A FAIRYTALE……………short story by RoshanC

Part I (My story)
Sitting outside the shop in our silent village, covering topics that ranged from politics, unemployment, girls and family, we almost never got tired. The days were like any previous day, the same bunch of childhood friends and the same topics. I was just back home from my studies, winter vacation saw a gush of students returning back to this silent hamlet, for there was two months of home stay, having very less to do. Vacation here meant two months of practical home stay, so, an evening-meeting place was a legendary event we carried on from where our seniors left it. Outside the shop of a friend, there was a small wooden bench enough to rest five mature asses, the remaining lot had an option to choose whatever remained in and around, which mostly was the cemented floor, overturned buckets and the salt-sacks and so on. This particular spot was bifurcated into two halves, the mornings were for the village elderly who gathered for the same purpose that we did (not sure whether the "girls" were included) and they would disperse lazily to some pre-confined location for their daily dose of card game. And the second half in the evening was ours. Both the generation never crossed each other and this practice went on for years, and, somehow carried forward by our juniors at present.
We used to call it the “Unemployed Bench". And quite strangely, the name sticks to its meaning. An employed individual hardly got any chance to rest his back here. It was always us, either students or someone who's been job hunting for ages. The most worth thing commenting here is the topic that we covered. Everything that happened or was happening or was to happen started and later, would end in this particular bench. Your academic results, the harvest, the current scores in the recently concluded football match, the neighbors daughter who eloped with a driver, the swollen cheeks with your father's fingerprint embarked on them, pockets flaunting what's new in the market, sharing potato chips, cracking the latest jokes, mimicry, chilled bottles of beer(this used to be the late night inclusion) you name it...and the most important, or rather the closing ceremony almost every day concluded with someone's (new) Love Story. This was the topic that got the maximum number of ears. Love letters were the only modes of communication between two emotional fools, and, the carrier/messenger (mediator/letter-boy) was the only trustworthy figure during the time.
Hindi was not the language of the masses. But I remember a friend of mine whose "love letter" got leaked out to the public (the benchers) once. He humbly obliged to discuss the content of the letter with us at one such gathering. The funniest part was he wrote the letter in Hindi. When we inquired, he not only explained that he found it easy to pour his emotions in the national language on paper, the letter was nothing but dialogues picked from all the romantic movies that he had come across till that day. No doubt he was replied back in the same dialect. The Benchers burst out in laughter, many like me got stomach cramps too and this guy later went on to become the "hottest" member during our regime. Certainly this is just a peep into the world of the then "Benchers".
Such was the charm of this bench. Today, many of my friends would sure be able to relate to these bench (ing) days. For me, this bench reminds me of something else too. And the story I'm sharing with you all now, was just another story till some time, but now, I think it's nothing less than what they call a "Fairytale".
She came to the shop that day and was accompanied by her younger sister. She surely had a new face, for I had never seen her before. We Benchers were already at our favorite spot, right in front of the entrance and supposedly were early that day. What a galore of eyes that day, we had a new topic. As she went in, we did what we always did, starting whispering, but you know how guys whisper, and it’s always audible. Among the questions that were shot that moment at unknown directions, one obviously was: “Who’s she"? She the eldest daughter of......prompt came the reply and many bit their tongue. My eyes were tinkling, swallowed a gallon of spit and kept mum for a long time. The next thing we did was to wait for her to pronounce back from her secluded hidden sight to rush back home....and we did that. For we had plenty to talk that day and obviously only after she left. No-one could risk being audible then. Many eyes nearly popped off as she left, but sadly it was her back that we were staring at, hardly anyone saw her face, I did have a sneak peek and that was enough for the day.
Later that day, at the same spot, I went inside the shop to talk to the owner friend. He was my age and we shared a good rapport. I confined on him as he was jammed with information’s regarding our village, solely because he got a taste of both the halves of the benchers, the oldies as well as us. He read me much faster than I could imagine, and the next moment I was asking him for a pen. As he handed me a new ink pen I inquired whether he could provide me with a used one, for I only needed it once I said. The pen was worth Rs 4 at the time with a pump to drill ink at its back. Even the ink was the used one at his shop and I got a page from a small notebook on his desk, which he used to write his daily chores on.
That was my last proposal letter (how we used to like this word!!!). The anxiety that it carried of a YES or NO was the sweetest part of writing one. And of all the letters I had written for my friends till then, I hugely trusted my journal (which I proudly still do)The next thing was the delivery part. Keeping in mind the family she came from and also the village that I grew up in, I could never risk my chance of trusting a mediator or a "postman”. Either it had to be me or only me. In my village, the loudest you can do is fart. And you are considered lucky is no-one heard you. Words spread here like forest fire; for ours was a village that had persons nicknamed after television news channels (keeping in view the swiftness with which they caught with the news in and around). But luck had something for me this time too. I got my "postman" who would never tell anyone in the entire universe about my illicit desires even if he wished to. This small chap was dumb ("dumb" as in MUTE)He was born with the deficit only for the sole purpose to be my postman (that's what I think now). He was small, maybe 11 or all of 12 and was from the same village that she was from (she stayed a kilometer from my place) and used to frequent the shop where I used to pamper him. He got a chance to repay my good deeds and I became a master in disguise.
