Understanding Dudes - Dudism, its origin and ethnic culture

Yesterday night I was enjoying a quite stroll with Nimmo who was busy contemplating the jewelery she would want to wear at her sister's wedding while I was busy thinking of loans or better – suicide. Nimmo was saved of an early widowhood by a boy shouting over to his friend, 'What the f*** dude'. Unfazed by the use of a swear word, the other youth promptly replied, 'Dude! What the f***'. And deeming the conversation over, zipping their leather jackets they both rolled away on their bikes, leaving me impressed with this new form of conversation which was not only short and crisp but also let people swear others without any harm meant or done.


Keeping the idea of suicide on hold for a while (it was still 6 months for my sister-in-law's wedding), I followed up on swear words with a meticulous research on the subject and found that what I was looking at is not just an art of conversation as I had initially thought but infact a society now gaining popularity after years of torture, social trauma, injustice and sub domination. Little did I know that my misadventure was leading me directly into the world of – the mighty and revered – 'The Dudes'.


With the help of Ballu's son Bittoo who turned out to be a self-confessed converted dude, I delved deeper into their world and secrets and was mesmerized by the organizational structure of the dudes community. Bittoo, who preferred being called by his dude name – Hunter, was more than willing to share with me the secret and then if found eligible, convert me to dudism as well.


As it turns out, an aspiring dude should have the following characteristics in order to be referred as a true dude: a) A goti mustache just below the lower lip b) a torn jeans that always threatens to slip below the hip showing off unwashed boxers and c) atleast one 'f' word in every 3 sentence. These characteristics mixed with some chronic disorders of unkempt hair filled with lice, uncanny habit of not bathing for a week and sudden impulses of forming a rock band, together promise the making of a complete dude – since 1825.


Though now seen in huge numbers in the metropolitan areas wandering road sides or roaming in malls with dazed eyes and no specific purpose, dudism is infact a very old religion which was curbed by years of so called reformist propaganda. Those of us fortunate enough to study the dude lore can tell you that the first signs of dudism can be traced back to Mahabharata and it is often said that Duryodhana was the first dude to be born in India. Now a deity of the dudes, Duryodhana set an example for everyone by going almost pinto infront of his mother and hurling abuses at Krishna, as Hunter very proudly recalls reading from their sacred text – 'Ddudo Nahao Ddudo Phalo'. Dushasana, following the large and ugly footsteps of his brother was the first converted dude who tried, unsuccessfully, to convert Draupadi into a dudette. Dude historians however argue that Draupadi, owing to her husband management skills, was infact a dudette in disguise. The legend was famously depicted in the screenplay – A Very Dirty Picture.

During my extensive travels over the past few months, I met dudes from all over the country, fraternizing with them and understanding their culture. I found that though some typical qualities are spread across India, every region has its own kind of dudes. The dudes from Chandigarh are often adrenaline high and would jump on any occasion to do the most dim witted thing in the world because its 'Oye Cool Oye.'. The Delhi dudes on the other hand have recently devised a new language called 'Hinglish'. They often revert to this language to hide their inadequacies at English which according to them is 'Nahin yaar. This is not so cool yaar.'. Rajasthani dudes are the simplest of them all. They are all just Rajasthan Royal fans, though they deferred from choosing Duryodhana as their lord, choosing Shilpa Shetty instead - to symbolize dudette power. Anyone doing a Lux Cozi adverisement is a dude in Mumbai with all the links you need to become a penniless homeless model (or did anyone say gay?). In Southern parts of India, anyone with a good pelvic muscle which can be gyrated to and fro and misunderstood for being a dance can call himself a dude (Mind it!). Sadly, all the dudes in UP and Bihar have been killed either by the mafia or in a covert operation by Shiv Sena. “We won't let the most awesome dudes come from this region. Jai Maharashtra.”, they said in unison.

Bittoo a.k.a. Hunter also introduced me to his Holiness Monty-IV in my search for spiritual guidance under the laws of dudism. His Holiness, sitting on a red Harley Davidson very calmy told me, “Dude, A true f**kin' dude always remembers to love three f**kin' thin' – mah hair, mah i-pod and mah gal”. The “gal” sitting behind him cried in exclamation, “Mah Hero!”. Somehow I had a sudden urge to use the bathroom and puke. Sitting in the bathroom with no one around to disturb my thoughts, I let my thought wander around to the things I had observed over the past few months.


I summarized that dudes were the coolest people in the world. For one thing, almost every dude is a rock fan. And rock is always cool, isn't it? As a part of 'dude induction training', every aspiring dude is instructed to read, learn and appreciate every rock musician in the world. They also have to undergo a daily head banging therapy which is the only way to get lice out of your hair. Bathing is obviously not an option even for an aspiring dude. Bathing would be so uncool for a rock fan. A dude is supposed to be cool. So he doesn't mind his jeans wearing off from the bottoms or his Metallica t-shirt not being laundered for over a century. A dude is so cool he never bothers himself with issues like Lokpal and Black money. “Whatever,” said Hunter when he saw Prashant Bhushan argue why CBI should come under Lokpal ambit. But Anna Hazare was offered an honorary doctorate on dudism for being on stage more than Jim Morrison which he politely refused.


“A dude is so cool that I want to be a dude as well,” I decided. Flush.


I felt a complete dude (since 1825) sitting in my sister-in-law's wedding. I had given up the plan to commit suicide which was deemed as an undudely act by His Holiness Monty-IV. Instead, I bought a guitar, messed up my hair a little and sold my Maruti 800 to buy an Avenger. Touching my goti beard, I noticed the crowd around me. Many relatives and aunties had cried in shock when they saw me in a leather jacket, a chain hanging out of my rugged jeans getting off my brand new bike. But then - what did these people know about coolness. Sitting in a corner, I saw a few girls with colored hair, black nail paint and heavy mascara around their eyes. Definitely dudettes, I mused. I looked for Nimmo. She was probably away chatting with some aunties. I winked at the dudette with blue hair. She smiled. A dude always gets the “gal”. God bless the dudes.




Disclaimer: This post is just intended at humor and not to hurt any person's, religion's or region's sentiments. Please let me know if you have any objections to this post.

With Night and Darkness

I am not afraid of the dark because with darkness comes dreams...

Many before me have wondered the secret behind dreams and though any logical explanation is immaterial to the context, I would go with the popular belief that dreams are nothing but our innermost fears, our utmost desires and passions. Dreams are our own reflection in a very dusty mirror where even we didn’t dare look before. Dreams sometimes can be a way into the future or a reminder of the past and sometimes the horrors of present. And how we all love to live in these mirage of whirling emotions called dreams.

