THE LAST EARTHQUAKE……..a short story by RoshanC

September 18^th 2011

Darkness was falling on a hazy mid-September evening and the residents were preparing for blackout.  At the corner of the house, the frequency was set at S/W 60.04 MHz and the All India Radio host was bellowing the weather forecast for the next 24hrs. The ground outside was still wet as a result of the previous night’s torrential downpour and the wind outside was perpetually on the move making boisterous reverberation. The mud walls of the house kept the interiors warm and the thatched roof silenced the rain hitting the house, making it the coziest alcove for catnaps. Old Dataram cuddled himself at the corner of his bed, making sure not to budge his ageing wife from her peaceful hebetude. He was waiting for the local news at 6:40, a customary activity that he’d been religiously following from the day he got the radio, possibly the only notable item he got from his in-laws along with his wife. The only other room of the house was occupied by his two sons, who at the moment were already into deep hibernation.

A sudden jolt woke him up, his sluggish eyes reacting to the ground shaking under his bed. There was a grim silence for the next few seconds until this time the slight tremble was replaced by a strong jolt. Before he could clear his mind of the mayhem, a huge chunk of the mud-wall adjacent to his bed, perilously close, came crashing down.It was the third time the Earthquake had struck within seconds, and the century old mud walls had fallen prey to it. With a slight stutter he gestured to his wife showing the only exit door.She was already up on her spine staring sullenly at him like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. It struck again. Rising unsteadily on his feet, he followed his wife towards the door only to be joined by his two sons, like ants scurrying down a hole. And when the quake struck the fourth time in the ten minutes or so, and just when the family managed to make their way out to the open, the house came crashing down before their eyes. He looked back and stared sullenly at the rubble and a groan went up. A big drop of rain hit like a spear on his forehead. This purgatory night was to be sealed with the rain, and it saved him the shyness to hide his tears. And then it rained.

Old Dataram stood outside in the rain, unbroken and unnaturally still. His small thatched kitchen survived the nature’s fury, and from its shelter he could see the rubble of his house under the faint moonlight penetrating the darkest of the clouds. He heard the bleating of the goats in some distance, and then he realized that it was not just the humans affected. The shed which kept the goats was now just a pile of bamboos, and with the help of his sons he got the goats inside the kitchen. There were seven of them which cramped the tiny kitchen with eleven lost souls. He shut his eyes in despair; the worst would only be seen in the following morning. The whole night it rained heavily. The fire was lit and everyone crumbled around the fireplace, the wait for the first light of dawn was not far away; but was somehow not even anticipated.

This fateful night he found shelter at his neighbour’s house and he humbly obliged to the request. When he woke up the next morning after being offered tea, his eyes were still red and moist, a sign that he couldn't catch sleep as well as his tears. He didn't have the courage to go, or even look at the direction of his house. Everyone knew that it were all pile of mud and wood. Less than twelve hours and his life had completely changed having come to a standstill. The hot tea touched his lips at a very slow pace, all the while he was thinking. How could he rebuilt his life again, his house again, which had took him more than five decades to build?  The time in the clock said six and how Dataram just remembered the same hands of the clock the previous night had proved disastrous. Someone had just switched on the radio. The Earthquake had struck the entire state and the casualties were piling up. Old Dataram looked at the radio and silently cursed. Life would never be the same, not for Dataram, and not for many more like him.

It was still raining outside. And when it stopped for some hours in the afternoon, Dataram (instead of even looking at the direction of his house, which no more stood at its previous place) directly headed with other men towards the village to take an account of the damages incurred. The heavy rain had caused severe landslides and almost all the houses in the village had suffered some kind of damages or the other. But more than that, it was the fear that was clearly visible in everyone’s eyes. And this fear would certainly remain in their hearts too for many more days, if not years.

The whole day it rained and also in the evening until night slowly started falling in this small hamlet. Dataram had still to knock him back to senses. He was still lost, having not knowing yet what would be his next step. In small villages and with daily wage earners, there’s nothing known as a Plan “B”. It is only applicable to those who have a bank, or a bank manager as a close friend. For the next three days that followed, Dataram and his family quietly took shelter at the neighbour's. Only on the third day, and when the rains finally stopped, he, along with a group of villagers, starting scavenging the piles of his ex-house. They also constructed a makeshift camp for the family, strong enough to keep them safe for the next few months, for, rebuilding would certainly take much more time.

