was doing it on his own or was it more like some external irresistable power was making him do so. This was no Pilate act, he knew.

Picking up the automatic, he went to the chair. The chair which had possibly been the sole witness of the assassination.

The image of the falling idol of him was the last thing that flashed across his eyes as he pulled the trigger of the automatic with the barrel pointing against his temple.

Compassion

Indian Railways. One of the largest employers in the world. And he was a part of that.

He was a typical South Indian by any standards. Long and gaunt by stature, he was respected by everyone in his circle. He had started off as a class IV employee in the Indian Railways at a very tender age of nineteen and through his dedication and hard work, had risen to the position of Station Master of a class C station.

He was 8 years old when tragedy struck. A small family consisting of his parents and a younger sibling other than himself, it was further shortened when his father and brother were killed in a stampede at the local temple utsav. That was nearly half a century ago. He had to abandon his studies and opt for menial work as his mother was taken paralyzed a few weeks later.

Yet, he survived. Because he believed he could.

The mounting medical bills on his mother’s ever deteriorating health didn’t deter him. Instead, it motivated him. To work harder. He was a person who believed that one shouldn’t compromise, at least on primary education. So side by side, he attended night classes and went on to pass his matriculation as well.

It was around this time that his mother too succumbed. In fact, she, in her later days, had frequent and acute attacks of psychosis that he often prayed that she be “relieved of her pains quickly.” And he, till date, didn’t know the answer to the question as to what the emotion in his mind was when he first saw her lifeless.

He went to Hyderabad. Sarkari naukri was the objective. And with his determination that seemed to please even the Gods, he got through into the South Central Railways. Class IV job, but nonetheless a job.

And he was a devout employee. One having a credo putting organizational benefits ahead of personal ones. He even receive a Best Employee award for South Central Railway from the Railway Board. With periodic promotions, he was now the Station Master at Tangkuttur, a remote station in Ongole district of Andhra Pradesh.

Meanwhile, his life was prospering on the personal front as well. He found his life partner in Radha, a beautiful daughter of one of his colleagues. They had two sons. And this part of his life, he often reflected, would be called prosperity. Or maybe the pursuit of prosperity.

Though his elder child was a little weak in studies, his younger one was different. A mature father he was, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of his children, he helped the elder one setup a shop with a part from his savings. And he encouraged the younger one to study. And he studied. Completed his graduation.

This is when problems arose. A country with lakhs of graduate degree holders and with under one tenths of them lucky enough to find a job, unemployment was often a villain in many middle class Indian family contexts. He could sense the pulse of his son as the latter frantically searched for a job. Almost an year and a half had passed since he completed his studies and he was still unsuccessful in hunting out a job for himself.

The whole mood of the household too turned downcast as a result of this. It seemed as if a pall of evil gloom had descented. Rather destined to descent.

Until that day when he had a “brainwave.”

That very evening, when he reached home, he had a long talk with his son. His son was actually surprised to find the unusually composed tone of his father.

The next day, he went to the Vinayaka temple, after a long hiatus. He offered a dozen coconuts tro the Lord. He knew, from inside, he was a lot relieved. Because he believed, he had found a way out of this predicament.

He had evening duty that day.

As is the case with a lot of railway employees, he too was emotionally attached to a lot of trains. Quite a bunch of them which he used to show the green light to almost on a daily basis.

2615. Chennai-New Delhi Grand Trunk Express. Was a train he was seeing almost on a daily basis for the past decade and a half. At this time of the year, the train would be filled with students going home for vacations. The overall mood in the train would be one of joy, enthusiasm and expectation.

He didn’t know what was the word that could describe his state of mind at present.

The telephone in his cabin rang. He lifted it. The train had left the previous station. It was on time. Tangkuttur was just under 15 minutes in sight for the Grand Trunk Express.

He took out the green flag. As if driven by someone other than himself, he found himself going towards Krishna’s stall in the station for a cup of tea. The tea seemed all the more delicious tonight.