That was the very next day (it was a Wednesday) when, armed with a dumb weapon (my Mute friend) and spirit high on my hair-tip I marched towards her house. Her place was on the roadside and thus easily accessible. There was a small hairpin bent on the road above her house which could hide me from sight. There in the midday sun, I was to wait for her until she made it out. Remember, since she had no clue, I had to be patient. And above all, this dumb little friend of mine had no idea what the hell was going on all this while. This was my planning: Her mom was a teacher in a nearby school and she would be out of the house by 9 am. Her dad was serving the Government and I already got word that he had left early in the morning (this I managed to get from the mouth of a friend who saw him driving early).Playing safe and managing ample time in between, I made it to her place. I couldn't afford to take chances here and I left no stones unturned. And out she indeed came. Handing the letter on my new-found friend's hand, I just gestured him pointing at her and the letter. Trust me this guy was mute but very smart. He ran with the letter towards her and I too ran towards home as soon as I saw her getting it. I thought I would never see her again. I had dared to put my hand inside a tiger's den and I knew the TIGER very nicely (pun intended).
The following day I got her reply but rather a strange one. She had intended to see me. Not only my heart skipped a beat, horror stories ruined my entire day and freaked my night out. I had started it and intended to end it too. I took a shortcut that day, went through a jungle trail above her house and met her at her garage. That was the first day I met her and she had a complete questionnaire ready for me. I literally felt I gave an exam that day, and I still remember murmuring that I liked her eyes the most(that too was part of the questionnaire).And I repeated this for many years from then.
We started seeing each other from then, but time was very harsh on us right from the beginning. We tried to make the best out of the little time we had, she'd make excuses to visit the shop and I used to follow her footsteps on the way back home. We used to hold each others hand and make out for whatever time we managed every day. Sometimes it would be days without seeing each other. And quoting a small village, unlike any other place, such things like Love had literally no place in the society. We were committing a crime, rather boldly. There was always the fear of getting caught and we indeed ran into many people including her uncle. She was bold and would never mind holding my hand in public. This gave me enough courage to start seeing her near the shops and we soon were the topics for many. I started skipping my benching and guys did spoke about me, not only spoke, some also warned me to play it safe. I never paid heed to all that, it was my time and I wanted to live in it.
She was beautiful! To me she always seemed taller than the average girls; her fair skin almost glowed radiant in the midday sun. Her hands were soft like fur and her eyes seemed like the petals of rose carved with precision, small but amazingly beautiful. She had the innocence of a bird and equally gifted voice. Since she was a little chubby, her cheeks made hundred dimples without a slightest effort as she smiled. She smelled like the autumn fragrance as the breeze whisked pass her and her silence between the lines made my heart skip-a-beat. She was of valor and she was far more precious than jewels...
Spring came and the schools reopened. She left. I could never figure out that a few hundred kilometers of natural boundaries could be so strong to keep two hearts apart for so long. Those were tough days for me. I never had enough resources to keep track on what and where she might be, but it couldn't stop the slightest chance for me to see her. I didn't have someone to carry my letters to her, and posting one would jeopardize her in reasons more than one. She stayed in a hostel with her friends and I was still home counting days to see her again. I had memorized every holiday on her school calendar but was never sure whether she would return to the village or visit elsewhere. There were times when I used to see her family car drive pass me and it brought immense joy to be hoping to see her somewhere in-between those figures. But I never saw her. And once I planned to try my luck visiting her hostel. It didn’t matter to me if she saw me, but I had to see her. For two days I stayed in the same building on the ground floor occupied by my friend's family but didn't quite get to see her. Two days I stared up at her hostel hoping she might show up, but I still wonder if things had to be that harsh on me. I returned back home and never got a chance to go back to see her again. We just lost contact. It sounds so simple, but we both lost it.
Nineteen months from then, I heard that she was in a far-off town preparing for her final exams. The news came to me from an unknown source, but that very moment wiped off all the years I was waiting for her. Like an innocent child, the desire to meet her was still afresh in me. I had to break out the silence inside me, growing within me each and every month, season and year. All I had was the name of the Institute that she had enrolled herself for the winter crash-course and that was enough for me. I had a friend in that town and the next moment I was on my way. I had very less window then, with no cell phones and telephones the luxury of the rich (the towers hardly gave signals to say the whole "HELLO"). I just went to his place and did meet my friend. I was embarked there for three good days. He knew the address and we reached there. The Institute offered four classes each day and to find out her schedule was tough. Here too I didn't ask any of the students just in case wrong messages regarding her crops-up. So, for two days, I was in front of the building, sneaking off from a distance towards every student that made their way out.
I saw her on the third day. I still have it in my eyes...right here in my eyes. She was never so beautiful, had lost considerable amount of weight only to look prettier, the white t-shirt matching her fair skin and her soft gentle hands holding a long notebook. She was accompanied by a guy and both were all smiles as they walked. My friend made a gesture pointing at her and I was all smiles. It was only when he pinch me hard that I knocked back to senses. I did go ahead and meet her, all I could muster was to drop a small “Hi!” and “how are you doing”. She acknowledged back and said she had to leave, her eyes all over the young guy standing next to her.
That was it, the last word she spoke to me was," I need to go."And mine was even shorter...."OK".