September 18^th 2012

There was a huge commotion at Dataram’s house. Crowd were swelling at every nook and corner of the house, smokes swirled from the kitchen bringing along smell of freshly cooked meat and other delicacies, the small veranda had chairs placed all over and some village girls were busy pouring tea to the guests. Inside the house, in a room at a corner, a pundit was busy chanting slogans, pouring ghee and various other mixtures into the small fire lit at the centre. Dataram and his wife stayed at one side of the fire, hand clasped in a Namaste, humbly obliging to the priest strange requests, sometimes a fruit, then two coins, next some chandan sticks, white flower and so on. Outside were his sons, busy catering the guests, offering them tea, snacks and finally escorting them to a small bamboo makeshift hut which functioned as the lunchroom for the occasion. It was a very special day for Dataram and his entire family; it was the “House-warming Party”

The Rebuilt

Dataram’s two other sons were in the Indian army. They had just joined the force and had left for their training when the fateful Earthquake had struck. Though the two sons did never witness the night, yet the plight of their family was never hidden from them. It was just a matter of time, and when the boys came back home as men, they had a much bigger task at home before they could think of their country. Then the story began of reconstructing the house. What Dataram lost was an ancestral house of mud and bamboo, which not even belonged to him, what now was been rebuilt was a five room structure of cement and rod, a house which he might have never even dreamt in his wildest dream to own in his lifetime. He was just months away from realising his dream home, a house that would have plenty of rooms for the family, even for a couple of guests, and above all, he could have one room all by himself (which he would happily share with his wife).

The poor man’s day had come in the form of his two sons. He ploughed other’s field, harvested other’s paddy, grinded other’s mustard, yet never let his children go to bed hungry, keeping in mind he had ten hungry stomachs to feed every day. He himself never literally went to any school, but he was among the hundred others from his village that carried logs and stones for the construction of the first school in the village. This poor man knew that the rooms that he was helping to construct would be the classroom for his kids in the near future. His children went to the same school, and henceforth moved ahead in life, and today grew up to take the burden off their father’s shoulder.

The last time I went to my village, Dataram’s house was very much into construction. His family was still put-up in the makeshift camp, yet his wife poured hot tea for me. I was surprised it was sugar tea (if you know what I mean). His son was busy giving directions to the carpenter, and upon seeing me, came to me with the request for the design for the window panels.

Metres away from me stood old Dataram, a big grin in his face. The reminiscence of the earthquake was quickly fading from his life.

