16/11/2016 0 Comments Evolution......My heart, a companion of the clouds
Soars towards the distant horizons Towards the endless void With lyrical pulse of the monsoon downpour; My mind glides on swan-wings, Amid slight, startling spurts of lightning; How the storm flashes her ankle-bells, Resonating with fierce delight! Mountain springs call out for a tempest Gurgling with deep resonance; Blowing in from the Eastern sea The wind gushes over Boisterous, bubbly waves of the river; My heart darts, stirred by a savage current Surging in tune with Clamorous branches of the forest groves. The above is a loose translation of a poem – “Mon mor megher shongi” - by my favourite poet, Tagore. It is not my translation, but one that I found on the internet and thought was quite nice. There is merit in the argument that translations can never do justice to the beauty of compositions in the original language. The essence is always lost. Poets have always painted a canvas of myriad emotions with a magical use of words - words when strung together in a lyrical manner carry the poet’s thoughts beautifully to us, the readers. Complex, yet beautiful, emotions are conveyed in this manner through words. Similes. Metaphors. Imageries. Thoughts that strike a cord in the deepest nooks of one’s heart. The poet is consummate in his manner of wielding the language as a tool as he casts a spell on our minds through his skilled use of words. Language. Grammar. Syntax. Yet, as recently as a few millennia ago, there was no language to speak of. Our species, Homo Sapiens, attained cognitive skills through the process of evolution about a hundred thousand years ago, but language skills appeared much later. Perhaps, the earliest words that man used to communicate with each other were nothing more than grunts or mere indicative noises. Earliest “written” communication was through paintings on the walls of caves, or carvings on stones. Words and sentences came much later. It is certain that verbal language developed much earlier than the written form. Language, as we know, is rather recent. In fact, it is an infant in evolutionary terms. Let us take the English language, for example. It is one of the largest spoken languages in the world today. Even the average reader of the English language is aware of the beauty of the writings of Milton and Pope, Wordsworth and Byron, Keats and Shelley. Through drama, ballads, epics, sonnets, etc, these poets have traversed the entire gamut of the language through their compositions. But, much as we might marvel at the beauty and complexity of the English language, the fact remains that the language is all but a mere combination of just 26 letters that form the English alphabet. Historically, the proto-sinaitic script of Egypt was the first case of the written alphabet, dating back by almost four millennia. The Greek alphabet came much later. Nevertheless, the different languages of the world evolved variously over the centuries into their current forms. Today, a reading of Shakespearean drama appears comparatively difficult to understand since contemporary English is significantly different from the language that the bard used in his plays. A language like Gaelic, for example, is nearly incomprehensible to the speakers of modern day English. Language has evolved over time. The following excerpt from Wikipedia gives a small example of such evolution – “The Anglo-Saxons began using Roman letters to write Old English as they converted to Christianity, following Augustine of Canterbury's mission to Britain in the sixth century. Because the Runic wen, which was first used to represent the sound 'w' and looked like a p that is narrow and triangular, was easy to confuse with an actual p, the 'w' sound began to be written using a double u. Because the u at the time looked like a v, the double u looked like two v's, W was placed in the alphabet by V. U developed when people began to use the rounded U when they meant the vowel u and the pointed V when the meant the consonant V. J began as a variation of I, in which a long tail was added to the final I when there were several in a row. People began to use the J for the consonant and the I for the vowel by the fifteenth century, and it was fully accepted in the mid-seventeenth century.” So, the modern alphabet did not just drop out of the sky. It evolved gradually over the centuries – adding, deleting and modifying the letters. In my native language, Bangla, there are two letters that I can immediately think of that are no longer in use – “ree” and “lee”. Language will continue to evolve as time goes by. The English of the twenty-fifth century, for example, will certainly be distinctly different from the English that we speak and write today. Coming back to what I wrote at the beginning – an admiration of the beauty of poetry and the wonderfully complex use of words as a form of language can easily make one become disbelieving of the fact that language once had very rudimentary beginnings; of the fact that language began with mere grunts and simple sounds among prehistoric cavemen. Yet, the truth is that it did indeed have extremely modest beginnings, despite the complexities of the modern day languages. Much of what we see as immensely complex and complicated in today’s world had similar elementary origins centuries or millennia ago. Prof Richard Dawkins’ “Mount Improbable” concept is a wonderful tool at explaining the above. It is a simple idea of a person standing at the base of a very tall, vertical cliff, looking upwards towards the top of the cliff. Up there, he sees a lamb standing at the edge of the precipice. The observer is unable to comprehend how a lamb, that has no wings to fly with, could have possibly reached the top unless it was deliberately placed there by an external agent. Hence, the name Mount Improbable! However, if the person just walked around the cliff to the other side, he would notice a gradual slope in the hill leading to the top of the mount. Once, he is aware of the slope on the other side, the manner of the lamb’s ascent to the top of the mount becomes a simple idea to understand. It becomes clear that the lamb has climbed up the slope in sure, but gradual steps. The lamb did not need an agent to place it up there. An everyday experience might explain this even better. We can see high-rise buildings all around us. With an explosion in the human population and a consequent shortage of land space, civilisation has been expanding vertically upwards. In Hong Kong, which I visited a few years ago, seventy storey buildings are a common sight. Standing below on the road, if one looks up, one can see people hanging their laundry out of their windows on the fiftieth or the seventieth floors. Yet, one wonders if anyone ever even pauses to question – “How did the people reach the seventieth floor?” We have become so accustomed to the knowledge that buildings are equipped with elevators to carry people to the upper floors that the manner of travel to the top floors is a never debated fact of our daily lives. Even in the absence of elevators, people can still climb to the top using the stairs – slowly, one step at a time. Yet, the well proven concepts of evolution are hotly debated and disowned by religious believers. The process of evolution works similarly in every aspect of our lives, without our even being aware of it. And, when we stretch our imagination backwards over millions of years, the evolution of species by natural selection becomes a not so difficult concept to comprehend. And, that is how we are here. Like the lamb on top of Mount Improbable, we were not placed in the Garden of Eden but arrived here in gradual evolutionary steps. Facts must be treated as facts and myths, well, as myths!
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15/11/2016 0 Comments Wodehousian panacea“What ho!" I said.
"What ho!" said Motty. "What ho! What ho!" "What ho! What ho! What ho!" After that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation.” The above is an extract from the book, “My Man Jeeves” by the inimitable PG Wodehouse, arguably the finest writer in English language since Shakespeare, and certainly a lot more comprehensible to the contemporary reader than Shakespeare. No admirer of any author would even begin to think of terming the author’s plots as silly, but with Wodehouse, silliness was the premise on which he created his magic. And, he wove his stories around this silliness in a manner that found few challengers in English literature to hold up the candle to him for over one hundred years now. Reading Wodehouse is an act that is so vastly different from reading any other author of any genre in literature – classic or kitsch. For one, nobody reads a Wodehouse novel with the slightest intention of discovering what happens next. Nobody ever wants to rush to the last page of the novel to learn how the script did eventually unfold. Instead, one just reads the lines slowly, letting the beauty of the language and the humour of the composition soak in. It is like sitting happily out in the garden on a cold winter afternoon and allowing the mildly balmy sunlight to caress with its warmth. Wodehousian magic is entirely, and entirely, about language. It is about beautifully crafted similes that seem quite impossible to even imagine until one actually reads them in the pages of any of the ninety-four books that he authored. A spontaneous guffaw is always the result. It is about the perfectly constructed sentence. It is about the beauty of the language rather than the plausibility of the plot. It is about perfectly mature adult readers becoming addicted to descriptions of outrageously silly situations which harridan aunts and bumbling nephews find themselves in. Now, if the afore quoted extract from “My Man Jeeves” sounds silly because of the repetitive use of a rather meaningless phrase “What ho”, the one quoted below from “Right Ho! Jeeves” (my all-time favourite Wodehouse book) conveys the comic “What ho” scenario in a differently crafted version. It is a conversation between Bertram Wooster and Gussie Fink-Nottle, the latter an avid watcher of newts (of all things in the world!). Bertie, of course, requires no introduction. Gussie : “… Colour does make a difference. Look at newts. During the courting season the male newt is brilliantly coloured. It helps him a lot.” Bertie : “But you aren’t a male newt.” Gussie : “I wish I were. Do you know how a male newt proposes, Bertie? He just stands in front of the female newt vibrating his tail and bending his body in a semicircle. I could do that on my head. No, you wouldn’t find me grousing if I were a male newt.” Bertie : “But if you were a male newt, Madeline Bassett wouldn’t look at you. Not with the eyes of love, I mean." Gussie : “She would if she were a female newt." Bertie : “But she isn’t a female newt” Gussie : "No, but suppose she was.” Bertie : "Well, if she was, you wouldn’t be in love with her.” Gussie : “Yes, I would, if I were a male newt.” A slight throbbing about the temples told me that this discussion had reached saturation point. No other author I have read had the ability to marry the magic of language with the inconsequence of plots like Wodehouse. And, to be able to do it with such finesse for 75 years of non-stop writing was not just remarkable, but clearly something that lay in the domain of the genius. In health and illness, in times good and bad, in moments of happiness and in the throes of depression, in summer and in winter … Wodehouse is my panacea. 14/11/2016 0 Comments A Cartographic Guffaw!How does one ‘write’ a map? In the same way that one writes a painting. Is that possible? Perhaps, not possible. I guess one cannot really ‘write’ a map, but one can certainly spin a yarn around a topic in the context of a map – a topic that arouses some mirth and some guffaws, given its nature. To be accurate, the guffaws are caused not by the topic, per se, but by the contents of the topic. If you are puzzled, you should be. Anybody would be. Anyway, anything humorous is usually a reason for a guffaw, but I suppose that with the exception of Wodehouse, there isn’t really much clean humour floating around. Most of the guffaw-inducing humour invariably has a yellow slant. But what does a map have to do with humour, especially when I tell you that it is a map of the world – you know, the kind that has all the continents on a single page with the Americas on the extreme left (west) and Japan on the extreme right (east)? Plenty, I tell you, plenty.