One such dark...

I flew across the deserts and saw life originating from sand. I travelled across the oceans to watch mermaids singing songs of love. I traversed continents with no borders. I was a spirit travelling the temples of India, mosques of Arabia and cathedrals in Italy. I talked to Buddha and listened to Krishna as they told me how beautiful the world is and how wonderful its creations are and that’s when, in a world of free will, I realized I was a writer.

I filled papers with black inks writing stories no-one read, poems none understood and words that haunted me all the time. I wrote about people I knew would hate me some day. I wrote about animals who I knew did not care. And I wrote about myself when I knew I will be dead in another few years. And still I wrote, pages after pages like a crazy person who got happiness in scribbling and tearing paper after paper. But tonight was different somehow, may be because it was a dark night or may be because I had finally discovered why I felt this crazy happiness.
 

And so with a smile, I looked around me and saw...I saw a world full of hope, a world where energy buzzed in the air like siren, a place where love prevailed, an impossible land where trees spoke words of wisdom to each other and wind sang melodies unheard. I saw a world free of pollution and untouched by corruption. I saw children playing in the mud, women saying prayer for the family and men returning home with hard-earned bread. And all these humans habiting this world had one precious gift – courage; courage to make dreams come true; and I knew that all those Gods who spoke to me were right. This world was indeed a beautiful place.

I saw my own house. I saw my reflection in the mirror which mercifully showed me sleeping peacefully. I went towards my study. I saw all the books I had collected over the years. Paper-backs and hard-backs of all dimensions, witness to the huge knowledge man-kind possessed and still lacked. I saw a small shelf with books written by me. I could see my name etched on every book in gold letters. But I was looking for one particular book I had written when I was still young. It was a book on dreams. It said something I couldn’t really remember now. I saw it stacked neatly in the middle. I picked it up. There it was, written right there on the first page. I touched those words and felt happiest beyond anything because these were my words – “Dreams are born in the night just to die in the morning. So in some ways dreams are just - born to be dead”

That’s when I woke up and continued being an engineer......and dreamt again and again of being a writer.

Over a Coffee

They must have read ‘A Lot Can Happen over a Coffee’ when they entered the dimly lit Cafe Coffee Day that lazy afternoon...

The girl looked hip in a lose white shirt, high pony and a lot of junk jewellery on her hands. The boy was tall with a simple black t-shirt, rugged jeans and spiked hairs. “College kids bunking classes,” I thought as I enjoyed a black forrest.

They both sat at chair opposite each other and ordered two cappuccinos. The girl must have said something funny because they both started laughing and talking loud suddenly. They were making fun of a couple in their college. And while laughing, the boy suddenly said, “You know what Maya, I think I love you.”

I watched as the silence from the girl filled the room. And then after some time, “Emm...Even I love you,” she said shrugging. They stood, went upto the couch and sat close together in firm approval of their recent relationship. As if to prove his point the boy put an arm around her neck. I believe they ordered one iced-tea and sipped it from the same glass as well.

Later, they walked out of the glass door (the boy paid, ofcourse) and I saw them standing there in the sun-light with their backs towards me. Their outline shone in the brilliant sun and reflected in the glass mirror of CCD. In that one captured moment, they were the most beautiful couple for me in the world.

“Modern Love,” I thought and continued my black forrest.

Last Night

Last night he – danced in the rain, laughed insane, drank like crazy, cried like a kid, blacked out and then puked...

Chapter 1:  Danced in the Rain

He was never a crazy person. He was someone we called – ‘living by the books’... But he loved chicken and was ready in a jiff when we planned to check out this new ‘grilled-chick’ joint in the town. I know he was talking to his girl-friend when we boarded the bus. How did I know? Just his expressions. No one else noticed ofcourse.

The status of our city had been – ‘too hot to handle’ for a very long time. I suppose (which I will later realize) that everything in ‘cosmos’ has its own reason. But how these chain of events are linked to us – we cannot say. And that’s why we were all surprised when the storm started. It started with the wind and then we noticed little droplets falling on the mirror of our bus, reflecting the light from in-coming vehicles.

You won’t believe me but I can swear that it started raining heavily the moment he stepped out of the bus. The food joint was half miles from the stop. We looked for a shelter and waited about five minutes when he said, “Let’s go” and started walking in the rain. “Adventure,” we all thought and followed him.

He was walking ahead of us. Alone. It was mesmerizing to watch his shadow forming strange patterns in the street light with the rain blurring his image. And then he started raising his hands. We all watched amused as he raised his hands above his head, did a round-turn and danced. He was humming a tune I cannot really remember. And then with his hands still raised above him, he looked up facing the falling water.

 Chapter 2:  Laughed Insane

He looked back at us. “I want to drink today,” he said.

Immediate plans were laid out to arrange the booze and get the chicken packed. While one went to get the food packed, the other ran in the direction of drinks. I looked for a shelter whereas he still stood in the rain watching. I later wondered what he might have been thinking.

I cannot really say what prompted him – but he started laughing. He looked at me and I smiled back with no idea why I was. He took a step back and almost got hit by the bus. “What the hell are you doing?” I went upto him and shouted. Completely drenched in the rain, he kept a hand on my shoulder as if reassuring me and started laughing again. I smiled besides myself. And then we both laughed  - for no reason at all. “What the heck, we are all crazy,” I thought. “What was he thinking?” is a question I pondered much later.

Chapter 3:  Drank like Crazy

The sweet bitter smell of whisky filled our nostrils as we filled one peg after another. I saw him sitting in the circle listening to all the stupid things we did in college and how those days would never come back. He listened to how we used to chase girls, bunk classes, play counter-strike late in the nights and got high for no reason at all.

And he kept drinking...

Chapter 4:  Cried Like a Kid

There are various phases one could experience while talking and drinking with friends. The first phase will usually start with – ‘cheers’. After some time it will come down to loud music and chatter. But when all this dies down and Pink Floyd starts taking over, I can swear I have heard things which in broad daylight, anyone would be embarrassed about.

It was during this phase that one of our friends was telling us about how he had lied at home and travelled the length of India just to meet a girl. He talked about those happy times - watching movies, laughing for no reason at all, holding each other’s hand and saying nothing and then his break-up.  

I guess people get more sentimental when they are drunk. May be that’s why I saw tears in his eyes. I am his friend. I should have asked him what was wrong. But then it is just this phase. “It will pass,” I thought and took a sip of whisky.

Chapter 5:  Blacked Out

I am sorry I almost forgot about the last phase...