Hero….a short story by RoshanC

                                                                  Hero

     "Eight feet road and I am in the middle, how dare anyone touch me", the turbulent voice of the drunken man broke the silence of the night. Summer colds are always a little trying, and the entire village had retired to bed after a hard day’s labor. I could still hear his voice for the most part of the night. 
     The next morning as I strolled out for my daily jog, I found him lying besides the drains, near the corner of the street, half awake and still shaky from his previous night’s chore. His face looked like “stool-for-sample” and he smelled rats. There was nothing in the world he required more than a shower. He quickly recognized me with, "Hello, Two-by-Four!” I was 13 then and it was his accustomed greeting. He was still in his uniform, which meant he was on Patrol- Duty, not to forget "the Petrol" in which he had plunged himself the previous night. It was very early in the morning and the stillness still there in the streets. I offered a hand to him and helped him to his room, the Police Staff Quarters. While the Police Outpost was on the second floor of this rented building, the ground floor were occupied by shops and most importantly, a major portion by a Restaurant cum Bar. Someone said it very true; “One who sits by the well will never go thirsty.” This was mostly where he quenched his thirst.
     The walls in his room were so close to one another, like we can call it a Lilliputian Emporium. If he wished, he could light the gas with one hand and close the door with the other without taking the eyes off the reflection of his tonsure in the mirror. Except for a pair of uniform dangling recklessly on a rusty nail, a small table only to hold a gas burner (the rust screaming how it missed to see a spark from a light for ages), and a charpoy  which never embraced his body for more than a minute at a time.  The only window in his room never opened, his colleagues had hammered nails into it (his screams at regular intervals in his inebriated condition had been enough to the neighbors). No one ever visited his room, quite literally not even himself. 
     He had a “Bahadur” as his middle name but he looked senile. He had a ruddy complexion and potato nose, enviable black whiskers and a fine sonorous voice. When he was sober, he was a man of few words, I considered him to be a sort of cross between an old Country Singer and a Lion Tamer from a circus. The two most prominent features in him were his great sense of humor and the knowledge that he had stuffed inside his fragile skull. Knowledge he had kidnapped from his various sojourns and interactions with humble men, he could tell the proportion of water and muscle required to bake a thousand cookies, the count of nails required to scale the balance to a kilogram, the shortest verse in the holy “Gita”, the last king of Burma, the salary of the railway post-officer in the village and the number of bones in the foreleg of a cat. He had a laugh like a medium-sized dog. He adored kids, used to be seen throwing packets of candies on the streets for them, blubbering and cracking jokes. I still have a friend back home he nicknamed “hairy” (pronounced “HARRY”). He used to say,” Though we can hardly see him under his thick body hair, still he can have a western name”. Except for his drinking habits, everyone focused on his plusses. And that he had plenty.
     He was on the verge of his retirement after serving the police force for almost his entire life. He used to say he lost his virginity before the” Tricolor” fluttered at the Red Fort for the first time. With only a handful of teeth left, he could hardly chew a gum; liquid went easily down his pharynx. The last few years of his professional life thus went by whipping his steps in and out of the bar; the latter one hardly required his limb. But he was earning few thousands per month, which he needed to support his feet whether his feet would support him or not. And every night he went around with the same chores, high on methanol, hooting like some “Yankee “fan. If someone managed to catch him in broad daylight, he would be found grinning at almost anything and everything that crossed his path, with only two teeth prominent behind his dark parched lips, far apart from each other like some couple on the verge of divorce. And his punch lines were simply intoxicating. A cat was always a “pussy” for him; the village dhobi was always at his receiving end; his wife for him was but an “old -farting-lady”. And   his grin always buttered his sarcasms. 
     One evening I met him at the market, which always felt strangely deserted at late hours. The sun had just slid down the horizon, leaving behind magnificent arrays of red and blue over the mountain top. The day itself was reminiscent of what was left in the lonely evenings of this small village town, where men seem to have gone out like the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a witness. I almost didn’t recognize him that day. Since I was still yards away from teenage-hood, it felt like, “if it’s not him, then I never saw him.”For some inexplicable reason, he was not wearing his uniform, had kept unusually long beard, his hair ever seemed longer to me and his eyes as red as ruby. He took a gander at me, like the last soul he had seen, grinned the same old “toothless-baddie” type with the accustomed “Hello, Two-by-four!”  Shaking me warmly by my hand, he added; “How come you got up so early in the morning today?” I believe I stared at him for too long that he had to repeat it again. I moved my eyes far towards the horizon and mumbled. “Or is it late evening?” he answered himself and drowned himself into a breeze of laughter. His laugh always followed with a brief dancing, the “Cameroonian” dance in the soccer field types, like he might have just stumbled on the elixir of youth. He realized he had gone to bed but in the morning and missed most part of the afternoon. Even as I left in haste, I could still see his twin tooth from a distance. That is the last memory I have of seeing him in person.
     I was constantly tipped off about his stints in the town by someone or the other even while I was away. My friends found him one early morning bemoaning about a rather funny incident. A huge crowd, concoction of young and old had gathered around him. His anecdotes were almost always jocular, no one dared missed it. The topic of the day was his daughters. And since he had three, all of them eloped in successive months, the last one still a juvenile- the youngest of them all. As a father, he surely missed the opportunity of marrying them in great grandiose. But his concerns were relatively adverse. He was behind the “rednecks”; he (informally) called them opportunists. And the victims here were his “roses”. “Are my daughters’ rose? That just when they started blooming, someone just plucks it and vroom! Off they go.” The whole crowd burst into peals of laughter. His was the loudest. Even if he was liquored up, sober, blissful or in doldrums, he still could revive a smile in his face and in many others, a skill that takes years to develop and hone.