Part II (Her story)
She went to the hostel with a very heavy heart. It was a new school for her, new place and fresh faces everywhere. She was lucky to have few of her friends from her previous school to confide on. And she did share everything with them. When she shared our story with them, they didn’t believe in a single word she said. She was in Love and was all praises. The very little time she shared with me filled her life with such immense joy that her happiness seemed surreal to her friends. They even went ahead to say that such a boy never existed. It was not me here to take the credit, but such was the bond that we shared. She was lonely in the crowd and used to weep her eyes off for days. Everyday her eyes were transfixed on the vehicles passing by hoping that I might show up some day. She always waited for my letters which never reached her. She would even go ahead to wave at people who resembled me the slightest. Hope was something that she carried for a very long time. The hope of her love coming back to her all over again.
Time flew and she lost it. She had to carry on; she was like any other girl, young and vulnerable. She deserved her share of happiness, someone to be with her, to cuddle her up in every step of life, to be her support and a shoulder she could lean on. But she always carried a heavy heart at the slightest thought of me and even after years, hoped that someday she would get a chance to speak her heart to me. But she never had the slightest idea that this would take almost a whole decade……..until she spoke to me one fine day…..
Part III (Our Story)
Love letters have paved way to social networking sites like Facebook and Twitter. Cell Phones are now the prominent weapon of the general mass. “Postman” is nothing but employees with no work in the postal departments and we would never require the “messengers” with whom we put our life at stake. It was one such networking site where I met her. Not to forget to mention here that I was always trying to track her all these years (might sound a little “stalker” type here). We had a formal chat once and both sides failed to crack the nut. The second instance created a much broader platform for us to open up with both sides ending up asking; “What actually went wrong between us?” This time we had all channels to be in touch, that’s when she spoke my mind;” I think we were born a little ahead of our time”. She was right. How we wished that things were as simple as now, the society has changed, technology and everything. But we still lost it…somewhere in-between.
It’s been a decade now since we first met. But somehow it only seems like yesterday. We spoke for hours that day and shared both sides of our story. Her voice had changed and it took me some good minutes to accept that, she still smiled at my tiny jokes and I’m sure those dimples might still be prominent. The things we shared, the moments we had, the hits and misses, everything‘s so afresh in our heart. It was not just an ordinary anecdote we shared, it was somewhat beyond all that. Today, time’s changed and we feel we still have our chances, the faith in ourselves and the courage that we can make up for all that we’ve lost and also the courage to stand for ourselves and face the world. But, the question that lies here today is;” Are we going to give it a try?” I had this running in my head long after we hung up the phone and I’m sure she too thinks the same. Our priority has changed in all these years, but it’s surprising to find that we still connect to from where we left it. Is this some kind of a signal? Would it be the best thing to do? Only time can tell us and time is all that we have now between us…
I will see her again, only this time I won’t hesitate to tell her that I came all the way to see her and only her………..

