The Truth

The string tied to her index finger,
She draws it out of the spool at her will.
She loops it, folds it, stretches it, breaks it,
Then fastens it again to her finger.

I came and she placed me gently
On the wobbly string.
I wobbled. Adjusted. Made my niche,
And then, grew too big for the string.

Now I stand beside her,
Plucking the string she preserves,
Pulling the string from her,
Forcing my will upon it.

And yet the string is not mine
Nor hers, we both know.
But it lies there between us,
Forcing us to hurt each other.

Just Another Day

Rickshaw-walas can be a rather entertaining bunch of people when you are in need of a mood-lift. They drive around their little bug-like vehicles and stop at the wave of a hand and like to think of themselves as the kings of the road. Andheri station is one of those places were they do tend to assume a certain kind of authority. Commuters don’t tell the rickshaw-walas where to go; they go where the rickshaw-wala takes them.

Now, after a killing shopping excursion in Colaba, when one is made to stand in a crowded train from Churchgate to Andheri, one is entitled to be grumpy and have a strong desire to rest the rear end wherever possible. So, when a rickshaw-wala standing right outside the station readily accepts to take you to your destination, you will only thank good heavens for the little mercies He grants.

So here I was walking out of Andheri station, tired as hell with sore feet and having to go to Prithvi Theatre for yet another errand. And there I see a rickshaw-wala waiting for me; who doesn’t hesitate to take me to my destination. I waste no time in bundling into the rickshaw. Rickshaw-wala also sits, turns to me and asks if I could wait for a little while so he can get another passenger. This has now become a common practice in Andheri station, by the way. Now, I know it is rather unlikely that someone who wanted to go to Juhu would be at Andheri station because it is closer to Vile Parle (why was I there? I took a fast train so that I need stand for a smaller time period).

So I tell the rickshaw-wala, “haan haan, theek hai theek hai as long as you let me sit in your rickshaw.” Now, we are waiting for another passenger and to pass the time he asks if I’m an actress because I want to go to Prithvi. I said, ‘No no. I’m only going there to meet someone.”

I don’t think he heard what I said, because he next tells me his brother is also into script writing. “TV ke liye likhta hai. Voh SAB TV hai na? Uske saare shows ke liye mera bhai hi likhta hai.”

I admit it. I’m a sucker for rickshaw stories these days and a brother of a television script writer, who drives rickshaw really caught my attention.

“You know? My sister-in-law – bhai ki biwi… she is a reporter. She comes on TV as that journalist hota hai na? All this News channels na? She comes in them.”

I asked him in Hindi, “Saare News channels ke liye kaam karti hai?”

He insists on speaking in his version of the English language, “Yes! (eyes pop out and lips take on a grave downward curve) She reporter for all.”

I nod, imitating the grave downward curve of the lips. At this point, a couple of younger colleagues of his looked in to the rickshaw and asked him what he was doing.

“Just waiting for somebody else who wants to go to Prithvi Theatre” he replies in Hindi. The two smile at him and look at me with caution in their eyes. They turn to themselves and say ‘Buddha fir shuru ho gaya.’ I smiled.

“I also sing”, he popped. This caught my interest again. “You hear name of Asan some-thing-or-other? Your genrashun don’t know. Ask your mother father” gives me a pitiable look and continues, “You hear movie, Paras Mani?” I shake my head. “Gana toh suna hoga, ‘Hasta hua noorani chehra…’?” Who hasn’t heard ‘Hasta hua noorani Chehra…’! I got very excited.

“My father write that song. He was big song writer in Bollywood.”

It didn’t matter whether he was saying the truth or not. In a city like ours, it is, after all, possible that the son of a song writer, brother of a script-writer and brother-in-law of a TV reporter, could be a rickshaw-wala. I humoured him on. He looked like a middle-aged man with an incredible imagination. He had few teeth, all of which had deep dark paan stains on them. His speech was a little slurred which I attributed to the lack of adequate number of teeth.

It had been a good 10 minutes waiting for another passenger, so I told him to start the rickshaw. He was kind enough to inform me that the ride will be costly and that I wouldn’t be able to bear it entirely. I insisted on going and said I don’t mind paying. He started the rickshaw and we crawled through the heavy rush-hour traffic.

Only after a little distance did I noticed that he had not pulled the meter down. And only after I asked him to pull it down did he care to mention that his meter was was not working and that however long it takes, I may pay him Rs. 50 for the ride. The ease and confidence with which he seemed to state this and all his eccentricities before, should have put me on alert. But I was still nursing my sore feet and Rs. 50 in the kind of traffic we were in seemed like a steal to me. So I agreed.