     It was quite late in life that I heard him retire. He came back to his village (which I shared with him), but it was only some time recently that I met him. 
     The day was relatively hot. The sun had stopped in the middle of the sky, refusing to move, firing missiles of heat down lying there unbroken and unnaturally still. My younger brother walked ahead of me as we crossed the dense orange orchard and reached our farmhouse. It was deserted, but obviously. Village life is strenuous, everyone busy as a beaver. It was my first visit to my village in years, and I yearned to make the most out of it, visit as many of my relatives, neighbors and my childhood “snot-licking” friends.
My uncle was out in the field and the farmhouse was deserted for the day. So we had to hop-in to our neighbor’s kitchen for a cup of midday tea. This was where I met our old-time baddie; couldn’t be for the last time. Since seeing him after a long hiatus, let me give you a modified description of him at present. Weight, 60; complexion, hair and brain, dark; height, five feet five; age, about seventy-three; dressed in a Rs 1200 suit of greenish-blue serge;  containing a bunch of keys and a packet of cigarette protruding from the only front pocket. He was balancing a stick on his one hand as he sauntered by in the lawn before making his way towards us in the kitchen. He carried a “ninety- nine- dollar” grin on his face, as if silently mocking us and sat down in a wooden chair beside me. A fancy Chinese goggles loosely dangled down his rabbity nose. That "Hello, Two-by-Four!” was missing.  The change silently irked me. I smiled back and carefully studied every wrinkle on his face which looked so familiar. “I observe that you are of a studious disposition” he said.  A strange smile ran across the kitchen, off the window and all over the place. I could sense that he still carried his charm with profound glorification and his best was yet to come.
     I offered him a smoke and that broke the ice. For the next three hours and over several cups of tea, I was still to be found gaping at his idea of bliss, which was different. When I told him that he looked younger, he went ahead comparing his age with every “fifty plus” in the village, and in the end, convinced us in positive assertion that he at seventy and three- was indeed the stripling. He closed it with; “And I intended to retain it, come hell or high water”. It seemed his every comment was finely measured, crafted and calculated. When I inquired about his drinking habits, my neighbor jumped into the conversation, mocking that he ceased as soon as he retired- with “peanuts”. Ignoring the flippancy, he gave us a competent figure that he was drawing as “pension-money”, and his motive of abstaining from booze was rather complicated. He was hardly frugal, his voice became softer when we spoke to us, and his jests were lighter; making him all the more alluring.
     To bring the best out of him, I chose to start our tete-a-tete in rather satirical phrases.  So when I noticed his teeth multiplying as he added numbers to his age astronomically, prompt came his reply; “Money buys everything these days. If only I could sell, my wife would surely fetch me a few extra bucks.”  His recriminatory remarks was so manifest here, yet he grinned, putting an effort to make evident that he had bought the whole set of 32. He initially had the first two incisors replaced with the fake ones. The only problem he had was while brushing them in the mornings. Since he had to manually remove them for the exercise, he could'nt hold water inside to rinse his mouth fully. You should have heard him say how the little water to rinse used to make its way out of his closed mouth through the gap, irritating him for the entire  morning for years. That is when he plucked out the remaining few and bought the whole set of 32. “I only feel younger, so much so that they gleam at the slightest sight of our village cougars.” 
     His transition from an alcoholic to his sober-self seemed too good to be true. He had no specific reasons as to how, when and what made that happen. Money he had enough, leisure was all his own, fetching a bottle would be at a stone’s throw from his house, yet he chose to opt out off the league. Spirituality? “Nah! Came his reply. I am yet to see a God in flesh and blood.” I tried another ploy,wanted to know more about his Police-ing days. " We were herdsmen in the begining,not policeman", is what he told me. And even before I could ask, he came up with his explanations of the same. He was posted in the extreme borders of the state towards  China , where Yaks were plenty and humans few. And since Yaks had unblemished records, the very few humans had nothing to do to outrage the policeman. " There were herds of Yaks that travelled from the Tibetian Plateau towards our side, and since these lost-herds were mostly unattended, it was our task, rather "job" of the police to round them up and guard them for days, sometimes even months until the owners turned up. Many a times they never did. And what do you do when you see hungry yaks in the morning around the camp? Take them out to graze right?  That is what we ended up doing most of the time of the year in the Himalayas. Now you tell me, were we policemen or herdsmen?" So he was a herdsman in uniform for almost a decade when he was called off towards more civilized parts of the state. In the himalayas, they had yak butter, yak meat and plenty of  yak milk to drink. The city had nothing better to offer him, and that milk was sold in bottles here: Brandy,Whisky and Rum.
     He almost jumped like a kid with his stories, talked a lot about his recent tour and pilgrimage, pressing hard on the fact that the most voyageous part of his life was only accomplished after he shed the uniform. He could barely read when he joined the force but he reads alongside his grandchild today, that he is now accustomed to see his wife in bed every night beside him (without getting scared in the morning), simply loves the way his fellow villagers treats him with profound respect, and not the least, he still finds humour, somewhere between everything he speaks and hears of. I mysely lost the count on the number of times I got an eye-full of his false teeth.
     The tea cup was still on my hand, dangling between my thumb and the index finger, the sun outside was but faint and ready to hide beneath the giant mountains as if they were scared to shine any longer, the room was already dimly lit with a 40W and the entire village gleamed in orange. He got up from the bench with a little support he got holding my knees and straight headed towards the exit door. He was still all smiles and I didn't need to know the reason why; maybe he was born that way. I took a look around, everyone had their eyes transfixed on him, as if we all were waiting for something more, something to seal the day with. Upon realizing that my mouth was half opened, I quitely closed them. I swear it didn't miss his eyes, for, upon seeing me gape at him relatively close, he dislodged the goggles, wiped it over the shirt near his bosom, put it back to his eyes and grinning the grin of a hyena said;
  "And I am the "Dev Anand" of this village." 