TOGETHER WE SERVED

……the inside story of an army

By RoshanC

As a child, every year in the Independence Day celebrations, I used to see this bunch of oldies, flaunting their trimmed mustache and thick blazer worn over their stiff body, chest high, neatly polished shoes, making their way towards the podium. They enjoyed the best seats and people constantly came forward to greet them. I remember thinking, "I wonder what their stories are? What did they do to earn the medals they are wearing?" My grandfather too served the British army in Afghanistan and was an II World War veteran. Though I shared the same legacy, yet he was too old to share his experiences with me, or, maybe I was born a little late. The answers to all my contradictions regarding the green uniform were to be fulfilled later as I turned a teenager.

Military was, is and will be for the brave. I never considered the military an option. I was pretty much a coward. The thought of running out of toilet paper was enough to scare me. But things changed as I gradually grew up to be a stiff teenager and it was mere coincidence that I got myself selected to serve my country as a soldier in the Border Security Force (B.S.F). I was very proud to be connected to my family’s legacy. That was cemented even further when I gave a “YES” nod to go ahead and accept the offer. Well, when I received the joining letter regarding the place and date, of all the probabilities I expected, Bihar wasn’t one of them. I was to report to a commandant at Kishangunj in Bihar, a place which reminded me of cow dung paste and biris, where ancient language still remains alive and spoken among the rustic folk.

“First impression is always the last”. How true. Ten young boys from Sikkim headed for Kishangunj after boarding the same train from New Jalpaiguri. It was late evening when we reached the border town (the hamlet is also bordered to West Bengal state of India). We were shown our beds and we didn’t waste a second jumping into it. At around 7:00 am sharp, we were whistled awake from our deep sleep, the shrill sound enough to pierce the ear drums apart. It took us another couple of minutes to gather-up what exactly was going around when one of our friend, eyes perched out of the window yelled out, “Everybody is standing in queue around the kitchen with plates in their hand.” By the time we gathered our sense back, collected our plates (which many didn’t even have) and rushed towards the single file line-up, a fat guy with a big moustache and a huge measuring spoon in his hand cried, “Breakfast Closed.” He was the Head-Cook.

That was my first day and I was officially baptized into the Military.

Early Days

My Grandfather was illiterate. Yet he signed in English. This was the most fascinating thing that I grew up with (to a certain age) when he finally explained to me that he was taught by his British masters to communicate in writing in Roman English. That explanation itself was Roman to my ears. Mostly because in Roman English, you spell in English, write English Alphabets and the end product is Hindi (for eg. Aap Kaise Ho?). A decade down the line, my first initial days in Military started with Roman English language classes. Not because I couldn’t write in English, but because we were a troop of 120 recruits, and, where apart from the 10 English speaking (and writing) Jawans from Sikkim, rest were the aboriginal Kannadas’ (native of Karnataka) who knew nothing besides their (tangled) local tongue. So, the first lesson I learned here was, “Walk together; Talk together.” It took them(surely including us) two thunderous months to master the language, master in the sense, enough to scribble their name and utter a few words in Hindi, which at any day didn’t sound better than saying hello in Patna with a mouthful of paan in your mouth.