So, let us embark on a journey from west to east, based on the map that was published in today’s The Times of India. The map, printed at the bottom of page-7, contained just the map of the world and the names of some places marked by dots, that’s all. But, it spoke quite a lot. Since I do not have a scanner at home to reproduce the map here, I shall try to ‘write’ the map so that you know what The Times of India was actually talking about. I have employed the help of Google to fill in the details. These Americans are a weird lot. We know that they have a booming porn industry and have often been given to displaying a fascination for expressing their sexuality rather overtly. For some it is a queasy matter, but I suspect that for most, it is a matter of unmitigated delight! But, come on, is there really any need to be so graphic? I mean, we all know what happens to the southern parts of a woman when she is aroused. No need to be so descriptive! There is a 6,155 acre wilderness area located in the Coconino National Forest in the US state of Arizona. It is called Wet Beaver Wilderness! There is a river out there called Wet Beaver Creek, which is a perennial stream. And, it has one major tributary - Dry Beaver Creek! I wonder if post-menopausal women retire at Dry BC! We all know that men and women having sex eventually reach orgasm. Hell, is there any point in being so repetitive about this obvious fact of life? There is a town in Decatur County, Georgia, US, that has a twin city in Kalamazoo County, Michigan. These towns go by the name of Climax! Guess what? Climax has a neighbouring town that goes by the name of – you guessed it – Cumming! As, if it weren’t enough to have the Americans scream in orgasmic delight, the Canadians have a Climax of their own too! Somewhere near the American capital city of Washington, there is a place in Grays Harbour County with a population of merely 225 that seems to have a carnal fascination of the flowery kind. We have heard of kinky ways of men and women and even bestiality - a rather perverse and extreme kind of sexuality. But, ever heard of fornication with flowers, specifically tulips? The place in question goes by the name of Humptulips! The eastern coast guys seem to be very clear in the declaration of their sexuality and preferences. I mean, it is a great thing to be honest, but hey, can we be a little discreet please? The state of Pennsylvania has a village consisting of Amish folks, called Intercourse! We have to give it to them for being so correct of language. But, it doesn’t seem to have helped much though. The Amish population in Intercourse is a mere 1274! Intercourse, indeed! Austria might wish to take a leaf off the Amish correctness and consider renaming their own little village of Fucking! However, people living in Lousia County, Virginia, a little to the south of Intercourse, have a perfect sense of anatomy. If Intercourse is to the north, can they call their hometown anything but Bumpass? I think history is wrong about Bethlehem being the place of birth of Jesus. I am sure history is terribly wrong. Jesus was Canadian! There is no doubt about this at all. The only matter of doubt is whether he was born in Virgin Arm or in Conception Bay, in the province of Newfoundland and Labrador. This requires some more research. What can possibly be more embarrassing than having a vice president named Dick, as in Dick Cheney? A president with the surname of Bush! No, USA doesn’t have a place named Dick! Phew! But, their northern neighbour, Canada, have decided to make up for the omission by having Dick near Crotch Lake (how appropriate!) USA, not to be left behind, have complemented the Canadians by saying “Ok, if you have Dick on the north of Lake Crotch, we are going to have Gaylord on the southern banks!” Enough of American and Canadian madness! Let us travel out of USA. But before that, some guy in a town in Florida took a peek at his neighbour’s kukubird in a public loo and became inspired to christen the town Reddick! The Latin Americans are comparatively shy. They haven’t as many creative names of places as their illustrious northern big brother. But, Nicaragua has a sexy river. It is called Wanks River, while Brazil … well, they believe in being short and sweet (or is it salty?) - I wonder if Cum in Brazil also produces skilled footballers! Iceland has Horn. I am sure that the ice and cold weather makes everything as hard as a horn. What is the adjective of horn? Horny? France, of course, is unabashed about almost everything, but the Frenchman could have been a little polite in calling their own towns Bitche, Pussy and Condom! I suppose, some fun loving Italians from a town in Italy went to Condom in France on vacation. There, the rubbers broke during sex. Nine months after their return to their hometown in Italy, a whole bunch of illegitimate children were born. The Italian revellers decided to rename their hometown Bastardo! Ever since the accident, fellow Italians from a neighbouring town took their lessons well from their friends of Bastardo and made a policy of penetrating the other orifice to prevent pregnancies. Guess who these guys were? They were the residents of Arsoli! Hearing this, the Albanians on the west of France dismissed the policy of the residents of Arsoli as Crap! Austrians, a little way to the north, heard the story and exclaimed “Hard”! Germans, on the other hand said “You guys can keep all the Crap to yourselves. When we are Hard, we don’t do Arsoli, nor do we produce Bastardo, but we satisfy ourselves with a squeeze of the Brest!” Down south, the Africans, like the South Americans, are also a shy lot. Not too many loud expressions of their sexuality. They only have Tit in the middle (Algeria), Bum in Sierra Leone (look at the map, Bum is actually located at the bum of Africa!) and of course, Zimbabwe helps relieve the stress with a little Wankie! Turkey – once the seat of the great Ottoman Caliphate – realised that the best way to spread their religion would be by procreation. But how? Through Seymen, of course! India, we know, is the world’s biggest toilet. There is no toilet bigger than India. You can relieve yourself anywhere, any time. In Himachal Pradesh, when you relieve yourself by the roadside and if somebody exclaims in disgust pointing out at your produce, “What’s that!”, reply without batting an eyelid, “Poo”! Further south, in the butt of India – Andhra Pradesh – the fondness for the derrière usually results in Cumbum. Neighbouring Myanmar don’t just have a town named Dong, they even transact in Dongs, their national currency! The Chinese, historically bearing an inferiority complex about the size of their organs, have finally invented a magic cure for penile enhancement. The guy who invented the potion lives in Longdong Avenue on the eastern coast. On hearing of this invention, the Japs exclaimed sheepishly, “Kinki”! They even set up a university to research a better potion. It is called Kinki University! In exotic Thailand, of course, we have Phuket, a common destination for Indian honeymooners. The name says it all about why they choose Phuket! Now, remember what I told you about Turkey regarding proliferation through procreation. The Indonesians do one better than their Turkish brothers. They say, “Look, Seymen is fine for procreation, but to do it faster, you just have to Fakfak! However, if you don’t want to make babies, just do Anus village!” And, if the Turkish have their Seymen, the Indonesians have their own Semen Town! New Zealand, people say, is one of the most beautiful countries in the world. I am sure it is! With a place called Shagpoint, any country will look exotic! I wonder if it is a voyeur’s paradise! Finally, the Aussies! Them Mates down under are always in your face about almost everything - Tittybong, Iron Knob, Cockburn and aha, Blowhard! Needs no explanation, I hope. Did I already say ‘finally’? No, wait. Russia has Vagina somewhere around where Putin lives, and Iran – I can’t wait to certify how apt this is – has Shit right in the middle of that utterly screwed up country! Here ends my ‘writing’ of the map that appeared in today’s Times of India. If this has taught me anything, it is the wisdom of the maxim – A picture is worth a thousand words! 14/11/2016 1 Comment seductress........She lay there before me, seductive as ever, irresistible and inviting. It had been quite a while since the last time. And, this intervening period had me craving for her. I had left the city a year ago and ever since then our rendezvous had turned infrequent, being limited to my occasional and brief visits. In my one-room bachelor’s pad in the temple town where I now lived, I had spent many sleepless nights dreaming about her. It left me with a feeling so hollow that the pain of denial went down to the bottom of my belly – a tricky part of the anatomy to deal with! In the holy town, she and her ilk were taboo. And, my kind – the kind that had anything to do with her and her tribe - was scorned upon. Apparently, peddling of piety and trading of flesh did not coexist. I couldn’t care any less! She always wore a particular scent and this fragrance had me possessed! For the many years that I had known her, and the numerous intimate moments that I spent with her, her fragrance was unchanging. We had been introduced many years ago when I was still in college by two of my chums. They had been frequenters and I had followed them one day after cutting classes, with untold trepidation in my heart. What I next did was unthinkable, for I had been raised in an orthodox home by my religious parents. It was sinful of me! On her part, she had me hooked with her charms. It was love at first sight. One could argue that it was lust, not love. I shall not attempt to contest this charge, but it has been an undeniable fact of my life that I had been hooked to her ever since. I had landed at Calcutta airport less than two hours ago and had driven straight to her place! The thought of an incipient reunion had made the bottled-up emotions of longing quite unbearable. I cast a loving glance at her as she lay before me. She had lost some weight since I last saw her four months ago. Yes, she was a lot thinner than I