“This thing what’s-it-called...Yeah Facebook...It’s it’s killing me. I am going to throw away this laptop,” he said as he swung his laptop with one hand almost sending it flying across the window. We had to convince him that FB is actually a social organization helping poor kids. So instead he opened FB – abused a few people, changed his status to married (which he regretted in the morning after a call from his girlfriend).

He stood, laughed over something and fell on the bed again, completely wasted.

Chapter 6: Puked.......

I saw him today morning. His room stank and he was snoring with vomit all over the floor. I should have been disgusted. I wasn’t, though. Instead I thought...

Here is a guy who slept in puke, cried like a kid, drank like crazy, laughed insane and danced in the rain. He is the guy who experienced happiness, the sheer joy of freedom, sadness, pain, ecstasy in just one night. And then, may be, he puked to let it all go just to experience one thing we never get – peace.

I am sure he won’t remember a thing when he wakes up. But I will always remember how he lived an entire lifetime in just one night. And to think of it, it was just last night.

Bed-Time Story : A very very short story

In very near future...

A little boy goes upto his mother and says, “Mom! Tell me a bed-time story so I can sleep”

The mother removes her I-pod, sets her chat status as ‘be-right-back’ and says, “But son, you can always you-tube them!”

“I can’t sleep with that you-tube story mom!”

The mother, bewildered replies, “Come son, then let’s just Google 10-best-ways-to-have-sound-sleep-while-watching-you-tube-story”

She changed her status from ‘be-right-back’ to ‘busy’. 


Nothing comes above a child’s bed-time story.

Price Tag

“Sneha, sing a song for us beta!”

She rose, adjusted her skirt and started. Everyone stared in wonder as the 7 year old sang the bhajan, Tu hi Rama hai, tu Rahim hai, tu Kareem Krishna Khuda hua...

“Looks like Saraswati herself resides in the little one,” commented one. “She has got a career in singing Madhu. Send her to Indian Idol or something,” commented another. Madhu beamed with pride as she saw her daughter playing with children her own age. She looked at the contrast as other children fought with each other over the toys while Sneha stood calmly above all of them leading them into harmony. “She is already growing up,” thought Madhu, “Soon we will be thinking about her marriage.” The thought brought tears to her eyes.

“Ma! I am going to Nandini didi’s house” “No I don’t want the milk” “Byeee!”

She turned to see her mother running towards her with the milk glass in hand. The doors to the lifts closed. She greeted Seema aunty on the fourth floor, specially went to meet Tuffy, Rekha aunty’s dog on the second floor and met Mohit bhaiya in the lift. He was a software engineer and was among the many bachelors living in the society. He often joked that Sneha was his best buddy and always remembered to bring chocolates for her from his trips abroad.

“Where to, Sneha?” he asked.

“I am going to Nandi di’s house bhaiya. So long. How is your job?”

“Don’t trouble your little mind with my job Sneha,” he laughed, “I bought chocolates for you from Switzerland. Care join us in the evening?”

“Wowz bhaiya! You are the best!” she said

“I know Sneha beta!” he said, “And yeah! Tell Nandi that Mohit remembers her”

“Okies!” she said and jumped out of the lift. She half walked, half hopped towards Nandini’s house.

Everyone in the society building knew Sneha. She was, as referred by many, the coolest kid on the block. She was intelligent, friendly and smart, all at the same time. She was far mature than the kids her own age. She never gave advice to anyone, not even children younger her age but still all people sought her out may be because her simple presence was comforting enough. Young couples in the society looked at her and wished they will have a daughter like her someday. But her biggest talent was her voice. She spoke bubbly like a 7 year old but her voice held the wisdom of an adult. Elders in the society claimed that nightingale herself sat in her throat when she started singing. At every school concert and social gatherings, she was the toast of everyone’s ears as she sang from Bollywood classics to Meera’s bhajans. Madhu was the envy of many mothers in the neighbourhood. But even Madhu knew the source of this extra-ordinary talent.

Nandini, Sneha’s music teacher lived in the same society. Sneha was just five when Madhu brought her to Nandini for music classes. It didn’t take long for her to appreciate the huge potential Sneha had. Soon she saw in her, a little sister she always wanted. She taught her all about the world of music and often marvelled how much the little kid already knew. Sneha, too loved her like an elder sister and respected her as a mentor.   

Nandini’s house was bustling with activity. People were shouting orders at each other. Nobody seemed to care that a little girl had entered the house. Sneha looked for Nandini but didn’t find her. She just saw a lot of sweets and a lot of girls she knew as Nandini’s cousins chattering excitedly. And then Nandini’s mother noticed her, “Sneha beta!” She looked like she had just run a marathon. “Nandini won’t be able to teach anything today”

“What’s happening aunty?” But aunty had already turned and had started shouting at someone about flower arrangement leaving little Sneha utterly confused about what she was supposed to do.

“Yo Sneha! Little baby, come here,” one of Nandini’s friend spotted her in the hall. She took her hand and led her into Nandini’s room. Nandini was sitting infront of the mirror. She wore simple jewellery and her hairs were tied neatly in a tight bun. She was wearing a beautifully embroidered red saree and was applying mascara in her eyes. She looked extremely beautiful, Sneha noted.

“What’s happening Megha didi?” Sneha asked Nandini’s friend.

“Don’t you know Sneha my love? Nandu, you didn’t tell our little sister here?” Nandini blushed but didn’t say anything.

“Your Nandi didi is getting married. The boy side is coming to see her today. Isn’t that exciting Sneha?” said Megha and started helping Nandini with her make-up.

“That means you won’t be teaching me music anymore Nandi didi?” little Sneha was heartbroken. She had heard her mother tell that every girl had to go and live at boy’s home after marriage.

“Sneha my beta! Ofcourse I will teach. Anywhere I go, no one can separate you and me. Now come here to your Nandi didi” she said stretching her arms. Sneha went and sat in her lap. This is how Nandini taught her all the ragas. Teacher and student – two sisters sitting with each other putting together a melody that vibrates their little world and rules their blood making them inseparable.

“Nandini are you ready? They might come any moment,” Nandini’s mother peeked in and declared.

“You have already said that hundred times ma! I am ready. Don’t worry”

“And Megha what are you doing here? Come there is a lot to do in the kitchen,” she said.

“Aunty looks like a warrior on a battlefield Nandi. She has the whole house at her command right now,” said Megha and went out leaving the two of them alone.