MIDNIGHT BLUES...A Poem by RoshanC

Moonlit night and deserted streets, 

Rusty path and silent breeze;

Hooting owls amid trodden feet,

Lonely hearts, warm yet freeze.

Teary eyes and trembling limbs,

A silent prayer in the lips;

Head held high towards the sky,

Wondering if someone hears my cries.

Glimpses of past and days of bliss,

Those holding hands and stolen kiss;

That stealing view across your window,

Those gestures with a gentle hiss.

Your rainbow skin under blazing skies,

Your rickety fingers, those glittering eyes;

Your gentle touch, the sublime smiles,

Your pestering and your somber cries.

Now you’ve gone and miles away,

Drifted apart, I’m fragile and astray;

Wish I could turn back time and say,

Make up your mind and together we’ll stay.

   TEARS OF A POOR MAN.......a Poem by RoshanC

Dwelling on a house of mud, and heart as those of gold;
Burden on their shaky back, have stories to unfold.
Barefoot they toil their life, their footsteps never falter;
A day for them is just a fight; for food, cloth and shelter!

Life for them is in the soil, death beneath the same;
The fruits they reap is all they have, happiness and fame.
The sun never rises on their head, sun sets on their shoulder;
In summers if they bathe in sweat, winters are as colder!

                           

Eyes full of dreams they live, even tears come with a price;   
A handful of joy is all they get, for sacrificing almost thrice.
Heads down in divinity they stoop, their faith in God is strong;
With sky their roof, and soil their bed, they wonder all along!

Days go by to years and decades, it's known time waits for none;
For in this world of tears and laughter, whatever done is done.
As we live the days in here, how often we try to see?
The scores of hidden pain inside; the drops of tears of thee!!!

The Silk Touch...a short story by RoshanC    

     

I held her hand and bubbled; “I’ll miss these days." It took me five years to hold them and it felt an arduous task. She smirked and then silently wept. Her rueful tears were aqueducts of our years of togetherness and now the detachment. We were at the terrace of her building and the arena just mystified me. I was leaving the place forever and somehow knew that days from now would never be the same. All my years of seeing her around me, all the excuses of brushing across each other whizzed past like a flashback. It was probably our last time in the terrace and the reality resonated so strongly. Her tears spoke volumes and I was running out of words. With a bedazzled look at the open space around me I left in haste, leaving her behind in the so-called eternal darkness. I was leaving...

A Few Years Back:

I had just instituted the habit of reading and threw myself into any genre that crossed my desk, be it comic, adventure and fiction; just anything. I had just done Eric Segal's "Love Story" and the next one on my hand was a Cosmo (politan). That is when she came into the picture. She smuggled some books for me from her Dad's huge collection and it never stopped. Sometime later, I found a small handwritten note, neatly folded and pressed along the voluminous pages. She had a beautiful handwriting but the content was heavenly. I clamored out of bed and all the bells rang in the tower of my personal church of sacred epiphanies. With happiness radiating off my words like supernova remnants, I barely managed to write a complete sentence. The letters never stopped since then....

There was something about her, something peculiar-some charm that she carried. Unlike most other 13yr old, she was glowing, amazingly witty, she was a gold dust; someone who could make me laugh and preen with pride. She smelled like a waft of paradise, had the most beautiful pair of eyes and a dimple created a whirlpool on her right cheek as she made the slightest effort to smile. Her thick black hair made way down her shoulder like a waterfall and she gently used to gesture her locks behind her rabbity ears. She liked chocolates and had terrific taste buds. She played the violin and was good with the paint brush. She was well read and had ample space, though immune to mundane topics. She was far more ahead of her age, a characteristic that got trapped into my imagination. I felt far behind her and two years older.

                        After the winters, I returned back to school. We were physically apart and the only string that attached us together were letters, and letters we wrote many. When most of my friends were engrossed into books, I was singing love songs perched from the guava tree. Any slightest opportunity, you could find me at the backyard with my friends trading my newfound love story. Ironically, the postman had become my best anticipated friend. This was to be the irony in my life for years to come. Every winter I used to be back at her place and those two months were spring time in winter for us. Sneaking to the terrace of the building we would be engrossed for hours at a stretch. She would prepare lunch for me, usually burnt naan, or like in many instances overcooked noodles. But her tea always made my day......serendipitous (on a lighter note).

The initial years were very demanding, like staying closer to her family and not letting my illicit desires unfold across, my pan-tilt-zoom eyes popping out of the socket, the finger gestures signaling whatever had to be our next move, and everything had to be anticipated with utmost precision. One such sojourn at her place, we found ourselves alone. My sister had gone for her vacations leaving the house under my surveillance. That day I got a chance to rest my head on her lap, playing with her hair and she caressing mine. She gently whispered on my ears;" What will you do if my parents oppose our marriage?” I was startled. Those lines were too titanic (read “big”) for our age, but the intensity in her voice and her farsightedness made me respond to her almost immediately. “I’ll come mounted on a horse and take you along with me like Prithviraj Chauhan." My rebuttal here was nothing but the fresh history lesson revisions. She didn't say a word and we stayed there in silence for a very long time. That was the first instances when we had made the earnest effort to take our relationship that far and the feeling left me in peace.

Seasons slowly unfolded every passing year and we still were hopping around. Age brought about many changes in us, made us strong every passing day and the letters simply exchanged hands. My letters were rather essays now and I equally cherished hers. Winters were still visiting my sister to be close to her, sneaking to her place (at the slightest opportunity) was my new-found hobby and I had by now befriended her Mom. “The best way to reach a girl’s heart is through her Mom."

That night her parents invited me for dinner. I climbed upstairs much too early and met her in her room.