ever remembered. Clients, I knew, preferred the plumper types. And, yes, she wore that same intoxicating fragrance. The place was its usual self – the same musty smell and peeling paints – overused and in desperate need to be cleaned. Previous clients had been careless in leaving stains on the walls. I squirmed at the sight! Outside, cacophonous clients were bargaining for lower rates. I recognised some voices. ‘The faithful lot’ I said to myself. Even age hadn’t stopped some of these old-timers from flocking here. They had all fallen prey to the lust of flesh. ‘Get lost if you can’t pay the rates,’ hollered the hideously ugly, toothless and pot-bellied man at the entrance. The elderly customer was stunned into silence for a few moments, but quickly regained composure and meekly submitted ‘Ok, ok, I will pay what you ask”. ‘Hooked once, hooked forever’ I smiled as I mused inwardly. Getting to the place was difficult. This was the only thing that I disliked about coming here. Even today, I had to negotiate narrow alleys and get past cantankerous rickshaw pullers. Yet, the aficionados preferred this place to the more upmarket joints on Free School Street, where the wares were more visibly advertised behind glass windows. Those were mere pretenders! I looked at her with hunger in my eyes and with the lust of a beast. Her allure was devastating! She had always brought out the wild side in me. I tried to control my urges. Nothing quite spoils it like rushing! I approached her slowly and gingerly ran a finger over her. She was warm, soft and juicy, just as I had left her three months ago. She may have lost some flesh – perhaps, effects of inflation that had engulfed the nation recently, I thought – but a mere touch of her skin told me that she had lost none of her charms. Did she quiver slightly at my touch, or was it my imagination? I spread her delicately, taking care to be gentle and slow with my fingers. I smiled naughtily at her at the sight of her juices that dripped down her middle. I brought my mouth close to her and with a swish of my tongue lapped up the delectable secretion. Her smell had me intoxicated. I could hold myself back no longer. I felt the juices gush within me and discarding all discretion that I had so far displayed, I dug my teeth into her flesh. The hooker had me again! It is not without reason that people have said for over a hundred years that nobody makes tastier sheik-kebabs than Nizam’s of Calcutta. 14/11/2016 0 Comments PARK BENCH....I.
The man staggered into the park, hesitant in his steps, his gait stooped by age. The skin on his weather beaten face was creased, browned by a lifetime of exposure to an unfair sun that seemed to have given him more than his share of sunshine. He stepped past the iron gate and stopped to look, unsure of which direction to head. The furrowed forehead that travelled to the top of his head was a creation of a hairline that had long been gone. The small, cringed eyes behind a pair of reading glasses betrayed his failing eyesight. He took a few steps towards the wooden bench that was set at a distance from the entrance, to his right. He stopped again and turned his head to the left, tentatively, the embarrassment of his presence in the park full of small children running about and nuzzling young couples clearly evident on his craggy face. He did not belong here or to this era. As if he was from another planet, sent to earth to keep an appointment - an appointment that he had counted down every day to this moment for the past twenty eight years. In this period of twenty eight years, he had watched his youth and vigour go past him. A robust man in his prime, his frame was now bent and unstable. The grey tweed coat that he wore to keep away the winter breeze was of the finest make, but the sleeves fluttered on his thin and wasted arms. His pair of black trousers was propped up by a tanned leather belt. His almost emaciated waist and hips were no longer capable of keeping the trousers in place unaided. Using the varnished walking stick that he never ventured out without, to support himself, the man slowly made his way, one faltering step after another, towards the bench. Every step that he took was a struggle, but the clenched fists and tightly pursed lips manifested his determination to keep the appointment. To say that it was just an appointment would be an insult to the man's resilience. It was this single hope that had made his heart cheat death - not once, not twice, but four times in these twenty-eight years. The music in his heart was still young, although the heart was shrouded in a body that was barely there. The man slumped on the bench, the effort clearly taking a toll on his frail being. His breathing was heavy. His eyes had turned foggy and a lone bead of perspiration lazily rolled down the side of his cheek. The man held on to his walking stick with trembling hands. The man sat on the bench, trying to regain his breath. Even this was an arduous task for him. After a while, he slowly raised his head and turned his sight from one edge of the park to the other, his eyes carefully surveying for any sign of familiarity, as best as they could. He had tried to reason with himself all these years that he was befooling himself. There was no reason to imagine that she would even remember him after all these years, leave alone recall a promise that she had made to him. But there was no way his heart would understand reason. She was the reason it had continued to beat, albeit weakly, for so many years. Her exquisite eyes had never left their gaze off him. Each time his weary body drove his mind into a slumber, he would see her looking at him. Those almond eyes were to die for and he wasn't going to die without seeing them one more time. He sat there, waiting, as the shadows of the trees in the park grew longer with every passing minute. As the shadows lengthened, the hope that he had nursed in his heart for twenty eight years began to turn to despair. He started to look around restlessly, feeling his sanity desert him slowly. His incipient delirium gradually began to blur the distance between decades of hope and an imminent despair. In such moments of nervous, despairing hope, he took solace in the poet's words. They had always given him strength. The man started to hum to himself. His voice no longer had any tune. It was barely audible even to his own ears. The words escaped his shrivelled throat in a cracked tone, the sound of the words making a strange cocktail with his wheezing. “Do winter evenings get this cold ?” the man wondered as he sat alone on that bench in the park. It had been many years since he had last spent an evening out in the open. Sixty-eight was an age when evenings were better spent sitting in front of the fireplace in his comfortable home rather than in a windy park on a harshly cold December evening. If his doctor had his way, he would have strapped him to his bed all day. The man pulled up the collar of his coat closer to his ears. The breeze cut through his skin like a razor. He no longer had much to boast of in the form of a body. The heat that his body produced would probably not keep a sparrow warm in this kind of weather. The last rays of the setting sun filtered into the park through the tall pines that surrounded it. The intoxicating fragrance of pines travelled on those orange rays of sunlight to the man. He inhaled deeply, as deeply his congested lungs would allow. Years of suffering from asthma had caused permanent lesions in them. The doctor had told him very matter-of-factly that the vessels in his two lungs had carried his death sentence in them for a number of years. Little did the learned doctor know that death visits only when the mind allows it to. He wasn’t going to go away without meeting her today. The man continued to sit on the bench as twilight slowly faded away from the western sky and plunged the park into darkness. He fought the bitter cold with his determination. As the dew started to descend on him, he began to wish that he had put on his woollen cap before leaving home. He ran his palm over his head and wiped away the thin layer of moisture that had formed on it. As the hands on his watch ticked on, his mind shuttled back and forth between hope and despondency. His body began to shiver, uncontrollably, in the cold. The chirpy little children who were playing boisterously in the park until a few moments ago, were all gone. A few couples slowly ambled out of the park in a manner that spoke loudly of their reluctance to leave the place. In the fading light, the man could still see a boy and a girl, presumably in their early twenties, fidgeting behind the trunk of a huge weeping willow that stood royally at one edge of the park, close to the bench where he was sitting. The man smiled to himself. At his age, he no longer had the same voyeuristic curiosity of younger men, but the movement of the shadowy figures of the young couple brought back fond memories to his mind. In his mind he could suddenly hear the rustling of her clothes as she hurried to put them on. She was wearing a long white sequined skirt with a white cotton blouse and a matching scarf that day. He recalled that it was a very cold evening like today. It was this same willow tree that had guarded their love making from prying eyes. It had taken him quite an effort to convince her to make it out with him in the park, under the open skies. The guard had accidentally stumbled upon them, interrupting their coitus. She had quickly pushed him off and straightened her skirt. He recalled having sheepishly smiled at the guard, trying to disguise his embarrassment, his nudity on full display. The guard had prudently walked away that day with a twinkle in his eyes, winking at him as he left. The man smiled to himself as he recalled the incident - he remembered standing there foolishly with his manhood left in the lurch, neither here nor there. His eyes turned to the willow tree once again, as he came out of his reverie. The couple was still sitting, clearly oblivious to the world around them as also to the severe cold that he felt. His body now began to shiver feverishly. The air in the park had turned icy cold. The man drew