Nandini’s father had died of kidney failures. Whatever little money he had saved from his meagre salary in a government office was spent during his illness. From then on, her mother had taken it upon herself to take care of their only daughter. With an excellent voice, Nandini could have entered any music competition but her mother strictly forbade her. She didn’t really appreciate the short clothes girls had to wear on reality T.V. But she allowed her to take up teaching small kids. Even she liked little Sneha and listened to both Nandini and her when they practiced. Her only concern now was to see her daughter married in a nice home. She wanted the best for her only child. In the past eight months, four families had come to see Nandini and though they couldn’t find any fault with her, every one of them rejected the matrimony. Some said horoscopes and some made meek excuses. But Sneha’s mother knew better – the best always comes with a price tag they could not afford.      

Sneha looked at Nandini in the mirror and said, “Have you seen the boy, didi?”

Nandini played with her cheeks, “Yes! I have seen his photograph. He is coming today. Even you will get to see him now”

“Is he handsome like Mohit bhaiya?”

Nandini was taken aback but replied playfully, “No! Not like him”

“Does he too have a good job like Mohit bhaiya?”

“A better one, Sneha beta! And what’s this Mohit fixation of yours? Is he offering you more chocolates?” she laughed. She had once fought with Mohit for giving chocolates to Sneha which were bad for her teeth and voice.

Sneha looked at their reflection in the mirror. “You look beautiful Nandini didi”

“And so do you my little sister”

Somebody shouted that they have arrived. Megha burst into the room and all three of them ran towards the terrace to catch a glimpse of the boy. Sneha tried to look above the railings of the small balcony but couldn’t manage. Megha took her in her arms and made her to stand on a table. The three girls looked at the cars that were driving into the society. Nandini tried to hide behind Megha, afraid, the boy might see her. He stepped out from the car first. He was tall, fair with an air of authority around him. He looked around familiarising himself with the surroundings and then opened the doors for his mother. She was in her early 50s, an affluent looking lady with lots of diamonds which shone under the climbing sun. His father and mother along with some close relatives had arrived to see the bride-to-be.

“Hmm...Smart” Megha tugged at Nandini, “Mother looks a little arrogant. Atleast look at him Nandi,” she said playfully, “What do you think of your jijaji to be, Sneha?”

“Don’t call him that. Not yet,” said Nandini and pushed her too. The flower vase on the balcony fell two floors below at their feet. They all looked above only to catch a glimpse of few girls running away and Sneha standing alone on the table still watching them awkwardly.

“You almost killed him Nandi,” said Megha laughing.

“Wouldn’t that be fun?” said Nandini.

Sneha noticed the joy with which the two families met. Ladies of the house greeted each other with a Namaste. Pleasantries were exchanged and everybody looked happy. The only person who looked awkward among the crowd was the boy. Poor chap had no idea what he was supposed to do or say. “He looks o.k. Not like Mohit Bhaiya. But...emm...o.k. He could have got killed today though,” noted Sneha. Boy’s mother didn’t turn out to be as stern as she looked and said after a while, “Bhabhiji, we came here to meet our Nandini. But we don’t see her” She looked at her son and said, “Yes Ashish?” The boy said nothing may be because everybody had tried to stuff his mouth with sweets. Nandini’s cousins were not ready to leave his side while Sneha watched from a corner as Nandini was ushered into the room by her mausi.

Ashish stood to greet her as Nandini’s mother beamed with pride. Her daughter looked like a pari (an angel). She sat with Ashish’s mother who too seemed impressed by her beauty. Sneha soon became disinterested in the conversation which was mostly concentrated around Nandini’s education, her cookery skills and about Ashish’s job and his imminent promotion. She busied herself in stealing sweets whenever she thought no one was looking.

“Nandini, go and show Ashish around” said Nandini’s mother which was followed by her cousin’s giggles. They both stood and Sneha started to follow them.

“Sneha, stay with Megha” said Nandini when she saw her.

“Let the little girl come with us” said Ashish. This was the first time he had spoken to her directly. The sentence wasn’t a command. It was just...a sentence and spoken with such warm voice that Nandini knew that here was a man she could respect. “Infact she is the only one courageous enough to stay back after throwing a vase at guests,” he said looking at Nandini.

Sneha regretted coming with them. If adults were boring in the dinner room then these two were worse than them. “I should have brought some kajus along,” she thought. She was sitting in Nandini’s lap and there was no chance of going back as well. So she played with Nandini’s hand all the while.

Nandini looked at Ashish. The way he sat straight, the way he looked directly into her eyes and talked, smiled. The conversation came naturally to both of them. While he talked about his career in US and his food habits; she told him about her family and music. There was something different about him than the other guys she had met. They chatted merrily for some time when he said, “So what do you think?”

“About what?”

“I mean we have to tell them something when we go back right?”

Nandini didn’t say anything. She didn’t understand. Was she supposed to say she liked him? Or that she was ready to marry him? “Not infront of him atleast,” she thought. So she kept quiet and he waited...

The three of them went back inside. The mood of the room looked different than they had left. Nobody was laughing. The cousins were not there. Just the adults talking to each other. Nandini’s mother was close to tears. Megha came by Nandini’s side and took her by the arm to lead her into her room. Sneha too followed them. The cousins sat gloomily in a corner.

“What’s happening Megha?” she asked fearing the worst.

“Money,” said Megha slowly.

“But...He...No!” she couldn’t hold her voice, “Mummy?”

“You don’t wanna know Nandini. Trust me.”

“Enough!,” she said and went out of the room.

She looked at Ashish once. He said nothing. And then she knew...

“Stop crying like a kid mummy!” she said loudly. Everyone in the room turned to her. “What do you all want han?” “This?” She said removing her bangles. She threw them on the table infront of Ashish’s mother. “But you know what, even all this won’t be enough for you” She started removing her ear rings. “I suggest you to go put your son in a market and sell him to the highest bidder. And you” She turned to Ashish as she removed her necklace, “Just an hour back you were talking about courage. And you wanted to know whether I want to marry you? The answer is no. Now get the hell out of our house” She threw the last piece of jewellery at them.

Sneha had heard the shouting but didn’t dare go out. Nandini came back inside. She found comfort in her friend’s arms, “Megha!” she cried when her friend tried to console her, “I am tired, Megha. I am tired of wearing this jewellery again and again. Just look at me. I look like a doll on display, only in a cheap shop where nobody even bothers to look. I am tired of looking at mum. Just look at her now. Always thinking that this time everything will turn out to be fine. I am tired of the hope and sadness in her eyes, Megha. I am so tired...” And she cried her heart out. Sneha went and hugged the two girls too. Nandini wiped the tears with her hands and turned to her, “It’s wrong being a girl, Sneha. It’s so freakin’ unfair.” She took Sneha’s face in her hands, “Go back to your home beta. Come at regular time tomorrow” Sneha came out of the building with mascara from Nandini’s hands on her face...carrying the darkness of Nandini’s crying eyes on her innocent face, awaiting may be, for her own dark day. She didn’t know that darkness awaited from the day doctor declared she is a girl.