We went to the terrace, one last time and there I held her hand and bubbled; “I’ll miss these days." It took me five years to hold them and it felt an arduous task…

The Weeping Tales…..a short story by RoshanC

                              

        Immediately as the lecturer left, I rushed towards my room. My mind was preoccupied with the new pair of goldfish that I had bought the other day. Winter was fast approaching and its survival was a challenge, both to the keeper as well as to the fish itself. I was beaming with joy as I found my new companions frantically chasing each other inside their tiny enclosure. Their energy just mesmerized me, realizing I should have got them a bigger pot. “Change the water occasionally. They’ll survive longer.” Recollecting the vendor’s words the other day that rang bells louder than anticipated, I rushed to the bathroom with the pot in my hand, Rose and Daisy still in their jovial mood inside. I named them so because I couldn’t imagine them as couples who would give me fingerlings some day. Also the anatomy of fish is something very tricky and I am no Ichthyologists. I tripped over my shoes on my way to the sink to fill the pot. I looked down at them accusingly, as if anyone but me could have put them there. A brisk kick dislodged the shoe to an undisclosed location somewhere under my bed. I would be hunting for it the next day.

        The washroom was at the farthest end of the hostel. It was a very big, three storied, drab looking twin building, and the shape resembling the alphabet ”H” with a long corridor at each floor connecting the two. I stayed in one of the rooms on the ground floor of the front building. The idea of staying further from the washrooms dreaded me, an idea I chose myself, for my room had all other adjacent rooms empty and unlike the rooms on the triplet floors above my head, I didn’t need to share it with anyone. My occasional bribing the hostel warden with his quota of rum gave me the privilege of sneaking a desktop, a cooking heater and an iron to press. And I liked the smallness of the room.

        It was just past noon and the entire building looked deserted with all the occupants headed towards their concerned department for classes. The silence of the hostel, though in the heart of the city, was something in sharp contrast to the looming presence of the dilapidated structure. The building in the back where the washrooms were for the ground floor occupants, was devoid of sun-rays, the dampness of the rooms were maddening and its creepiness made it highly insane for visits in the night.

Still holding the pot firmly in my hand I entered the washroom which no more had a door except for the rustic hinges indicating its presence some decade ago. Three basins ran parallel to each other with two taps missing its spigot. The mosaic on the floor was faintly visibly and the white painted walls were anything but white. One could even see faces on it on numerous occasions, courtesy- the big white patches of yin-yang like those we find on Rasta jackets. The floor was amazingly slippery and it had a smell which would throw your nostrils up for a toss. I visited it only twice in a day, one in the early morning and the other before retiring to my bed, in both occasions to pass a quick piss. Now I have to do it thrice, for the sake of Rose and Daisy. Right opposite to the basins were the bathrooms which surprisingly had taps, lucky if water ever flowed through, thus the purpose of having functional taps sarcastically justified. The only thing that worked smoothly in this end of the building were the bulbs, for the boys changed it themselves .The idea of visiting the washroom in the dark would simply scare the hell out of any sane individual.

        I quickly changed the pot with fresh water from the tap and ran my wet hand across the pot in a gesture to brush off any dust particles. The pot shone with pride and so did Rose and Daisy. The tiny marbles at the bottom made rainbow colors and the artificial grass looked greener. A smile ran across my face and I almost chortled. I heard a faint sound coming from behind. I had felt a looming presence of someone behind for quite a time now after I entered the washroom, but didn’t give much heed to it. I had felt it more than once before and every time I turned back, found nothing but the strange stillness of the room, often giving a chill in my bones. This time it was different. The air was warm and the sound became stronger and firmer each passing second. Before I could turn back I heard a voice.

        “Is there someone?” The voice came from one of the bathroom. Turning back I found the door partially opened and the bare back of the individual lying on the floor was partially visible. Before I could answer, he said rather incoherently “Hey, are you there? Oh thank God. Thank goodness someone came.” He was lying on the floor on his back and frantically trying to open the door ajar in an attempt to see me, or rather make himself visible. My curiosity propelled me and I drew closer towards the door which I gently pushed to open wider. I saw him and his eyes met mine. Tears rolled down from his eyes like it were just waiting for me to witness the downpour. I was numb with silence and had to pinch myself back from restraining myself from staring at him for so long. “Could you please help me stand?” his request came like a waft of cool breeze and I just sprang back into action. His voice was soft, cultivated. As I moved ahead to reach him, the grip of his hand made my veins choke for blood. “I slipped as I tried to get up after my bath and have been lying here for almost an hour now, he said. All my efforts to get some help went in vain, thanks to God that you came in to help me.” I could see in his voice that his spirituality had been exoticized. He was of robust built, slightly taller than me and I could smell the soap fresh from his bath. He was smiling now and I could still see the tear drops shining as it dried down his cheeks. There behind the bathroom door was a pair of crutches.

        His room was right across the bathroom and upon his request I walked him inside, the major burden of his body this time shifted to his crutches. There was nothing in his room that anyone would want. A dilapidated bed took the burden of whatever little belongings he had and all I could see was a small duffel bag over-pouring with his clothes. A small table, the size of a giant’s palm had a mirror hunched with its back against the wall, a soap-case which he dangled along his crutches as he came out of the bathroom a minute back, an incense stick holder with a small Ganesha idol behind it. A long bamboo stick lay beside his bed, the purpose of which I couldn’t figure out in my wildest imagination. I could sense his distress on not being able to provide me with ample space to sit, but I could think of anything else but sitting. “Do you stay here alone? I asked.” “Yes, all by myself”, he replied. The sudden silence of his room was now killing me. I left the room but not without a promise to give him a visit very soon. I forgot to ask his name and I also forgot Rose and Daisy, whom I later found at the basin, exactly in the same mood as I had left them.