his feet up to his chest and circled his arms around his legs. His feet were frozen and raising them on the bench hurt his knees. The walking stick had fallen by the side of the bench. A tearing pain began around his ears and travelled deep into the insides of his head. He dug his head between his legs and tried to protect himself from the cold by pressing his knees tightly against his ears. The hands of the wristwatch moved on, the ticking of the watch sounding louder than ever before. II. I was startled by the flash of bluish light that came from behind the willow tree. I looked from my position on the bench. The couple that I had seen sitting there some while ago wasn’t there any more. In the light I could see the surroundings very clearly. The entire park was illuminated. The light seemed to travel to me and caress my body. It was a soothing experience, the kind of which I do not remember having experienced before. My limbs found a new vigour. The weariness that had taken over my body disappeared in an instant. I put my feet down on the ground and got up from my crouched position on the bench. My body felt light and lively. In the light, I could see the whole park before me, looking resplendent. I had not felt so full of life and energy in many years. I stood up and took a few steps towards the light. The honking of a car on the road just outside the park distracted my attention. I glanced over the fence that bordered the park. The neon displays on the shops lining the street had come on. The cars were driving down the road at double quick speed. People were returning home after a day at work. Everybody was in a hurry to get back home. I turned towards the light and took some more steps forward. It was no longer as bright as it had appeared at first. As I slowly approached the light, I thought I detected a movement behind the willow tree. I went closer, step by step. The light had dimmed. The rest of the park was no longer illuminated by it. Only the area surrounding the tree was now visible. I reached the tree and raised my left hand to touch the bark of the tree. It felt quite warm. Surprisingly warm, I thought. It had been a very cold evening today. I looked up at the branches of the tree. The wind rustled the leaves. I bent down and looked at the spot from where the light had seemed to come. There was nothing. I straightened my back and looked around. I was surprised that I had been able to bend down and get up without any discomfort, an act that I had not been able to carry out in many decades. I stood under the tree, looking around, a little confused. The movement that I had seen behind the tree some moments ago was not there any more. Perhaps an animal, I thought. Then, suddenly, I heard the rustling of clothes. That familiar sound of starched cotton clothes ruffled by the breeze. It was that same known sound from an age gone by. I knew it was her ! I craned my neck around the tree trunk. I saw her sitting there on the grass at the base of the tree, on the other side, her back resting against the trunk. She was wearing the same white sequined skirt with a matching white blouse and an embroidered white scarf. Her legs were stretched out on the grass, one leg over the other. Her skirt was neatly pressed out on her legs, going down almost to her ankles. She had placed her hands on her lap and her gaze was on her open palms. I nervously walked over to the other side of the tree and bent down to her. She raised her eyes and looked at me, her lips curled in a half smile. Our eyes met for the first time in almost three decades. My doe eyed love hadn’t changed at all in all these years. “I had begun to think that …..” “…. that I wouldn’t keep my word. How could I ever forget ? I have been waiting for this day for the past twenty-eight years” “So have I” I said, my response sounding almost a repetition of her words. I felt foolish. She held out her hand to me. I took it in my hand and felt her touch for the first time in so many years. I helped her stand up, her hand in mine. I kept staring into her eyes. They looked so serene and peaceful. I could see that she had kept herself quite well, unlike me. I felt a tinge of embarrassment. The skin on her face was flawless and smooth like silk. She looked nothing like a woman of sixty-four years. Thirty six would be more appropriate, I thought. “How have you been, love ?” the sound of her voice tenderly caressed every sensation in my being. “Not very good, I am afraid” I replied. “I have lived on medicines and on hope, just to live to see this day. I have wished every moment of the past twenty eight years to be with you. But I never knew where you had gone” A cloud of sadness descended on her lovely face. I had never seen her more beautiful than now. Her eyes were clear as crystal and a drop of tear had collected in one corner. “You don’t appear to have aged at all. You still look exactly as you did when I last saw you” I said, admiring her beautiful face. She touched my lips with her lovely fingers, as if urging me not to speak. She let her gaze drift from my eyes to my lips. Her lips quivered and she daintily closed her eyes, her face tilted towards mine. A drop of tear escaped the corner of her eye and rolled down her cheek, glistening in the moonlight that had now bathed the park. She rested her head on my shoulder. I let it lie there tenderly. Her tresses were fragrant and the breeze blew them softly against my face. I just let them be. I inhaled the fragrance deeply. My lungs absorbed all of it. We seemed to have lost sense of time and stood there like two young lovebirds, oblivious to the world around us. I felt a rare happiness in my heart. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. Time had come to a standstill for us. I asked her “where do you live ?” breaking the silence. “Very close to here” she whispered. “I will take you home today.” “It is very cold here in the park” I said “let us go”. She looked deeply into my eyes and replied with a smile “Yes, let us”. We started walking slowly towards the exit. The manicured grass felt like a carpet beneath my feet. She had her arms around my waist, holding me firmly. I had my arm over her shoulder, guiding her as we walked. As we came close to the bench where I had spent the entire evening, I saw a figure lying on the bench. I raised my eyebrows in surprise. I had not realised that there was another person in the park, save the two of us. She saw me staring at the figure on the bench, her face half turned towards mine. “Why do you look so sad ?” I asked, turning towards her. She shook her head, without answering, as we continued to walk towards the bench. We reached the bench. I saw a man lying in a foetal position on the bench, his legs pulled up to his torso and his head sunk on his chest, his back towards us. The man, although frail, appeared to be of good standing as his tweed coat and woollen trousers seemed to indicate. I went up to the man and shook him. He did not move. His body felt stiff and cold. A watch on his wrist ticked on, its luminous dial shining in the darkness. A large mass of cloud had covered the moon. I could not see the man’s face clearly in the darkness. He was an elderly, dignified man – sixty eight years of age, perhaps, like me. She ran her fingers through whatever little hair I had on my head. I turned to look at her. She shook her head once again, looking endearingly at me. The sadness on her face was more pronounced now. Her tears glistened on her lovely face. I understood. I turned once again to look at the figure on the bench. Looking at the man lying motionless on the bench, I felt a strange affinity for him. Even in the darkness, everything about the man appeared very familiar to me. Did I know him, I wondered ! “Poor old man” I sighed sombrely. “The cold must have been too harsh for him.” As I backed off the bench, I almost tripped on a stick that was lying on the ground. It was a fine varnished walking stick. I picked it up and placed it on the bench by the side of the man’s body. I moved two steps back from the bench and took her hands in mine once again and held her close. “Come dear, let us go home” she whispered into my ears. Saying so, she lead me out of the park. The iron gate clanged on its metal frame, closing behind us, as we left. A soft bluish hue appeared before us, lighting the path ahead with its soothing brightness. In its brightness, the surroundings disappeared into non-existence. We walked ahead, her hand firmly in mine. The honking of cars and the display of neon lights drifted away to another world – a world to which I no longer seemed to belong. 13/11/2016 4 Comments In SERENDIPITYThe sun shone brightly upon the beach. It was a sunny afternoon and the first day of the summer vacation. Families had thronged the beach. Small children ran about on the sand, mothers helped their sons build sand castles and the fathers lay motionless on the warm sand like dead seals, face down, hands clutching cans of beer. The life guards patrolled the beach, conspicuous in their bright red shorts. A small girl – I would put her age at around five years – was busy searching for something in the sand. Shells, perhaps? Or, broken pieces of corals that are often carried by the surf from faraway seas? Her parents, did you ask? Well, I am sure that she wouldn’t have come here all alone for she was far too small to have travelled alone to this sea resort. The parents must have been in the vicinity, but their identity I could not decipher amidst the huge crowd of vacationers. The girl was engrossed in her search. She caught my attention because she looked out of place and stood out in the midst of the motley frolicking crowd due to her rather uncharacteristic inactivity. I scanned the beach lazily with my eyes that were now beginning to feel a little weary. The beer was beginning to impart a mild headiness, not too strong, but just heady enough to make one feel good about being in such wonderful surroundings. Nothing seemed amiss and all was good with the world. As I lay in the shade of the colourful umbrella that I had rented from a very persistent and stubborn scrawny teenager for a hundred rupees, I felt drowsiness slowly descend upon me.