Everything about the military schedule is fascinating, at least to the naked eyes of the outsider. Nothing is such when you step into the shoes. It always sounds good when you know someone wakes up at five in the morning, sharp and everyday in his entire life. What follows next is something many don’t bother to know. Well, after you wake up, they’ll make you run, run and run for the rest of the day. Tell me if that’s fascinating? Not if it’s something that you do for at least the next 20 years of your life. There’s time for breakfast, time to dress (and undress), time to bathe, wash, and outing, there’s time for everything. They’ll blow a whistle and the next thing you remember is running for something or the other. Sometimes it happens at such odd times that you realize you are running towards a common direction but clueless what’s going on. This happened most of the time (at least in my case).

So, the next few months I found myself running. And along me were the other 119 guys. On the first day, I saw everyone getting in line for food (including all breakfast, lunch and dinner), seniors, juniors, officers, cobblers, washer man and barber. And then I saw an elderly senior the other morning sweeping the camp area, a routine which we followed every morning before breakfast. This senior had thick grey moustache (a signature flaunted by almost all military personnel in India), a few grey hair atop his already balding head and surely was to be pensioned off in a month or two. What caught my attention was the thought of his family back home. His wife, draped in a nice sari running around the household chores, with yellow metals adorning the bare parts of her body, his children must surely be attending the best school/college changing fashionable attire each day. Yet, the head of the family is here among us, surrounded by Jawans half his age, but doing the same odd job. And he has had been doing this all his youthful days only to go back home as an elderly, ageing oldie, with a handful of money in his kitty and the remaining life introducing himself to his own neighbors. Even after retirement, his mentality (and also the peanut that he retires with) won’t allow him to enjoy the fruits of his hard labor. He will end up either as a security guard in some corporate office, or get himself a used car and drive a taxi or, in many cases, get a pair of buffalo and milk it.                   It didn’t take me months to realize this sad truth, maybe I knew it all the while but my vision which was blurred all this year’s finally got cleared. An old saying still rings a bell in my head,” If you want to know the bare truth of the world; join the military”.

We were on the fourth month of our rigorous training regime now. Every day was just like the day before. Here’s how the calendar for the next nine months stood for us:

5:00am:                     Wake Up

5:15-6:00am:            PT

6:00 -6:30am:           Breakfast

7:00am:                     Report to the Training Ground

7:00 – 1:30pm:        Training

2:00 pm:                   Lunch

2:30-3:00pm:           Rest

3:00-5:00pm:           Working

5:00 – 6:00pm:        Canteen Recess

6:00-7:00:                Night Class

7:00 pm:                   Dinner

9:00 pm:                   Lights Off

Apart from this, every night we were supposed to guard the premises for two hours on a rotational basis. That was our OJT (On Job Training), a reminder of what we would be doing for the rest of our twenty or so years, guarding the borders of our country. On one such night, I was guarding the mess area of our training camp. Within safe distance from me were a few of my fellow mates, guarding the respective area assigned to them. Altogether, every night would require at least twenty odd guys for the premises. It’s a pity that unlike borders, here we had to guard off dogs, cats, strays and on many instances, elephant. Our training camp was an isolated place far off from the residential area, somewhere along the dense forest areas frequented by the huge mammal. In the middle of my duty, I heard a guy crying on the other side of the camp. Though the cry was easily audible, yet I couldn’t see anything in the dead of the night, also owing to the fact that the guy was entirely on the opposite side from where I stood. I was dead sure that it was a friend of mine, but my obligations didn’t allow me to budge from the place I stood. Owing to previous experiences, it was pretty much evident that someone might have been caught off guard by one of the trainer, and like they say, his case was taken royally. Sleeping, or in that matter, even dozing off on duty is considered an offence so grave in training period that what followed next was nothing but physical punishment to the last extent. You would be slapped, bashed by sticks or whatever came handy, made to crawl on the floor for hours and what not. Something similar had happened tonight, for it was clearly evident from the cry of my friend from the other side. Who was it was the only thing that was on my head until I woke up the next morning? It was not a herculean task the next day to make out that face from a bunch of twenty, a face that would clearly flash the gloominess of the bashing from the previous night. When I finally rounded up the face, it was not much a surprise. The guy was none other than Venkatesha Raju Ningappa; the most renowned face as far as physical abuse was concerned in our training batch.