She looked at the numbers on the lift. She should press ‘6’ to reach her apartment. She pressed ‘7’.

“Right on time huh Sneha? Chocolates and you are so inseparable. And what have you done with your face?” said Mohit looking at the mascara on her face. “What happened?” He said noticing her empty expression.

“Some boy came to see Nandi didi today. She is crying now”

“Some boy? What do you mean some boy? Is she getting married?”

“She was getting married,” said Sneha.

“But that can’t be. She is so...” he stopped for a while, “...young. Who? What happened, Sneha? Tell me everything,” he said seriously.

“I don’t know bhaiya. Megha didi said something about money and then she started shouting and crying. I don’t know bhaiya. I had never seen her cry”

He was silent for a long time.

“I know. I know beta. She is always laughing, infact. Isn’t she? Remember that time when we used to play volleyball and I accidently hit her nose? She had slapped me you know and then had started laughing,” he said smiling now, “And the time she scolded me for giving you chocolates. Man! I had never met a more furious girl. But she looked better laughing. Didn’t she? And the voice! She could have been the next Lata Mangeshkar if she had wanted to, Sneha” He spoke while she looked on, “We were such fun kids, with not a worry in the world, celebrating birthdays, new years, making fun of the elders and then we... suddenly grew up, I guess” He paused for a while. “May be that is why aunty stopped her from coming out of the house and seeing me. We were growing up” He paused again and then said, “No, she was growing up. And then I went abroad...Now she is getting married. But I thought...I thought...there is still time” He was barely noticing Sneha now. He was walking towards the balcony lost in his own thoughts. Sneha followed. “Countless times I used to see her from here,” he said looking at the opposite balcony which was Nandini’s, “She never knew, ofcourse. How would she know? I never told her. I never told anything to her. But I thought...I thought...there is still time”

He was looking at the balcony hoping to see a sign of life again. He didn’t see any. Sneha tucked at his shirt, “Bhaiya...Why don’t you marry her?” She too looked at the opposite window. And then there was light. Nandini came out and saw both of them standing and looking at her...    

...In search of a happy ending for every princess...

Chauraha

“Beta! What would you like to become when you grow up?” The favorite question of my aunt’s cousin twice removed. I never understood that relation my whole life. But whoever she was I loved my Aunt’s cousin twice removed because she always brought huge packets of chocolate for me. But the question remained. What would I like to become when I grow up. This was also the favorite question of Anita Aunty, Sushma Aunty and all the Aunties whose son were in IITs or other big engineering colleges. I always thought…

What the hell do these people mean by ‘Beta! when you grow up’. I was grown up. After all I was 5 years old and was already getting to understand the spellings of ‘enginir’ and  ‘doctar.

Yes! I was a 5 year old ‘bacha’ trying to figure out what I would be when I am 22 or 23 years old! I am sure if you had asked Pamela Anderson the same question, she would have died of heart attack. How could I take such a big decision on my future when my favorite hobby was still eating mud at home and teacher’s brain at school.

But I had a ready-made example personified in my own house. My bhaiya Tarun. “Oh! Look at him. He is so intelligent”, my teary eyed mother would often say. “See he has again topped the class Varun. You should learn something from your bhaiya beta!”, my neighbour (whose son was in IIT) always told me. I always wanted to tell her to shut up and mind her own business. I never did that because her son, though in IIT was known to be a boxing champ and I really didn’t want my teeth to end up in my stomach.

My bhaiya Tarun who was ‘Oh so intelligent’ was, in my opinion, nothing but an oversized monkey. Not because he looked like a monkey(Monkeys are better-looking than him and they are not as fat as he is and they also don’t have the ability to cram everything in sight), but because he behaved like a total monkey. His mouth was always half open due to the teeth which were soon going to fall out and he laughed(which he seldom did) like monkey. It was more of a ‘khee-khee’ than a ‘ha-ha’. But still he was something yaar. He was just 13 years old but he was confident that he would become an engineer some day. If only I could have that sort of confidence, I often thought, the world is in my hands. After all I was 5 years old…

My favorite cricketer was Vinod Kambli. Not because he was classy but because he was a lefty like me. Now, Brian Lara is also a left handed batsman, my nukkad friends said. But he wasn’t Indian so I didn’t like him much. Being a 7 year old I could atleast do that much to be a true patriotic. I don’t know when I started playing cricket in the society street we children called ‘nukkad’. But the day I broke Sarita Chachi’s 5^th floor window, I was declared the best batsmen of our ‘nukkad midgets’ team and I was finally a ‘pakka’ player. Rainy or sunny, we never missed cricket. We all went to Amol’s place to watch cricket matches in colour. We cheered on every six and danced on every Indian win. And there, seeing Vinod kambli giving a nice thrashing to every other baller, I decided I wanted to be a cricketer some day. The day my bhai got into IIT my cricketing career was put to a halt to prepare me for the same fate. Vinod Kambli retired from international cricket a few years later.

By the time I turned 13, I was avoiding failing in mathematics in class VII while Tarun scored yet another 9 pointer (his CGPA was 9.7) in his second year. “What is this CGPA again?”, I asked Tarun. He told me to shut up and concentrate on my percentage. Once a monkey, always a monkey, I decided. The questions and suggestions about my career kept pouring in from various sources. Some distant aunt in U.S. mailed my dad to prepare me for GRE (my dad didn’t knew the full form when I asked him), some unwanted aunty in the neighborhood told me to go for specialized courses from Delhi and a friend of mine told me that someday we both could open a shop together. My brother always bragged me to study harder as it’s not an easy job to get into top institutions. In turn, I always begged him to lose some weight as it’s not an easy job getting married with a belly ready to explode at any time.

The day came when I cleared my high school and I was the happiest person on earth. My house felt like someone had died. My brother called from U.S. to tell how badly I had performed and how much shame I had brought him and the family. My marks were immediately tallied with my brother’s who had completed high school 8 years ago!! I had scored 67%. Tarun’s score was 96%.

Getting admission in XI was a difficult job. There were entrance tests, personal interviews, parent’s interviews. Some even considered calling the grand-parents. I thanked God they didn’t call my dog because it definitely didn’t have a very good upbringing and I am sure it wasn’t very fond of nagging principals as well. Finally I managed Vidya Bharti School which was the 8^th best school in Meerut. My mother who had cried the day my brother got into IIT took a sigh of relief when I got the admission letter.