Found them, found them! I was startled out of my slumber by a child’s voice that shrieked ecstatically - found them, found them! I raised my head a little to see the small girl whom I had earlier seen digging in the sand come running in my direction. I squinted my eyes, suddenly blinded by the glare of the sun that had now perched itself in mid sky. Found them, found them…. the little girl continued to shout. I looked around. Nobody seemed to be interested in the child’s sudden discovery. Slightly annoyed at this sudden unwelcome disturbance, I allowed my head to fall back on the sand and shut my eyes again. Almost immediately, I felt a presence beside me. I opened my eyes. The little girl had deposited herself on the sand right by my side and even as I was turning my head to look at her, I could detect a cherubic smile on her face as she looked at me in a manner that indicated that I was a person she knew very well. I smiled back and raised my torso. Now half reclining, I stared back at her. She held out her tiny hand towards me. I looked at it enquiringly. In her closed palm she was concealing whatever she had found. She nodded at me, urging me to pry open her palm and look within. I raised my brow and curled my lips in mock interest and gingerly unclasped her fingers. There were two grains of sand in the middle of the tiny palm - two rather large grains of sand. I looked up and smiled affectionately at her – indeed a great discovery, sweetheart! She continued to smile at me. I felt that the smile on her face conveyed a sense of superiority, one that was omniscient in expression. Her smile told me that she felt I was trivialising her great discovery without actually understanding the importance of it. Look carefully - she commanded. Saying so, she picked up the two grains daintily between her forefinger and thumb and looking intensely at them the little girl remarked - they are a perfect fit. I took the sand grains from her hand and placed them on my palm. The contours of the two grains were irregular and had plenty of peaks and crevices. Nothing spectacular about them, I thought. The little girl seized the grains from me and said – look! She took each of them in her two hands and pinching them once again between her forefinger and thumb she brought them closer and closer till one fitted exactly into the other – the peaks and crevices of each grain were perfect complements of the other. She placed the conjoined grains on her palm and the two grains became one seamless, large grain of sand. They were indeed a perfect fit! It was impossible to tell any longer that they had been two separate grains just a moment ago. Intrigued, I stared out at the beach once again. How many grains of sand were possibly there on the beach? Millions, billions, trillions, zillions… What was the possibility that two grains of sand would be such a perfect fit? Negligible, I assessed. What was the possibility that two such perfect fits could actually be found on a beach by a human being? Zero! Yet, a small five year old girl had searched the beach and had actually discovered the two grains – yin and yang! I stared at the girl speechless. She continued to smile at me knowingly. What is your name, child? – I asked her. The little girl’s smile broadened. She looked at me for a while without speaking, smiling teasingly, and then replied in a soft and melodious childish voice – Destiny. I took the sand from her hand and inspected the grains again, this time with greater interest. I must have been engrossed in examining the details of the two sand grains for quite some minutes for when I looked up, the girl was gone. I craned my neck and scanned the surroundings. She was nowhere! I took the two grains of sand from my palm and placed them carefully inside the zipped compartment of my wallet. * * * * * The man woke up with a start. The dream had seemed uncannily real. He sat up on his bed and turned on the light. What time was it? He looked at the clock by his bedside. The radium hands of the clock indicated that it was ten minutes past two o’clock in the morning. He was a deep sleeper and it was unusual of him to wake up in the middle of the night. The man had often boasted to his friends that there wasn’t a more sound sleeper than him. It would usually take him just a couple of minutes to fall asleep at night and the next thing that he would know was that it was dawn. He could never recollect having had dreams in his life. But, this night, it was different. He had seen a face in his dreams – the face of a woman. And, she was right there on his bed, her face close to his, looking at him beckoningly. She had not spoken a word, but somehow it had appeared to the man that a lot had been conveyed. He had noticed her large sparkling eyes that had seemed full of life, her smooth dusky skin and a tiny black mole on her left cheek. The normally self-assured man was flustered. The vision was far too real to be dismissed as a random dream. Something inside him told him that there was a message that the lady in his dream had tried to convey to him. He felt as if she was extending a welcome to him to accompany her somewhere. Never a believer in the supernatural, the man would have normally been inclined to dismiss the vision as a sudden disconnected stimulation by a sub-conscious corner of his brain. He had read about REM - rapid eye movements - that was responsible for the dreams that human beings experience. Always a rationalist, his scientific bent of mind would never allow unfounded thoughts and beliefs to set up home in his mind. But, here, this night, he was up on his bed at an unearthly hour trying to figure out the meaning of his dream. He felt a drop of sweat trickle down the side of his cheek. He wiped it away with his palm. His heart was beating out loud. The features of the woman were too vivid to forget and her presence a few moments ago t0o real to ignore. The man had also read that although the human eye and brain can normally decipher colour in everyday life, dreams are always in black and white. But, now he was sure that he had seen the brown shade of the woman’s complexion and an even deeper brown of her full lips. The man poured himself a glass of water from a plastic bottle and drank it down in one gulp. He normally had hectic days at work and needed to be well rested when he woke up in the morning, each morning. Thinking about the series of meetings that he had lined up for the next day, he switched off the light and dug his head in the pillow in an attempt to fall asleep again. Sleep did not return to him as the woman’s face kept appearing again and again in his mind’s eye. It wasn’t the face of a bewitchingly beautiful woman but one that had a very endearing look – a look that one could warm up to without much effort. She was beautiful in her own way. She had looked straight into his eyes, mesmerising him with her stare and tugging at his heartstrings. Her look wasn’t aggressive at all, but more of a soft stare with an understated imploring to come to her. The man tossed and turned in bed all night. Who was she and what had she wanted? When the first rays of dawn came into his room through a crack in his door frame, he got out of bed and tiptoed out to the veranda to inhale the fresh morning air. Five nights later, he had the same vision again! * * * * * I jumped into the water off the country boat as it anchored a few metres away from the river bank and steadied myself by holding on to the gunwale of the boat after landing on the soft mud. The tiny waves softly lashed against my ankles. After the long journey, the cold water felt refreshing. Purposeful in my stride, I walked onto land and proceeded straight towards a cluster of shanties a few hundred metres downstream from where the boat had anchored. This was foreign land for me – totally unknown territory. I had never been here before, but knew that this was where I had to be at this point of time. I had to find the old tea shop where she had promised to meet. It had been six months since I first had the dream. In these six months, the woman had visited me in my dreams countless times. It was as if she had possessed me. It was a pleasant possession. Her presence had brought about in me a strange sense of fulfillment. In recent days, she had become a daily phenomenon. She would arrive the moment I fell asleep and stay with me throughout the night. I no longer slept soundly. My fitful sleeps often left me dozing off at work. This I managed to cleverly hide from my colleagues. I would rather be dead than be caught napping in office. During these short naps during the day, she would come to me. Every time. The rationalist in me was dying and the initial communication through subtle hints had been replaced by distinctly decipherable words – the woman’s words that were soothing for the ears and pacifying to the soul. I also found myself communicating to the lady in my dreams – through words. How my thoughts took shape in me or how the words formed I had no idea. However, they were spontaneous and were not disguised by inhibition or falsehood. I found my deepest thoughts finding expression when she connected. Together, our souls seemed to resonate to each other’s thoughts. This rendezvous on the river front was set up by her. She had indicated to me that she would be waiting here if I wanted to meet her in person. For me, the rationalist had already died and I found myself being pulled by an unseen force towards her. The destination was very clear to me, although it was the first time that I had crossed to this side of the river. With a haversack on my back that held my spare clothes, I walked down the road that skirted the river, towards the huts in the distance. Almost by instinct, I knew that these shanties had catered to the passengers that crossed the river everyday and served delicious food and drinks. She had said that she would be there waiting for me. * * * * * The man approached the cluster of huts and noticed that the place was abuzz with people. The crowd was more than he expected and for a moment he wondered if he would be able to locate her. He crossed a few huts, tentative in his steps and then stopped. Would she really be here? Was she a mirage, an apparition that appeared only in his dreams and would never be found in real life? Was he a fool in responding to the call of an image that had presented itself only in his dreams? He looked around. The tall man that he was, he towered over the rest and began scanning the shops for a familiar face. He found none. Only if there was a way of communicating with her, he thought! And then suddenly he