Together We Served

Ten Kilometers from the village of Mattur is a small city Shivamogga in Karnataka. Venkatesha Raju Ningappa, a college student from a very poor family travelled this distance every morning, not only to attend his evening lectures, but also manage six hours daily driving auto on rent. And every evening he would return back home with the day’s earning, meager enough to purchase some rice and a pinch of salt for his eagerly waiting family. This household was in true sense hand-to-mouth.

Ningappa joined the army along with us. He was 24 by now, dark complexion with charcoal colored hair, a thin layer of mustache already on his upper lips and giant at 6’2”. He was dull in every sense. His face never showed any sign of radiance, completely devoid of expression, he never mastered the most essential language Hindi, which added salt to his poor performance all through the training days. He scribbled along the written examinations, climbed the 6 feet wall towards the other end with all his limbs, he crawled the floor like a python fed on a deer, and jumped the trench like a limping dog. For the trainers he was a sore in the eye right from the initial days which gave them ample reasons to bash and thrash him at almost anything.

I had a special bonding with Ningappa. We were from the same platoon which gave us an opportunity to mingle around most of the time. Life in the Army is pretty simple; my friends are your friends. It’s not cutthroat. We’re like family. In times of difficulty, we rally around the people who are down; in good times, we celebrate together. Every slap on his face was a disappointment for us too, for today if it was his, tomorrow would be ours. We tried our best possible to help him surpass all his drawbacks and sail through, something that was highly regarded unachievable. He was already admitted at the hospital on numerous occasions, but every time he bounced back surprisingly. He never gave up. Training for him was like fast unto death, and here, even death had to pave way, for his fighting spirit for survival was worth mentioning. He was aware of the life here and the life after training too. He never found anything much bothering. The food was relish to him, the thin mattress was enough to keep him warm in the chilling winters, the gentle breeze from the tiny window entering the fan-less room enough to chill him in the scorching summers, and he took the slaps on his face with the guts of a kindergarten kid who just misspelled some alphabet. He never complained. The other night I heard him cry like a baby, loud enough to wake up everyone in the camp, yet, the next morning, still the finger marks afresh on his cheeks; he managed to share the details of the incident with a huge grin over his face. He dozed off while on duty and was caught red handed by a trainer who was awake to answer natures call. There were marks all across his back which would make it impossible for him to sleep in a normal posture for at least a week. The loud cry itself made it evident that the bashing was nothing less than the lashes people melt out on animals. Yet, he was prepared for a fresh day ahead as if nothing happened a day before.

Everyone knew that Ningappa would never complete the training; at least he would never qualify. His “Never Back Down” attitude raised quite a many curiosities in my mind. The first day I joined the Military and seeing the hundreds queuing for breakfast, I had made a secret pact within that the day I complete my training, I am going to head back straight home. It was not my piece of cake and it never would be. And leaving straight away was never a better option, for its common to be taunted for running away from military before completing the training. You would be branded a coward all your life, something that I would never digest. And what still makes Ningappa to carry on? No one’s even sure if he would complete the training successfully. Prompt came his reply,” Roshan, I come from a very poor family. We are four siblings and I have an ailing father at home. My mom has never stepped out of the house for more than a decade; she’s just busy with the household chores and off course looking after dad. I am the eldest of the four, so my siblings are still at school. When I was back home, every day on my way to college, I would drive auto’s on hire and return back in the late evenings with something to eat for the whole family with the days earning. There were days when I earned nothing and those were the days when I never went back home. I couldn’t bear the pain to see my family sleeping hungry. I ended up sleeping on the auto or even under the overhead bridges for that matter. Then I got a chance to join the Army. I have a decent salary here, decent enough to feed my family back home, send my brothers to school and manage to save a little for rough days to come. This gives me enough encouragement to carry on no matter what comes my way. I can bear the physical pain here just with the thought that my endurance is at the cost of my family and I am prepared to go to any extent”. It was enough for my ears.

                        After completing my training, I was assigned to the Bangladesh borders. Life was truly a ‘bed in the bush with stars to see. After serving for three years, I called it quits. Ningappa might still be there on the borders, serving the country (as what many people say the green uniformed do) but he always had his own reasons to be there. I still remember him fondly……. together we served!!!

"A young man who does not have what it takes to perform military service is not likely to have what it takes to make a living." - John F. Kennedy.