        Back in my room I placed the pot on the table. I wondered why everything looked the same and yet something was different. My mind was still pre-occupied by the incident in the bathroom and umpteen questions inter-weaved inside my mind, the answers of which were far beyond my illustrated dictionary. Who was he? What was his name? Why the crutches? What’s his story? My eyes were now transfixed at the fish-pot and maintained an obstinate silence. The next day I had a computer test, but my eyes kept gravitating toward the window, making it impossible to concentrate. I wasn't in a mood for java and html. I couldn't sleep a wink.

        The next day in the evening I found myself in his room. I remember promising him a visit but never imagined it would be so soon. I had a wireless FM-player in my hand (which was lying dumb in my room for some time now) for him. I knew it would somehow kill the silence of his room. I did fairly well here. He was still sitting on his bed and frantically looking for something inside his dingy bag. I moved my hand forward in a gesture to shake his and then I smiled. And my smile was as wide and warm as the one he smiled in return. “Here, I have something for you” I handed the player to him. He cackled as he thanked me, smiling so that now I could see the row of white teeth that I never imagined existed. “Could you plug it there?” he said pointing at the switch right above his pillow as he handed me the player. I was too happy to comply, for his eloquence was always effective. He tuned’ the station carefully and the next few minutes he was lip-synching the song coming from the other end. The room would not be the same gloom and doom from now on as one would imagine. And I had found a new friend in Santosh.

        His peculiarity dazzled me. He was spiritual, elegant, and pure. Neatly combed hair, fair skin and big round eyes, he had a strange authoritative voice but very subtle, precise and crisp. His sedentary lifestyle never seemed to have any ill effects except for the extra fats delicately curved around his pelvis. The room smelled heavily of incense sticks. Ironically, even he seemed to like his room. He called it the attic, but in any illustrated dictionary an attic couldn't be a ground floor cubbyhole looking out on a brick boundary wall. This end of the building was quiet and moist, with an old rectangle of rusted iron; some faded flowery mosaic floors, overlooking a garden. In fact, it was hardly a garden at all. It had no plants or cultivated flowers, just an assortment of weeds and vines, along with pill bugs, ants, snakes, toads, and mice. The best thing in the room, however, was a large window with sliders, dusty panes that could be opened one at a time. And that was the only world that he connected to once inside his hole. His crutches were at the rear end of his bed and the long bamboo stick still drew my attention. I had to ask him, “What’s this for?” A rope holding his wet clothes ran parallel to the walls some feet above the ground opposite to his bed. The bamboo stick was for the wet clothes to make its way up, and later down. Call it an innovation, adjustment or rather compulsion, but this thing kind of challenged my orbit, if you see what I mean.

        I have whizzed past many people in crutches before, never rubbed shoulder with one but now. And this was different. There seemed to be no sign of cut or bruise marks in his body, he was fairly well built. His upper half of the body was contrary to his lower limbs that never responded to any stimuli. I had witnessed the tears in his eyes the other day, and now the new found happiness radiating from every little word he shared with me. My curiosity propelled me, I had to demystify the strange feelings and somehow I felt he would help me. “Tell me Santosh about your life and your family”. Only a moron would have missed the note of sarcasm in my voice, but it flew over him. All I wanted to know here was “what made him to take the help of the crutches?”

        In a secluded corner in the bustling city of Mumbai lived a family of three-a father, mother and a son. The son went to a modest school and the father managed to add an extra room to the shanty with his meager saving. He didn’t fare well in studies, so opted to start a small business right as a teenager. His luck struck and the father happily retired to bask himself in the midday sun in the declining years of his age. Then an incident happened, something tragic that threw their life topsy-turvy. Within no days, they realized that life from now would never be the same for them. As Santosh narrated his story, not once did he fumble, he was skittish and never reluctant to move ahead. Only once my eyes met his, and it was a guilt trip.

        On his way back home one late evening in his two-wheeler, Santosh was hit by a speeding vehicle from the rear. His body flung some meters away on the road, lucky not to have been run over by the passing vehicles. He found himself in the hospitals days after he regained his senses. There was a small “dot” in one of the nerve in his brain, enough to stabilize the movement of his limb; the doctors termed it Tetraplegia. Not a scratch apart from that. Henceforth, he had to take the support of the crutches all his life. His young eyes looked straight into mine and when he spoke, the words flowed from a wound. Not once did he make any recriminatory remark against the offender who hit him, the darkness that night had eroded every possibility of tracing the culprit and he silently accepted the truth. “But I had dreams which I won’t be able to fulfill, and I feel as though I have been flattened by a truck”. His voice stumbled and stopped. It hurt that much like hell; I couldn't find a scream anyway.