saw her! Dressed in dignified brown pants and a pink blouse she was standing outside a shop, her back to him. He had no difficulty in recognising the woman. He had seen her numerous times in his dreams. There could be no mistake. He walked up to her and silently tapped her on her shoulder. She turned around, a shy smile on her lips, almost as if she was expecting it. The man’s heart pounded madly against his chest. It was her! He was nervous and he thought he also detected a trace of blush in her cheeks. He looked at her – the same face, the same bright eyes, the dusky complexion, the mole on the cheek, the smile….. “I have been watching you for quite a while now” she remarked, smiling. “I was scared that you might have seen right through me and not recognised me.” “Not in a million people would I ever not recognise you” the man spoke. For the first time in six months, the two souls stared at each other, in reality, not in a world of dreams. The man extended his hand and took her hand in his own. He gave her hand a tight squeeze. She squirmed and retorted in mock anger “what was that for?” “That was just to make sure that this is not a dream and you are not an apparition”. She smiled. * * * * They sat alongside at the eatery, facing the river, as daylight faded into darkness. He placed his hand on the table, palm up. She gently proffered her hand. He took it and held it tightly. Rough are the ways of men, the woman thought! Slowly he unclasped his hand and stretched out his palm against hers. Their palms had exactly the same length! “Look” the man exclaimed in astonishment, “our palms are exactly of the same length”. “Have you noticed that the shades of our skin are identical too?” the woman observed, further heightening the astonishment. In the six months of communicating, the two souls had realised that they had too many things in common to pass them off as mere coincidences. And now, even physical characteristics were similar. The man wondered what greater surprises this meeting of souls might have in store for them. He looked into her eyes. They told a story, many stories. They conveyed emotions – joy and pain - sometimes distinct, sometimes blended. The man felt a strange flow of electricity pass through his veins every time he realised that this was no longer a dream. As darkness descended, fireflies came on above the river. Hundreds of them! The two souls sat quietly staring out into the river, absorbing the magic brought about by the reflection of the fireflies in the river. Time stood still. Presently, it began to drizzle. The skies seemed to be celebrating this union of two souls brought about by fate. The drops of water sent tiny ripples along the surface of the river. A sudden spray of water got carried into the shop by a mild breeze and moistened the faces of the couple sitting inside. The man placed his hand around the woman’s shoulder and pulled her closer. She gently grabbed his arm and lowered it on her lap. Quietly, she snuggled up to him. The man could feel the softness of her breast pressing against his arm. A feeling of warmth enveloped him. Despite the proximity and contact, he felt no lust for her. The fusion of two souls seemed to have transcended the barriers of physicality. He looked into her eyes and smiled. She seemed to be lost in reverie. He slowly turned towards her and gently cupped her face in his palms. Her countenance shone in a rare brightness. He saw the soft mounds of her breasts rise and fall under her dress with her breathing. She looked beatific. She opened her eyes and half-smiled at the man. Slowly, her face inched closer towards the man’s face and her lips brushed against his cheek. The man turned his face towards her and looked imploringly at her. The certainty of his stance and the imperiousness of his gestures that had been in evidence only a while ago had deserted him. On his face was the look of diffidence and desire, bundled together into a queer concoction. He looked like a schoolboy begging for candy. He shut his eyes. Her eyes were shut too. Two pairs of lips met and the two persons, who had met in dreams, sat locked in an embrace of a lifetime. The boundary between dream and reality faded away into the darkness, as the flowing river water carried Time with it into the lap of the mighty ocean that had somewhere in the depths of its bosom given birth to two grains of sand that perfectly fitted each other. 13/11/2016 1 Comment WANDERLUSTRohit Malhotra had turned forty a few months ago but his looks did not betray his age. He looked a lot younger than his years. In these years of life, he had seen a lot and experienced every kind of lust. But no lust quite matched his wanderlust.
His motorbike and he, a pair made for each other, had hit the roads every couple of months in their travels to the hills. Together, they had covered almost every inch of the hilly terrain in Himachal, Uttaranchal, Kashmir, the North-east and all the way down south in the Nilgiris. Even at the height of militancy in Kashmir, Rohit had followed the tug of his wanderlust and travelled on his trusty motorcycle, riding between the bullets and never once getting hit. He had slept in an abandoned shed alongside the road in Kausani and taken shelter from rains for two long days in a small nook in a hill near Dhanaulti – surviving off dry fruits and rainwater. He had also lived for four days with a local Naga tribal family in Tuensang when he ran up a high fever. Life always threw him a lifeline when he needed one. Rohit rode on, gently pulling the throttle and feeling the engine rev up. At this age, he no longer felt thrill in speed but quite enjoyed the powerful purr of his 250cc Yamaha. He rode leisurely, occasionally stopping by the side of the hilly tracks to soak in the ambience of the mountains. He had an intimate equation with the hills and his soul spoke a language of silence that only the pines and cedars could understand. Rohit had left Shillong a trifle late in the morning, after a hearty breakfast of toasted bread, boiled eggs and delicious steamed momos served with a pot of piping hot coffee. The sky was a clear blue with nary a speck of cloud in it. The breeze was cool but not chilly. This was July, the peak of the monsoon season in Meghalaya, hardly the best time for a biker to hit the roads. But today, the morning was uncharacteristically sunny. It had rained continuously for many days. From the verandah of his hotel, which overlooked the lake below, he could see the green roof of the Governor’s House. The skies had begun to clear up since the previous evening and when the day ended yesterday, the sun had peeped out for the first time in many days. Rohit had sat at the window of his hotel room admiring the orange hue in the western sky. As Rohit rode his bike up towards Upper Shillong, the air grew colder. He had a windcheater on and it was doing well to keep the wind from getting to his skin, but Upper Shillong was a thousand feet above the town of Shillong and a lot colder. He rode on unhurriedly – for him the journey had always been more important than the destination. Yet today, he was a little more eager than normal to arrive at the destination. Since his days as a young schoolboy, he had read about Cherrapunjee, the wettest place on earth. He had planned numerous times to go to Cherra but had not been able to actually make it happen until now. “The wettest place on earth must be visited during the wettest season” he had told himself. Therefore, although it might have appeared foolish to most men, Rohit decided to come here during the monsoon. In the distance, two huge hemispherical orbs loomed large. These were radar stations which belonged to the Indian Air Force. The entire north-eastern territory of India was under the surveillance of these two radars. Shillong houses the headquarters of the Air Force’s eastern command and in the distance Rohit could see the buildings and communication towers. A chopper roamed overhead. Rohit continued on the main road, leaving behind on his left the entrance to the air command premises that bore a threatening board of caution, “Defence land. Keep off.” The undulating lands of the East Khasi Hills unfolded before him. The beauty of the land was mesmerising. Unlike the tall hills of the Himalayas, these were gradual in their profiles. The verdant hills and valleys seamlessly merged into each other with large meadows interwoven between them. Cattle grazed idly on the grass. A shepherd boy sat listlessly by the side of the road, chewing on a blade of grass, very like the cattle he had been sent to tend. Rohit waved at the little boy as he passed. In the distance, a plume of smoke rose slowly from the chimney of a house into the sky. Everything seemed so peaceful! Rohit had been warned by his friends that the weather could change suddenly in these hills. He could see that the sky was no longer the same azure that it was when he had started from Shillong. There were masses of clouds overhead and a dark, brooding firmament over the distant hills. The air was laden with moisture and it tingled in his nostrils as he rode on. There was something about the virgin freshness of mountainous air that could only be experienced but never quite explained. He enjoyed the sensation. The road dipped. Rohit turned off the engine and slipped the gear into neutral. He often did this while riding downhill. The bike glided noiselessly down the slope. The topography descended towards the plains of Bangladesh, which were still about twenty-five kilometres away. In the distance, there was a streak of lightning which was followed by a sharp clap of thunder. The sky had suddenly become overcast. Rohit took off his helmet and placed it on the handle, letting the rear view mirror jut out through the visor. He felt breeze pass through the strands of his hair. Sunshine was fast receding from the hills and shadows were beginning to take over. He looked to his right and saw that the top of the hill had already been enveloped in a cover of clouds. Here, in these hills, visibility changed very fast and as he travelled further, drops of rain began to fall. Rohit looked around to see if he could find a place to seek shelter from the rain that was now promising to come down heavily. He seemed to be alone on this road. The road was like a single strip of ribbon laid upon the hills. Rohit could no longer see the far end. It was already covered in clouds that had descended right down. The pine trees had begun to sway furiously in the breeze and in the distance he could hear the sound of approaching rainfall. There was a loud clap of thunder and almost