The melodrama in our house-hold had started. My mom had it straight out of Kasautti Zindagi Kii where everyone will stand facing each other saying nothing at all and my dad had it out of Aaj Tak where you had to believe whatever the person on the screen is saying. My mom listened to unwanted aunties about me and said nothing and my dad listened to the relatives and thought they were right about my career. I, on my part, just felt a sting that my mom and dad have to listen to people because of me. My mom and various ‘unwanted aunties’ discussed over my future prospects during kitty parties and society dinners. I was always kept up-to-date about the ranks of other’s sons, son’s friends and their brothers. The coaching centre was a horror where we were divided into batches according to our ranks. I always managed to maintain the last batch. I was relieved the day dad told me that I would never get into IIT. Atleast he had come to terms with the hard reality.

As prophesized by my father, I didn’t get into IIT, didn’t manage any NIT, and wasn’t accepted in Delhi University. I was a complete failure. Dad told me that it wasn’t any use going to any other counseling as it would be just a waste of time and money. The days were hard to pass by. I was not allowed to meet my friends. I wasn’t even allowed to play cricket. Tarun left his MNC job the same year and cleared CAT. He was among the elite students and got admission into IIM Ahmedabad. I wanted to drown somewhere. The day he came home he made a face like a chimpanzee (which wasn’t really hard for him) and told me that I have turned into a good for nothing teenager of this useless country. I congratulated him on his success and realized (more due to the shame inside) that the ‘unwanted aunties’ were right and it was time to think about my career.

I went into the college (the 3^rd best in Meerut, Gosh! I was improving my standards) with the dream of making it big here. The dream was shattered the second day when I saw Tina. She was the prettiest and the most famous girl in my department. Naturally, whole ‘janta’ wanted her. There is one big problem with famous girls: they know they are famous which makes it virtually impossible to impress them. I tried talking to her infamous friends (all famous girls have infamous friends who make her all the more famous) but all in vain. My friends (who all had taken it upon themselves to make the life of every creature walking on earth a misery) told me the final solution to this universal problem. They told me if there is one thing a woman of any proportion can’t resist, its music.

Music… Hmm… It seems there is an invisible bond between music, musicians and girls. They are practically impossible to separate. It was then, to impress Tina that I decided to become a musician. As soon as I entered this world of rock, punk and metal, I came to know that my knowledge in this area of ‘simplest way to impress a girl’ was rather very limited because the only music I had ever heard was Rafi and Geeta Dutt my mom used to play on the radio. They were all dead. I didn’t wanted to be a singer and end up dead, I decided. But in this losing battle of love and decision I had to choose something. My friends told me to play some instrument.

I could play tabla but as it turned out it is one of the most unromantic instrument in music industry, my friends told me. They were right actually. How would a girl like you when she sees you beating something as cute looking as a tabla? I held a guitar in my hand and we formed a band. My deep analysis on the matter turned out to be right and as soon as the word got around that I was a guitarist, Tina herself came to me (actually quite stuck to me) and we became ‘good friends’. She asked me to participate in the college rock fest. For her sake I did and we came fourth. Tina left me and I soon found out that she was now the ‘best-friend’ of the lead singer of the winning band. I soon overcame her because I realized that if at all there was a bigger misery to mankind than Paris Hilton – it was her.

The biggest effect of this rock fest was felt upon my mother who finally had something to tell about me. She told every relative who would listen, how her son loved music and came fourth in the college fest. She just forgot to mention the fact that there were just four bands competing.

All my worthless life I remained the key hit-point of every ‘unwanted aunty’ of our colony. What was so special about these aunties, I often thought. I am sure there is an ‘unwanted aunty’ in every colony and society. The supreme commander of these aunties was Rita Aunty who took it upon herself to find the latest gossips of the society. I am sure even Aaj Tak is not as fast as her in spreading rumors and news of all the pangas. She had the complete bio-data of other aunties’ son, daughter and their friends. Inspite of her marriage being a total failure, she always had a few rishtaas for every bachelor in our society. She never suggested any rishta for me.

I started with my third year when I came to know that Rita Aunty had a proposal for Tarun. He had completed his freak MBA and was now placed in one of the biggest banks of Germany. He married a few months later. Even mothers realize that in cases like my brother’s, people are sometimes very lucky to get married. My mother looked content with her elder son. My bhabhi was extremely beautiful and I never understood what she saw in my brother. But then the combined effect of being beautiful and the weight of fat Euro cheques may sometimes make you very dumb. They both moved to Germany and had a son who I heard was a genius as well. My mother also told me that he had bought a Mercedes. Once a monkey, always a monkey, I thought.

Student Council elections are a rage in our college. The past record showed that only the supreme leader of total lukhaas became the college President. As I fulfilled all the qualifications of a true lukhaa I was made a nominee. A few friendly fights, my friend’s ‘convincing powers’ and on some occasions the unavoidable gundagardi saw me being made the President of our college. I found it quite ironical as I wasn’t sure who the President of India was. I was loved and feared by all as I represented the common man of my college. I was their savior, their Lalu as they fondly called me. Some even went far enough to compare me to Mayawati.

I was happy. I was a leader now recognized and feared by all. Finally I was able to make it big in college. But above all I was now worthy enough to be the topic of discussion of Rita Aunty’s gossips. I was asked for lunch where other aunties’ son came for discussing their problems in other colleges of Meerut as well. I was their leader, their savior. As a college President I had enough power to manage through the rest of my two years without much studying. My ‘charm’ was enough for professors who refused to give me marks.

Passing through college, I again found myself at a chauraha. The paths lead to various post graduates or a marginal salary in Mother Dairy. I took the fifth route. I decided to join politics. I joined the youth group of a ‘very big’ party in the same year when my brother moved in as the CEO of a ‘very big’ company in Germany and finally got a citizenship there. My parents, as usual were very unhappy with me which was not a big deal anymore. Sitting in my room, with nothing to do, I often thought:

What is it that my mom actually expected from her children? There was one who was never with her, who never took her to the doctor when she was ill, who never went to the mandi with her and who was never around to bear the pain of sitting with ‘unwanted aunties’ and then there was the other one who was always with her in pain, in sorrow, in happy times and on her birthday… There was one whose duty seemed like just sending cheques in Euro along with a photograph (from which a monkey, a beautiful damsel and a kid who looked the breed of two would be laughing at you sheepishly from Eiffel Tower) and there was other who stood by her not in a photograph but in her old age… Somehow, they had lost their love for me… I love my parents…

I became the big party’s youth leader. My job was to impress young college kids (read gundaas) to join our party. We used both money and power to influence the poor into joining hands with us. We held rallies and marches all over the town. Senior party officials often told us to fight with police to gain media attention. We broke windows, collected hafta tax and organized the birthday party of our party leader. We were becoming lukhaas on a big scale. From a musician turned politician, I had become a gunda. I was sick of this power. Rita Aunty had stopped mentioning me because her own son was in college now and she feared she might upset me with her nonsense talks. I never told her that her talks had upset me since I was 14 years old. I never tried to induct her son into the party. Infact, I left the party myself.