At a distance, he could hear the increasing rambles of 2615.

“Siren of prosperity hopefully,” he thought.

He moved to the centre of Platform No. 1. Now the train was in sight. And as the custom, he started waving the green flag.

When the engine was under 200 metres from where he was, he closed his eyes. Images of his family and Lord Vinayaka came rushing to him like a flash.

He didn’t open his eyes. And the flag was still in his hands when he leapt onto the track.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The letter that was found in his office drawer the next day read

“
To,
Divisional Railway Manager,
Vijayawada Division

Respected Sir,

SUB : Application for job in your organization on compassionate ground.

My father Ch. M. Thanappa was an employee with S. C. Railways of the Indian Railways for over 35 years. He was unfortunately killed in an accident that occurred in Tangkuttur station on xx-xx-xxxx.

I request you to intimate me the proceedings for applying for a job on compassionate grounds.

Thank You
“

The green flag, still lying on the track, had long turned blood red.

A GLORIOUS OBLIVION

As anyone else, he never relished the damp, cold prison air.



But he was not anyone else. A solitary prisoner in the most heavily fortified section of the prison, he was waiting for his oblivion. The narrow shaft of light, pouring in from the dull incandescent lamp of the jail warden’s room was contrary to the state of his mind. He had lost the last ray of hope long ago. His clemency petition had long been negated by His Excellency the Governor.
Through the darkness of the night, the clock struck 12 beats. 12 melancholic beats. From his battered trouser, he took out the crumb of paper which possibly was his last possession for the past two days. He crossed it one more time. 5 more hours. To oblivion. Till justice is served. Five more hours till he was hanged, five more hours until he was free for ever from the shackles of law.



Official homicide, or in more refined terms, capital punishment, added an extra dimension to death, he felt. As he sat there, he was surprised that being a graduate degree holder in English Literature, he was unable to find the right word to represent the state he was in. Shock?? Nostalgia?? Agony?? Didn’t matter anyways. A deluge of memories gushed through him – right from a noble childhood, a turbulent teens, a frustrated middle age and a college life marred by drugs. But through it all, the image of the shining smile of his wife and the cherished moments they spent together pierced his heart with a penchant so strong that he felt like tearing his chest out. As he sat there, he was sure that she would be, at this very moment, running around to submit the clemency petition to His Excellency the President himself. But he was sure that nothing would work out. All the more because he deserved this.



The mood of the prison was aptly depicted by the dead silence of the night, regularly hindered by the ticking of the century-old Gothic clock. It felt as if the clock was doing a countdown by itself as to the moment when the world would be made a better place by reducing the overwhelming number of criminals by an insignificant unity. With a deep sigh, he recollected his pledge a few days ago, to spend his final moments in this world with composure. The swarm of thoughts swirling inside his head was interrupted by the chime of the clock, as one more hour of his life ebbed away. The startling noise finally destroyed whatever resistance he had and he broke down, sobbing like a child. Even the walls seemed to mock at him, as it reflected back his wails in endless echoes that loosened him further, till he lay back exhausted and drawn-out.



At last, he made himself to get up. He made his way to the solitary wash basin at the corner of his cell. As he immersed his damp face in a handful of frigid water, he suddenly felt better. As if that was not enough, he paused to look into the mirror above the wash basin. Though nothing was visible because of darkness, in his mind he suddenly had an idea. He sensed a glint of certainty enter his blood shot eyes. A solemn moment passed before he simply rammed his fist onto the dirty mirror.



He felt a sense of detached calm as he spent the next few hours, recounting the few happy and the many painful memories that marked his life. At last, he heard the shuffle of footsteps upon the corridor, which he knew to the executioners – a sound his ears were straining to pickup for quite some time. And then with a state of calmness that surprised even him, he picked a fragment of the broken mirror and slashed his wrist deeply with it. Even as he watched the blood gushing out in a torrent, the door opened. The sight of the smiling face of his wife and the pardon in her hands was the last thing that he saw before the darkness of death engulfed him.