at once the sky opened up over the man and his motorcycle. Rohit turned the ignition key of his bike. The engine refused to start. He tried again and again. “Drat! It had to happen now!” Rohit cursed. He brought the bike to a halt and got off it, rainwater streaming down his face and body. He guided the machine to a spot in the woods skirting the road. It is never a good idea to stand under tall trees in a storm but there was nowhere else he could have gone now. There were tall trees everywhere. So, he parked his bike in a small opening among the pines and cuddled himself close to the trunk of a big tree. The thick foliage of pine needles on the branches above provided a sorry excuse for a shelter but it seemed a lot better here than out on the road. Rohit continued to sit under the tree. And, the sky continued to pour relentlessly. Minutes ticked on and hours began to pass. He sat quietly. Daylight gradually began to fade but there were no signs of the weather holding up. Rohit pulled the windcheater closer to his body. The temperature had fallen and he was beginning to shiver. Cherrapunjee must be less than twenty kilometres away, he surmised. He tried to kick start the bike a few times. Nothing happened. Almost three hours went by. It surprised Rohit that not a single vehicle had passed by on the road since he had stopped here. He was drenched to his skin and the rain was beating down as heavily as ever. He began to worry about spending the night in the middle of nowhere, amid fierce lightning and deafening claps of thunder, possible wild animals and the potential of running up a fever in this cold and wet weather. He had been caught in the rain many times in the past but despite his extensive travels all over the country, he had never seen such torrential rainfall anywhere else. The Khasi hills were truly living up to their reputation today. His backpack, which held his essentials, was soaked and laden. He thrust one hand into it and pulled out a packet of dried fruits. He popped a few almonds and a fistful of raisins into his mouth. The morning’s breakfast had run its course and Rohit was now beginning to feel pangs of hunger. He began to think of leaving his motorcycle behind and walking towards Cherra. As soon as this thought crossed his mind, he cursed himself for staying put so long. Had he started to walk when the rain began, he would have probably reached the village by now. Rohit pulled himself up on his feet. His clothes felt as if they weighed a ton. Water trickled down his back and disappeared into the crack of his butt. Along the route, it tickled his spine. There are few things on earth more uncomfortable than soggy underwear, he thought, discomfited. He lifted his backpack and a stream of water drained out of it too. The bag was soaked and heavy. He slung the bag over his shoulder with effort. He ran his fingers through his hair. It felt matted. Leaving behind the bike, he started to walk downhill on the road. There was just enough light left in the day to see a few metres down the road. The trees had already turned into ghostly silhouettes. Rohit lumbered down the road. The road dipped some more and then turned sharply to the left. Opposite this bend in the road, in the fading light, Rohit detected the outline of a cobbled path that went into the woods, to his right. He walked up to the path and looked around. There was a signboard that had fallen into bad times. It stood askew at the entrance of the path. Rohit’s eyes lit up. If there was a path, there must be a house or a village close by that it led to. He dropped his bag to the ground and dug his hand into it. He pulled out his torchlight and focused it on the signboard. The torch lit up the area. The words on the signboard were barely visible, the paint having worn off with time. With effort, Rohit managed to read the letters. The signboard bore the name - Dr William Ashley, MD. Below the name was written “1876 - …..” The rest of the signage was missing. An arrow pointed in the direction of the woods. The town of Shillong had been developed by the British during the days of the Raj as a getaway from the sultry heat of the plains. It was the headquarters of Assam, an area that included all of the north-east and extended as far as Sylhet, now in Bangladesh. It found favour with the Englishmen, who were reminded of the weather and topography of their homeland. Endearingly, they had named it the Scotland of the East. Many Englishmen had built houses and settled down in Shillong and its surrounding areas. Some even married into the local communities. Rohit guessed Dr Ashley might have been one of them. He left the road and advanced step by step along the cobbled path, deeper and deeper into the woods. For the second time in the day, he felt foolish for having waited so long before venturing out of his temporary shelter by the side of the road. The beam from his torchlight showed the way. The path did not seem to have been walked upon very frequently. He strode on. A cat crossed his path. Or, it could have been a fox. The animal’s eyes reflected the beam from the torch. It disappeared into the trees as quickly as it had emerged. The path took several twists and turns. Rohit must have walked about half a kilometre when up ahead he saw, lit up by a streak of lightning, the outline of a house. In the momentary flash, he saw the tall spire of the house and its long sloping roofs. The house was less than a hundred metres away from where Rohit was standing. He felt a wave of relief and increased the briskness of his steps as he headed towards the house. The house appeared to be dark and without lights. During the flashes of lightning, Rohit saw that it was a two-storied house in typical English architecture. A chimney stuck out from the roof. The path curved and led up to an entrance that was blocked by an iron gate. Rohit shone his torch at the gate. It bore a nameplate – Dr William Ashley, MD. He tried to push open the gate but it would not budge. In the light of the torch, Rohit saw that the gate was locked from inside. A large padlock hung from the latch within. Rohit pointed the light towards the house. The building was offset from the gate by a patio of about fifty feet. The main entrance door was covered by an awning and had four or five steps leading up to it. On one side, between the house and the gate was another house – a small one - presumably servants’ quarters. Through a crack in the door of this house, a flicker of light escaped. Rohit picked up a stone lying at his feet and banged the iron gate with it. He struck it again a few more times. Receiving no response, he shouted out loud, “Anybody home?” In his excitement at having found a possible shelter to spend the night in, Rohit missed the fact that the sky had started to hold back. The downpour had been reduced to a drizzle and the streaks of lightning seemed to have retreated into the distance. “Anybody home?” he shouted again. For a moment, Rohit considered climbing over the gate and entering the compound. He banged the gate a couple of times more. This time, the door opened and a figure stood in the doorway. Rohit shouted almost reflexively “Hello, please let me in!” The silhouette at the door was of a woman. At once she disappeared into the house and then, within moments, returned with a kerosene lantern. In the light of the lantern, Rohit could see her face – the face of a woman in her mid-twenties. She walked gingerly up to the gate and raised the lamp a little higher to study the face of the unexpected guest. “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed and hurried back into the house. Confused, Rohit remained outside the gate, wondering if she had mistaken him for a resident of the house. But if so, why had she rushed back into the house? Soon the woman reappeared and hastened towards the gate. She sifted through a bunch of keys that she now carried in her hands and upon finding the right key, opened the padlock. “Come, come” she urged, “and just look at you, you are drenched!” Such hospitality in the middle of nowhere, under hostile climatic circumstances, seemed godsend to Rohit. He could barely believe his luck and could not help but reflect upon the irony that he had spent half a day just a stone’s throw away from here, collecting rainwater. He picked up his backpack and followed the woman as she led the way to the main building. As he stood under the awning, for the first time since the rains began he actually had a covering above him. The woman fiddled with the keys and turned the knob. The door opened with a groan. She raised the lantern and the inside of the room lit up. A musty smell of dampness hung heavy in the air. Rohit followed the woman inside the house. In the light of the lantern, Rohit could see that the room was very well appointed, with large and heavy wooden furniture, a rug carpet on the floor and a fireplace on one side. The walls had a large number of paintings and from the ceiling hung a large chandelier. Whoever lived here had inherited a fortune, Rohit said to himself. “Upstairs”, the woman said softly, smiling as she spoke. Rohit sensed a trace of suggestiveness in the way the woman smiled at him. He smiled back. Beyond the room was a wooden stairway that led to the floor above. The woman led the way. She tiptoed on the stairs, almost gliding up noiselessly. Rohit followed, his soaked shoes making sloppy noises with every step. Rohit felt a tinge of embarrassment. The elegantly waxed wooden floors deserved greater respect than this. The bedroom on the first floor was huge. In the middle was a big four-poster bed covered with expensive silk linen. The woman placed the lantern on a study table on one side of the room and went on to light an oil lamp placed in the middle of the table. As the room lit up, Rohit could see that the room did not have too much furniture. The bed and the table, along with a chair placed near the table, were the only pieces. An old grandfather’s clock hung from a wall but had long stopped working. The hands were frozen. As he was examining the objects in the room, he became aware of being watched. He turned towards the woman. Her gaze was fixed upon him. She had a pout on her lips and, Rohit thought, a come-hither look in her eyes. She was a strikingly beautiful woman. In the lights and shadows of the two lamps, he noticed that her blouse displayed a deep cleavage and a shapely bosom that rose and fell with her breathing. She was wearing a pair of loose beige pajamas, a type that Rohit felt was passé for the current times. The woman belonged to the local Khasi tribe, slightly mongoloid