He was a very good driver. He knew how to weave his way between large vehicles and cleverly change lanes to get ahead. He even managed to avoid a verbal battle with a rather burly and short-tempered young man in another rickshaw. Half way to my destination I realized he had had two large bottles of water in the rickshaw filled to the brim at the beginning of the ride which where both half empty by now. And I also noticed the impossible angle he stretched to, to take swigs from the bottle. But it was not until he asked me for the third time where it was that I wanted to go, that I realized that there was something wrong. Then he began to take me in the wrong direction and told me I am wrong when I gave him the right direction. He did realize he was going the wrong way and corrected himself. He then looked back at me and laughed and only then did I realize that the man was drunk.

I calmed myself and then I calmly told him, with a dry throat, to please stop the rickshaw. He said, “But this is not Prithvi Theatre.” I said, “Don’t worry. Just drop me here and I will go on my own.”

He took offense, stopped the rickshaw, turned to me and said, “No no baby, I know the way. I will drop you.”

I said, “No no uncle, here is your Rs.30 for bringing me this far now I’m going to get off.”

“Paise ki baath nahi hai, beta. Mein chhod doonga. Paise nahi chahiye.”

I placed the Rs. 30 on the seat, got off the rickshaw and said, “Agli baar thoda kam piyoge toh achha hoga” and walked off. I crossed the road and started walking. But I noticed that son of song writer of ‘Hasta Hua Noorani Chehra’ was taking a U-turn to follow me. My hasta hua chehra lost all its noor and I ran to the nearest corner and hid myself. The rickshaw-wala drove past me, waited for a few minutes at the corner of the road and then rode away. Only then did I come out of my hiding place. There was a shorter way to my destination from where I was and so I walked the rest of the way.

Ever since this encounter, there has only been one thing eating in to my peace of mind. Who after all is the song writer for the song ‘Hasta hua noorani chehra…’? It is a great song.

There was a slight chill in the air. A light breeze kept tugging at her dress. The concrete bench at the park felt colder and harder. It was a small park that not many knew of. There was an old couple sitting at another end of the park watching their three grandchildren play in the grass. A boy was walking his dog and a man who sold chana chor garam on the streets was sitting in a corner and counting his day’s earning. She sat at her bench looking at them, her mind somewhere else. Somewhere, in a restaurant, her mind saw him again. He was staring in to the eyes of someone else and he had the smile that used to be reserved for her. They were holding hands.

Her greatest fears had been realized: she felt nothing.

She walked away from the restaurant, feeling nothing. And now here she was, sitting in the park. Why did she feel nothing? The peaceful atmosphere teased her temples. They tortured her ears with happy sounds. She pinched herself, to make herself cry. But her eyes remained dry. She became angry with herself. The wind screamed in her ears. It felt stronger than a storm. She hated herself. She got up with a start and stomped her way towards the gates. She fixedly gazed in to the far distance and told herself that she was lying to herself and him. There was obviously no love between them. She marched along the road and suddenly stopped dead in her track.

“Where are you going? I was just coming to meet you at the park.”

She stuttered and walked a few steps back. She couldn’t think. The world had come to a full-stop. She looked at the woman with him; the same one from the restaurant. She did not know what to do.

“I came to the restaurant” was all she could manage to say.

“You did? What were you doing there?”

“Someone told me they saw you there and I thought I’d come there instead of waiting for you at the park”

“Yeah, we were at the restaurant. Didn’t you see us?”

She didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even seem to care that she had found them!

“Well, we were sitting in a corner. So it’s no wonder you didn’t. Anyway, this is my cousin, Shaila. Shaila, this is my girlfriend, Prachi”

Prachi could barely stretch her hands and shake Shaila’s. She wondered if Shaila noticed how sweaty her hands were or how her legs were shaking. She was sure she was blushing. She couldn’t stop herself from laughing.

“What happened? Why are you laughing?”

“Nothing…” She turned to Shaila and said, “It’s good to meet you.”

Shaila did not miss the embarrassment on her face. She tossed her head to one side and replied, “You’re not the jealous type, are you?”

Prachi blushed again and buried her face in her hands. It is only then that she felt the little drops of tears hanging from her eye lids.

Im a fan of Suniti

From The Blue Donkey Fables
By Suniti Namjoshi

A Love Story

One day, as you walked outdoors, you found a stone. At first you thought that it might be a toad; but it was not warm, it was not slimy, and it did not quiver as you held it in your hand. You left it in your pocket. it occupied space. It had mass. But it was not abrasive or obtrusive stone. You were not troubled; and the stone, in turn, was probably content. When you came home that night and undressed for bed, you took the stone out and set it on the dresser. It is possible, of course, that the stone watched you all night long. But then it must be remembered that the stone had no eyes. It is much more likely that it merely sat. It was contiguous in space. It was, if you like, a contemporary of yours. The following morning you lost the stone. You may have noticed its absence in your pocket. the stone may have sensed the increased distance from a source of warmth. But that was all. It is not conceivable that naything else could possibly have been felt. I conjecture, ofcourse. The tale is, after all, a fanciful invention, a playful variation, on a species of love.

For those who did not understand the relevence,
Replace the stone with a person and read the story again.