Aunty must have partied hard the night I left the party. Because her gossiping about how ‘they’ had thrown me out of the party had started the very next day. I sat at home and either listened to Aaj Tak or my father and was surprised how similar both sounded. You could always neglect the waste part, I often told myself. My friends from college and party workers often came to my house to try and convince me to come back. They now compared me to Gandhiji who I came to know had put on a hunger strike against the policies of British. My friends thought that I was on some similar mission against my party. I promptly told them that I was on no hunger strike and offered them some aaloo parathas. They all tried to tell me what differences I could bring to the nation and showed me Rang De Basanti (in which a hero who is fond of changing his hair style brings about a revolution in youth sacrificing his own life). I told them I had no ideas of sacrificing my life. It was then that someone mentioned I looked just like Aamir Khan.

I looked like Aamir Khan!? Hmm… I looked at myself in the mirror. Not bad, I thought. I could see muscles building up at the right places with a chocolaty face. I am good looking!, I was surprised. I could be a movie star, I told myself. I had done a few dramas in my school and college. I remembered when I had played Lakshman in school Ramayana. Sita had definitely given me a mischievous look. I talked about it with my parents who instantly refused to send me anywhere unless I had a paid job. My father after seeing the terrible face of my elder brother probably couldn’t believe that his other son could actually be a movie star. I respected my parents but what else could I have done. All confused, a week later, I ran away from home.

15 years later…

… Reporter: You came here with nothing in hand and today you are on the front cover of every Bollywood magazine and are working with the biggest production houses. How do you feel Rishabh or should I call you Varun?   

 

Rishabh Kumar: Name really doesn’t matter. You can call me whatever you like but yes my real name is Varun. Rishabh is what industry has bestowed upon me and I really respect both my names. And yes it’s true that when I came here, I had nothing in hand except will power. But it’s just been 14 years in the industry and I still feel like a new face. New works keep coming up and I take all of them as a challenge. I still have a long way to go, I believe.

Reporter: Being really modest aren’t you? Mumbai is called the city of dreams. Did you ever dream that rising from a small town you would ever come here and be the next superstar?

Rishabh Kumar: (smiles) how many of your dreams do you remember?

Reporter: Not many.

Rishabh Kumar: Exactly. Because dreams are beautiful but as pessimistic as it may sound or as optimistic as we may want it to be, dreams never come true. We dream, we enjoy and then we forget them. Crossing the various crossroads of my own life, I realized that I never dreamt. Infact, I was a very confused person. A day came when I wanted to a be a cricketer, someday a musician, the other day the President of India and like all these days one day I wanted to be an actor. But I can proudly tell you that, may be not to perfection, but I have lived all these dreams. I realized that while confident people become CEOs, managers, chairpersons of big companies, the confused people are like…me…artists in a bigger sense.

The spot boy came in, “Sir, the shot is ready”.

Ma's Diary

I have observed that it is easy for a man to write as a man. But after I read ‘Thousand Splendid Suns’ by ‘Khalid Hosseini’, it became evident that master story tellers can picture any emotions, as in this particular case, a man has pictured a woman suffering in Afghanistan. Now I am no master story teller. But here, I have - just tried what I wanted to do for a long long time…


I still remember the day he was born. Pink and soft as a rose, I had held him in my hand and looked at his closed eyes. He had his father’s face but I was sure he would have my eyes. I just wished he would open them and cry ‘ma’. I couldn’t look away from him. I wasn’t a weak woman then but then I was a woman after all. So yes, I cried. I cried because I had a reason to live now – my son was my reason.


His father had been in army. One day a call came from his camp and he never returned. I still have the Shaurya Chakra in my room which I had to sell later. It’s a pity he never knew his son and I am often left wondering if things would be different had he lived.

Oh yes! I remember every little detail of his growing up. The first time he had held my finger and the time he had hiccupped continuously looking utterly confused. I remember him sleeping soundly in my arms, peace in his closed eyes, holding me close – afraid that the monkey might come. And I also remember the day he said it – ‘ma’. I never knew that a single syllable, that one word had the power to make me a complete woman.

Working in a government hospital with patients oozing out blood in the corridor, skin diseases moving about me and people crying over the dead, I felt good. My son was going to the best school in town. I had seen how sitting in the school rickshaw, he had looked up at me, raised his right hand and cried – “Ma! No!”. I smiled even as a patient vomited in front of me.

My son looked good with the sword, I had decided when I saw him brandishing it in the school drama. He was made the Prince – my son, my little prince. Handsome, in his black coat and courageous, calling out the enemy, I saw in him an image of his father. I stood up smiling, went home and sold the Shaurya Chakra.

He missed his father and I knew it. I saw it in his eyes when he saw fathers playing cricket with their sons or when they took them for late night strolls. He often asked about his father and I told him what a brave man he was and how God had decided to make him a star.

Later when he grew up, he had asked me how I chose to remember my husband – through the useless bravery he showed for a country that doesn’t care or by gazing at the stars. If you are a mother, let me give you a little advice – never lie to your children. Tell them how exactly how his father had died of bullets piercing through his eyes and with a face you wouldn’t recognize and yes! for a country that didn’t care.

I never approved of his friends because they were all rich. I have always felt that these rich have a way about themselves which is so magnetic that we middle class always desire to achieve it. And it is this desire that becomes our bane. My son had to learn it the hard way.

I saw him being awarded the best student in school and I clapped the hardest. Already, he had started showing signs of extraordinary talent. Always first in class, excellent in sports, a wonderful orator, I coudn’t have been more proud. I loved it when he came back from school, head boy’s badge neatly pinned to his shirt and how he would come from play ground in sweat and drink milk in one go. Little did I know then that this would be the last day he drank milk except for just one more occasion.