in her features but extremely attractive. “Your room, Sir,” the woman said without shifting her gaze from him. “I hope the bed is made well and to your liking.” “Indeed. Indeed. Thank you very much,” Rohit gushed, unable to contain his gratitude. The woman flashed a pretty smile and turned on her toes before gracefully exiting the room. As she left, Rohit’s eyes followed her. What a beauty! Rohit dumped his backpack on the floor and took out its wet contents one by one. He placed them on the table – his clothes, drenched but still neatly folded, the packet of dried fruits, a toiletry pouch and his passport, safely sealed inside a plastic folder. He took off his windcheater and then his shirt. He let them fall on the floor. Wondering what to wear, he looked around. Neatly laid out on the bed was a pair of cotton slacks and a shirt. That surprised Rohit. The thought that he had while standing outside the gate returned to him. Had the hostess mistaken him for another guest who was expected around the same time? If so, he could not help but wonder where the original guest might be in this wet weather. Rohit changed into dry clothes and went up to the table to blow out the lamp. A writing pad lay on one corner of the table. Next to it was a quill in an inkpot. He picked up the pad and flipped through the pages. Neatly printed on the top of each page was “Dr William Ashley, MD”. Rohit’s brows furrowed and for a moment he wondered whether he had wrongly read the year on the signboard on the road as 1876 instead of 1976. And, a quill in an inkpot! “This place is caught in a time warp,” he mused inwardly. He blew the lamp out and plunged into the soft, warm bed. After a trying day out on the road, this seemed heavenly. It was not long before he was fast asleep and snoring. The sound of a gun startled him awake! He considered for a moment if it might have been a dream. But it sounded so real and so close. Rohit sat motionless on his bed, his teeth chattering. Suddenly, he felt cold. Was the unnatural hospitality a trap? He quietly retreated from the centre of the bed to a corner. His heart was thumping loudly. Trapped between sleep and fear, he sat uneasily. The minutes ticked by but there was silence. Ticked? Rohit suddenly became aware that the old grandfather’s clock was ticking. He raised the finger of his right hand to the side of his neck. A vein was throbbing violently. The jugular vein! Cut it and a man dies in no time. An image flashed before his eyes – that of an African Masai slitting the jugular vein of a cow and drinking its blood. He had seen the ritual. Seen……but where? He had never been to Africa. But suddenly he knew that he had seen it. And, jugular? Where did he learn that word from? His knowledge of the human body was rudimentary. His only study in the field was in the form of women. Rohit was confused. Unconsciously, he started uttering, “Our father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come…….” It was a prayer that Rohit had never learnt ! The clock on the wall ticked on and its hands moved little by little. Then it happened again. One, two, three…..three shots. Three unmistakable gunshots! Rohit was now wide awake. But suddenly he was no longer nervous! Slowly, he stepped out of bed. Ever so slowly, he went to the table and lit the lamp. The lamp cast a shadow on the door. He walked to it and held it ajar. There was darkness outside. He looked at the clock. It was a little over midnight. He turned back towards the room. The red hue of the lamp fell on his face. His lips broke into a smile. He held his chest forward and taking long, determined steps, started pacing the room. He adjusted his bowtie and looked down at his sparkling tanned boots. The heels made a wooden sound as they landed on the floor. He saw his refection on the mirror that stood by the side of the bed. His sharp European features appeared more pronounced now. There was a tap on the door. “Bill?” queried a female voice. “Come in Jenny,” he replied, the confidence in his deep baritone unmistakable as he spoke in a chaste British accent. Jenny entered the room, the top two buttons of her blouse undone and her beige trousers showing no crease. He smiled at her and asked “Done?” A smile crept upon her lips and she nodded. He held out his hands and she rushed into them. The two of them tumbled into bed and presently all the garments came off one by one. She climbed on him and quickly led him into the throes of a hitherto unattained ecstasy. The bed creaked and the floor shook as his body rose and fell in uncontrolled orgasmic spurts. He slumped under her as she moved off him and almost immediately he slipped into a slumber. Rohit woke up, cringing his eyes away from the rays of the morning sun that had arrived upon his face. Slowly he opened his eyes and looked. A window was partly open and the sunlight had entered through it. The satisfaction of the night still hung on his sleepy face. He sat up on the bed and looked around. There was dust all over the place. The room did not appear to have been lived in for ages! He was startled. He climbed out of bed and went up to the table. His stuff was there just as he had placed them last night, slightly drier than before. The writing pad and the inkpot were no longer there. He realised that he had nothing on his body. The place felt eerie. He picked up his wet clothes and wore them. He hurriedly stuffed his articles inside the bag and made a rush for the door. He ran down the flight of stairs. The hall was in a state of disrepair. A rat scrambled across the floor. The chandelier was missing and the furniture had layers of dust on them. He pushed open the main door and came out onto the patio. It was a sunny day and the sky was blue once again. The patio was unkempt and shrubbery had invaded most of the compound. He stopped by the smaller house at the entrance and pushed open the door. There was nobody inside. The interior of the house was dilapidated and vegetation had covered the entire floor. Rohit felt a chill of terror travel down his spine. Horrified, he made a mad dash for the gate. The gate was open and looked like it had not been operated for centuries. He rushed out and continued to run till he could no longer see the house behind him. Panting, he doubled up and crouched on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Nothing seemed to make sense at all. He had never hallucinated in his life and everything of the previous night had seemed so real. Yet, nothing seemed real now. Rohit felt delirious. “Are you all right?” a voice behind him asked. Rohit was startled for the umpteenth time since he woke up. He jumped, terror written on every inch of his face. He turned around to find himself face to face with a young man in his late twenties. Perhaps early thirties. “Well, this is not a good place to be hanging around, is it?” the man quipped. “May I help you?” “Err…yeah…no….I want to get out of here….my bike….the road…” Rohit mumbled. “Relax,” the man said reassuringly, “let’s walk to the road together.” Rohit felt great relief at finding company. The two men started walking towards the road. The man began speaking – “This is an area that people usually do not visit. So, I am surprised to see you. They say that things happen here.” He looked at Rohit and chuckled. “Strange things happen here. It is said that Dr Ashley’s spirit lives in the house. Who knows! But the story of the Ashley Mansion is indeed queer. People who have had the misfortune of spending time in the cursed house swear that the doctor arrives in the night and unites with his lover – the traitorous Jenny.” Rohit stared ashen-faced at the man as he continued with his storytelling. The man paused and looked inquisitively at Rohit. “Did you see anything there?” he asked with a look of curiosity. Rohit felt his blood freeze. Words refused to leave his parched throat. He wished the man would stop his tale at that very moment. But the man did not. He continued. “Jenny was the caretaker Robert’s wife. A very pretty woman, shapely and well endowed. She attracted Ashley’s attention. Initially, the two met secretly when Robert was sent off on errands. Later, their meetings became more frequent and more daring. One day, Robert returned to find his wife in the doctor’s bed. Livid, he struck her. Then he turned to Ashley and punched his nose. He then stomped out of the house, leaving a weeping Jenny and a bleeding Ashley. He did not return that day or the next. Five days later, he did. It was late at night. He was feeling remorse for striking Jenny and had come to take her away from the mansion, away from the evil eyes of his employer.” At this point, the man stopped speaking and the expression on his face hardened. His eyes were bloodshot as he stared into the distant horizon. “Then?” Rohit asked. His voice was more of a squeak. “Then, he entered the house,” the man continued, “and lit a lamp. Jenny was sleeping on the bed. He went to the bed and sat beside her. He placed his hand on her shoulder and shook her.” The man fell silent. The two of them continued to walk. Rohit looked up and saw that they had almost arrived at the main road. With the distance between them and the mansion increasing with every step, he felt life returning to his veins. “Well, what happened then?” Rohit was terrified but curious. The man’s face became contorted and his voice changed. “Jenny took out a gun from under the quilt and shot Robert through his chest. He stumbled backwards and fell on the floor. She stood over his body for a long time and then shot him again and again and again. The bitch shot him three times!” Then, in a calmer tone, the man said, “There you are.” The steel in his voice had gone. They had walked up to the point where Rohit had parked his bike. “Can I get a repairman nearby?” asked Rohit. “No, sir, I am afraid,” the man answered, “You can get nothing here.” Desperate, Rohit kicked the bike’s starter. Miraculously, the engine purred to life! “Ah, it is working!” the man exclaimed. “Please allow me to leave now.” With that, he turned and started walking back towards where he had come from. “Hello!” Rohit shouted after him. He had already mounted his motorcycle and was ready to ride off. The man stopped in his tracks and turned to look at him. “I’m just curious,” Rohit shouted, “How do you know so much about something that happened a hundred years ago, and in such detail?” The man looked at Rohit for a while and slowly his face broke into a crooked smile. Then he spoke. “I am Robert Wallang,” he said and disappeared into the woods. |
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