Very few stories ring so true

From The Blue Donkey Fables
By Suniti Namjoshi

Crow and the Starling

Once upon a time there was an idiot crow. She was sensible enough most of the time, but utterly foolish when she fell in love or fancied anybody. Now, it so happened that she met a starling. The starling was charming, the crow was charmed, but she decided that for once she was going to be sensible. She was calm, dispassionate and moderately friendly. At last one day they met again. Crow had pined and repined dreadfully, but in accordance with her decision to do nothing foolish, she had done nothing. Once again Starling and Crow were very sensible and reasonably friendly. Soon they began to meet often. They continued calm, quiet and friendly. It became a habit. They got used to it. So that it was only occasionally that Crow tore her feathers and cursed her wisdom and her folly.

The Great Depression Part II?

Prithvi Nagar was a quaint little village. It was a self-sufficient village and hence isolated. They grew everything they wanted and sold the surplus to their neighbours. They had carpenters, blacksmiths, tailors, goldsmiths and everybody had cattle. They even had a school for the children. Uttam Singh Allahabadi was a wealthy moneylender in this village. He was a very jovial man and enjoyed company all the time. There never was a time when Uttam Singh’s huge mansion did not have several guests.

There were other money lenders in the town but Uttam Singh was the most popular. He kept good relations with every one in the village. He was especially good with his debtors. He often advised them on personal matters. Sometimes these debtors were bothered by his interference but being the money lender, they could neither offend him nor ignore his advice. The other money lenders always had a grudge against him, as he took away their debtors but his popularity required them to give him due respect and would only gossip about him behind his back.

Many of the townspeople thought Uttam Singh was loud, arrogant and extravagant, but most admired his strength, wisdom and his general way of life. So much so that many people began to imitate his way of life. Luxurious goods that they could not afford such as silk curtains, ornaments of gold and regular visits to the cinema hall became a necessity. This only increased the number of debtors in Uttam Singh’s directory. One thing he noticed was that the people who borrowed the money were farmers, blacksmiths, and other people with low income and never the landowners or panchayat leaders. He wondered how his debtors were planning to repay him but pushed away the thought; ‘That’s their problem. Why should I worry about it?’ Other moneylenders were more careful about lending money to such people who they called ‘sub-prime loans’. They even warned Uttam Singh but he would hear none of it.

Soon there came a time when Uttam Singh’s debtors could no longer afford to repay him. They sold any thing in the house that they could sell and still they were short of money. Much as he threatened and blackmailed them, they did not have any more money to give. Uttam Singh soon began to lose all his money. He stopped lending. A few years passed in this way. In the beginning the other money lenders of the village gloated at Uttam Singh’s plight. Little did they know that this was soon to affect their lives as well! The farmers were unable to buy fertilizers and gave up using water pumps to save electricity. This led to a shortage of surplus grains to sell; eventually leading to a shortage of food in the village. The landowners no longer profited from their lands. Schools shut down because children stopped going to school so that they could help their parents on the field. Thus, the school teachers were jobless. The carpenters, blacksmiths and others no longer had anything to do. Many lost their jobs and everybody was unhappy.

Uttam Singh went into depression. He could not handle the guilt of having ruined the lives of so many people. Many tried to console him and told him that it would be alright. But he could only hear his own conscience, reminding him of a story his father told him.

“Have you forgotten how your grandfather lost all his money by interfering in other people’s matters? They had called his depression the Great Depression of teh '30s. Have you not learnt from your ancestors’ mistakes, you fool?”

I Object

“80% is not bad at all. What are you going to do?”
“I want to take up Arts.”
“Arts? Why? You could easily get into a nearby college for science.”

“First year B.A., is it? Good, good. You must study hard. What are your subjects?”
“English Literature, Psychology and Sociology.”
“Oh that is excellent. Psychology has a lot of scope abroad these days. They need it too. Everybody is mad these days. Hahaha”

“You took up Literature? But you were interested in Psychology.”
“I changed my mind.”
“Oh, but Psychology had so much scope. What will you do after your graduation?”
“I want to teach.”
“You are going to be a teacher, huh? That’s nice.”

“M.A. Literature is it? That’s heavy. What are you going to do after this; become a teacher?Hahahaha”
“Yes.”
“You want to be a teacher? But you are intelligent? You could easily clear an IAS or something.”

“M.A. in literature must be very difficult, no? I don’t know why you girls like to study so much these days. Well, I guess it’s better than becoming a doctor or an engineer; or the new trend is to get into ‘PR’ or a reporter like that Barkha Dutt, or make advertisements. All such shameless jobs I tell you. You will become a teacher, I suppose. It’s the proper job for girls. No late night working; very light job. Career ka career and you get enough time for your family also, once you are married.”

When Jane Austen began writing novels, she did not consider it a job that will allow her to have a family life.

Aristotle was not just a teacher.

A successful teacher is one who is able to bring about a change in the students perception.

So, I am not just another girl with average intelligence, who did B.A., M.A. Literature and is going to become a teacher.