        I excused myself to get some hot tea for us and rushed to my room. The few meters I traversed towards my room felt like as though I was drifting on a sea without horizons. A poem by L.Servillon was ringing my ears;

                       "How can one smile such sweet smiles,
                       when one is so saddened by sorrows for miles…"

        

         I returned back to find Santosh exactly at the same place I had left him, only now he was wearing a very old coat that shined with age, it’s button missing at intervals. A very soft, cold breeze penetrated from the window pane which was still open. The cold air must have stung his lungs because he started coughing. I placed the tea in the small table for him and stretched ahead to shut the window. He took a sip from the cup, looked at me and smiled as if his face had forgotten which muscles it took to pull up the chapped corners of his mouth. “Nice tea”, he said and I was quick to remind him that I was from the Himalayas, the land of exotic tea. We shared some hearty laughs over the next few minutes over tea , his sad eyes lightening for a moment.

        He was crippled at 22. But his spirit wasn’t. His aging father was compelled to wander looking for odd jobs, his mother switching doors in the neighborhood cleaning dishes, washing clothes and stuff. And Santosh was here in the institute which had a special section for the handicapped. The word handicapped sounded so adverse to his nature. He was confined to this shabby room, far and away from the once vibrant life that he lived, or atleast dreamt of living. It was a blow of nature hurdled upon the innocent. He hoped to do some training to repair electronic gadgets and if lucky, earn a livelihood, again. “Life came to a standstill for me, he continued. But I take it as a challenge. I lost my business, lost my friends, even lost my normal life. But I still hope to do something rather than just be a burden to my parents. I can’t let my physical immobility come into the way in fulfilling my dreams.” His voice was more firm and dauntless as he spoke. There was nothing I could say to take away the hurt so I said nothing.

        The transition from a young and vibrant life to an institute for the physically handicapped was tragic. To wake up every morning with the first step in crutches is indeed painful. His normalcy now ebbing, life for him was spending most of his day with the deaf, the dumb, many blind or in some cases men on crutches. He was compelled to speak their language, understand their gestures, and try to find a smile amid the ruins. My eyes gently went towards the crutches deliberately lying at his arms length.

        “Do your parents come to meet you?” I asked quietly, hoping not to start another round of hysterics; he had finally seemed to calm down. A broad smile ran across his face as he told me that a cousin comes every weekend to take him home and drop him back later. I somehow felt it had struck the right cord. I stayed there in his room for a long time before retiring into mine.

        Back in my room, I stayed for a longer time with Rose and Daisy. The faint light from the street lights illuminated the creepers in the garden outside and the soft breeze waved the weeds into undefined direction. I clamored inside my bed and slowly went to sleep.

        Time flew by, and the winter was soon gone. Rose and Daisy now were by the table near the window languishing in the warm midday sun. I used to spend considerable time with them, feeding them, talking to them as I saw them growing each day into two beautiful red giants. They were as jovial as ever, and their well being was of utter importance to me. Every day after my lectures I used to rush to them only as usual. I also started to have Santosh's company in my room. I used to walk him inside, make him the best tea and often run the latest Bollywood flick for him. The smile in his face was always evident, pre-dominating his sense of loneliness. I tried my best to fit him in the world he truly deserved. And his smile was a testimony of my victory. I had also realized by now that he had a great sense of humor, garrulous, had a penchant for romantic movies and quite a stuffer. His characteristics were now over pouring, his real self was something that fascinated me, sometimes blew me off. He adored women and still dreamt of sleeping with one someday. I never played Hollywood flicks for him henceforth.

        Once, when his brother couldn’t make it to pick him home, I agreed to drop him. That day changed my perception towards life. His family’s broadness, strength and attitude totally whiffed me apart. His mother had the sweetness of honey drops, made some delicacies for me and kept my mouth stuffed the whole time I was there. She was an epitome of love, of affection and motherhood by far. They stood like pillar behind their son, never let anything discord him. I then knew that the womb that nurtures would nourish for lifetime.

        I frequented Santosh over the next couple of months. We could easily hear the FM-player blaring on many occasions all the way from the corridor, an indication that he was still inside. He had found solace inside that tiny shabby room, and he carried it with a broad smile. The paints in his room was now giving way into patches and the thick weeds outside the window made the single functional panel unable to open. Faint daylight made its way to his room which was always illuminated with a bulb.

        One day on my way back to the hostel, I found the security guard running towards me. “Sir, Santosh is leaving today, his course is over. He was asking for you. He’s at the car park.” I was numb and still. The wind stole the words and spread them out across the trees and the pavement and they kicked over silver trash cans. I could say nothing.

        I didn’t go near him, stayed at visible distance and waved him goodbye. It was the best I could do. He turned his head away. And when he looked back at me, we were both crying...