He was no longer the crying kid in a school rickshaw. It had been replaced by a motorbike and his waving hands, leaving for college, smile on his face. The change in him was so gradual and slow that I didn’t even notice it at once. He no longer needed to be told stories of how monkey would come if he didn’t go to sleep.

Now you have to understand here that I tried to be as understanding of adolescence as possible. He had started coming late. Late night parties with friends, I thought. He stopped eating at home. Kids like junk food now a days, I decided. He spent more time in his room than in the kitchen with me. College kids need privacy, I assumed.

After coming back from hospital one day, I couldn’t find my nose ring (Even after my husband’s death, I hadn’t given up that one piece of jewellery). I asked him too. He said he didn’t know. After an advice to mothers, I should give an advice to children too, I suppose. Children should never lie to their mothers because, “Children! Your foolish mothers can read your eyes”. And then I did something that changed my life all together.

I went into his room. I found CD’s of rock bands (men with stupid wild hair mourning at their guitar), posters of actresses I hadn’t seen before, magazines full of naked women (I am an understanding mother), a variety of deodorants and besides them - a large bible. Inside the bible, I found a neatly cut rectangle of pages in which rested a packet with white powder inside. I need not be told what it was.

The change was evident now. He came to the kitchen that night and stood there like a silent night figure saying nothing for a while and then his hands started shaking.

“Where is the packet, Ma?”, he had asked.

Trying to sleep that night, I gathered his childhood and analyzed where I had gone wrong with him. I had felt the urge to slap him that day, to throw him out of the house and to even beg him to tell just where had I gone wrong with him. But when questions fail to be answered, silence pursues. He had crept silently back to his room. I stood, went towards his room and locked his door. I could hear the sudden scrambling, his feet moving towards the door and him, standing on the other side, trying the handle. We both stood there – a firm mother (I was a strong woman you see!) and a druggist son (I wish I had better words).

We seldom spoke after that because he was never allowed out of the house. Silent, he would come to the kitchen, eat and leave to his bedroom. I remember wondering if he had some more stash tucked away somewhere I didn’t check. But even those little remains had to end someday.

“Please don’t do this Ma!”

“Give me some money Ma!”

“Where did you hide that packet bitch?”

I heard it all. One afternoon, he came up to me sobbing, begging me for drugs. He crawled at my feet like a pet. He pleaded me to kill him or he would himself do it. My feet tasted the saliva dripping from his mouth. He held my hands and cried like a child. O God! Where had I gone wrong. I had passed him the drugs.

I took him to the rehab in the valley. It was a serene and a beautiful place but once I went inside the facility, I could hear the screams of boys wasting away their youth. We saw people on the verge of tears muttering among themselves, nurses feeding people with pink and yellow tablets and people trying to hold their hands still, while fighting away the mental urge.

“This is what you want to make me Ma?”

“Will you remember me the way you miss Papa? Or do you even remember him you selfless bitch?”

“How would you love me when you couldn’t love the man who is half me? You even sold his medal. How do you remember him Ma? Tell me.”

“I remembered him through you Beta. Tell me, should I anymore?”

I spent the days wondering what my son, my piece of moon was doing at that particular hour. Sometimes I dreamed of people in white dragging him through the empty white corridors, setting him down on a white bed, he trying to fight away from his captors, all the while shouting “Help me Ma!” and then the people in white placing steel rods at his temples and then everything became white.

Once upon a time there was a father who felt that his love for the country was much greater than his responsibilities as a husband. He died a victorious war leaving a wife and a child who waited his ghost forever. There was also a mother who never let her child feel the emptiness her husband had created in their lives and fighting age and society alike, she saw her son being dragged away from the shelter of her bosom to the world of people in white.

He ran away from rehab. Somewhere inside I was relieved because he had run away from agony we both had forced upon each other. The selfish heart of the mother wanted him to come back to her. And he did come back. A month had passed since I hadn’t heard from him and then all of a sudden he turned up at the hospital one day. He had long hairs but they had become lank. His eyes had sunken in their sockets and my son had suddenly aged 10 years.

“Ma! You are a nurse. You can get it for me Mummy. Please, Please, just once.”

“Come home beta!”

“If you don’t give it to me, I will never show my face to you again. I will never have it again mummy. Just this once.”

He hadn’t aged, I thought. He had actually become a child. I put a hand above him, this time pleading, “Leave all this beta! Let’s go home”. I took him by the arm. He jerked it away and left leaving his hand on my face. My son had slapped me.

That day I went to the old jeweller’s market. The narrow streets hadn’t changed much. The shop was in pieces now but still the same manager sat behind it who I had met many many years ago. I asked him for an article I had sold him long back. He told me how he, being a true Indian couldn’t melt the precious artefact. He went down a cellar and brought back the shining piece of metal. I went home and put the Shaurya Chakra back on my bedroom wall where it still hangs, mocking me, telling me how I have been a failure as a mother.

He had disappeared from my life again. I was getting old now and lived alone in the house where the ghost of his dead father with a medal stuck to his uniform often visited me telling me the horrific tales of the war and then asking where his son was. In the nights, people in white with green masks on their face came in search of my son who I had hidden behind the curtains. I was visited by my dead patients vomiting on the floor who disapproved of my ways as a mother.

Six months later he came back again, this time at the house of the dead and the old woman. I prepared milk for him. He looked at it for a while as if trying to see his reflection in it, laughed a little and drank it one go.

“Thanks ma!”, he said. He looked better, I observed.

“Come back beta! Your mummy needs you.”

“It’s too late mummy. But I am trying to be a better person, I promise. Let me get things back on track and I will come back to you.” And then he stopped as if thinking something, “There is a girl ma! She is a very nice girl and we both love each other. She is the one who will bring me back.”

He stood up to go and looked at me. There was something he wanted to say but decided against it and left his mother once again. I never came to know what he wanted to say.

Today, a girl came looking for me. She was trying hard not to cry and it was evident she hadn’t slept. But behind the dark circles, I could see a very pretty face.

“She is the one who will bring me back”. The words kept ringing in my ears as the people (in white) brought my son’s body home. They kept him in the room below the shaurya chakra which watched him silently. They were talking something about rash driving, then police, then drugs but I couldn’t hear any of them.

Today I saw a girl crying in the corner because she loved my son. I looked around the house and saw him as a little child calling me ‘ma’, running into my arms laughing, sleeping near me, peace in his eyes. I also saw a son, my prince, my piece of moon, with his eyes closed peacefully, only this time he was as dead as I could be. I went upto him, wished he would open his eyes, and so I stroked his hairs and whispered, “So ja mere laal! (Sleep Son!) The monkey wouldn’t come now.”

I had to cry this time...