Midnight's Children

Title: Midnight's Children
Author: Salman Rushdie
My comment: The Indian spirit in the words of a true story teller..


Ofcourse I had heard of the book. Who hasn’t? It won the Booker in 1981 and then Booker of Bookers in 1991. In 2008 this book won the people’s choice award for the best book to ever win a booker. I had heard of the writer too. Salman Rushdie, against whom many fatwas had been issued. So there was nothing much to think before purchasing it since it had all the elements of a perfect-home-take-away-novel – Booker prize and a controversial author.

I read the first six pages and didn’t understand a thing. Though as a consolation to Mr. Rushdie, I must admit that I was a little sleepy too. I didn’t touch it for a week and then started it all over again, reading each and every word carefully this time, grasping the meaning of every word, forming it into a sentence, each metaphor carefully woven and satire placed at the right corners. And this time I slept with the book and woke up with it besides me.

Once you grab hold of Mr. Rushdie’s style of writing, the words will look like a flowing river, almost naturally at place. The magic that Mr. Rushdie casts upon the reader through his mystical style of writing and inter-woven, often out-of-chronology events is just fabulous. It didn’t take me long to recognize why the book has been deemed as the best of the best among modern writing.

The book begins with the protagonist Saleem Sinai, who narrates the story of his grandfather Aadam Aziz in Kashmir to his dung-goddess and then takes us through the history of India till second generation following the roads to independence, the five-year plans and the emergency under Mrs. Indira Gandhi. In this journey he explains how the cosmos planned his own birth at the opportune moment at the stroke of midnight hour when India itself became independent on 15 August 1947 and then how this birth was inter-woven with the bearing of his nation.

With Saleem, were born, thousand and one more children known as the children of midnight or the midnight’s children, each born with a special and unique power. This is the story of how these children realize their destiny of being and the true purpose of these powers. In this book what starts as a love story through a perforated sheet becomes a saga of human nature, mystique and will.      

As Aadam Aziz fell in love with Saleem’s grandmother through the hole in the bed-sheet, I fell in love with the book. As baby Saleem was being born in the hospital ward at Bombay (Mumbai), I was with Jawaharlal Nehru witnessing the midnight speech and as baby Saleem spied on his mother…I think I have said too much. And this is just half the book.

Mr. Rushdie, as the world now recognizes is a master story teller who, in this novel has told the story which people will associate to because it reaches such depths of human emotions and with such ease that you will find yourself living in the time as Saleem Sinai, the radio child. A must read for the English speaking community.

As an advice, just remember to keep a Webster’s dictionary with you while reading because Mr. Rushdie has probably used every available adjective in English language.

Reflecting Mirrors

I have decided to add, besides stories the things that I notice and observe in my day to day life and the events that leave me thinking...

Recently our chairman (from U.S.) visited the Indian branch of the company. The cafeteria was wiped crystal clean for his arrival and every little detail was studied before he addressed us in the auditorium. I don’t complain. He is the chairman after all.

I went for the breakfast early that day in fear that they might not even allow me to enter later (That, fortunately didn’t happen which made me realize that even I am important now). Sitting there, eating a helpful amount of idly and sambhar, I noticed some gentlemen in black and blue suits (total management style) having English breakfast.

These gentlemen, I noticed had an air of authority you see in very few people. But then I noticed a guard in a blue uniform and wearing an immaculately trimmed moustache (he was probably told to make an impression on Chairman’s visit who wouldn’t even notice him).

This particular guard noticed the gentlemen in coats, bent his back a little in show of respect and said something to them to which one of the person waved a hand. The guard looked like he had found a treasure. Sitting far away, quietly observing this scene (I get very bored having sambhar everyday), I saw the guard running.

The guard ran towards the water cooler and fetched the gentlemen water one after the other with the content smile of having finally achieved something in his life. Though I don’t know the gentlemen or the guard in question, I had these few questions in mind:

Q. What is a guard’s job? Security or fetching water?

Ans: In India, a guard has to perform any work he is assigned. Even if the gentlemen had asked him to clean their shoes, he would have to do it because it’s his job.

Q. Why did getting water for the gentlemen make him so happy?

Ans: The possible explanation could be the feeling of self-importance. Or may be the poor guy hadn’t seen anyone in suits before because people in suits are generally found behind glass cabins or in sedan

Q. What have we reduced ourselves to?

Ans: For something very trifle as self-importance, promotions or ambition we have reduced ourselves to laborers in the hand of select few. Here I do not say that a particular work is menial but I just that I reflected that infact every work is just equivalent. In some manners, I and we are not different from the guard in the blue dress.

Q. Am I any different from that guard?

Ans: I have been asking myself the same question again and again. I suggest you try it once as well.

Q. Who is wrong? The guard or the gentlemen with waving hands?

Ans: I believe none of them are wrong. It is the stigma to perform and being important that makes all of us wrong somewhere or the other.

(Probably the most important question I asked myself that fateful day) : Why was I eating sambhar everyday?

Ans: No comments.

After this brain-storming, I shrugged, finished idly-sambhar and went back to working on the code.

Disclaimer: Our honorable chairman (who is infact a very dedicated person) and the gentlemen in suits have nothing to do with this brain-storming.

The Last Ride

This was my first attempt at love story way back in college. And since I very much suck at love and matters relating to love, I ask you to forgive my language. No love story from Shimla would be like this.

The Chevrolet was speeding forward like a hurricane. Had it been old times, Priya would have asked him to slow down the car but now she didn’t care. Inside, her heart was thumping as it always had- when he had taken her for a ride on his new bike, in their Maruti after they had married and even in this new car, when after 5 years of marriage, they had broken up.

The view outside was scenic and the air romantic. But no air was let in. The windows were up, Anuj made sure of that. It was the last time they both would be seeing each other. Their divorce was finalized and he was going to leave Priya to her mother’s place in Shimla.

Somehow, inspite the odd turns in roads and in their own lives, Priya couldn’t help but remember those nice times they had had together. The first ride on his bike, the time spent in college food court, their marriage and the difficult times they both had had. But now everything seemed a haunted old dream which gave her both sweet and sour memories.

She again looked at the speedometer and remembered that first ride on his Yamaha:

“Anuj! Can’t you read the ‘drive slowly’ sign. Please! I am feeling dizzy now. Its just a bike, not a plane”.

“Common! Its just 80 yaar. And you better get used to it. After all, you are going to spend the rest of your life with me”, he laughed.

Holding him tightly she said, “Then you are definitely going to kill me some day”.     

He simply looked back and said, “I will be dead the same day”.

The Chevrolet crashed into the truck…

He woke up early and went upto the window. The weather outside was gloomy. But he liked it like this, dark and cloudy. Like everyday, he looked at the bed side photo of him and Priya, together, laughing. He could hear that laughter still ringing in his ears. It was the same smile that had smitten him the first time he had seen her in the college canteen. The pain was back. And with it came the anguish, the sadness, the wretched feeling of loneliness. It was all he had now – guilt. He walked over to the door and decided not to wake his mother. He didn’t drive the car anymore. So, he walked out of the house into the gloom.

They had met in the college canteen through common friends and immediately both knew that they together, were special. Seldom acknowledgements turned into regular ‘hi’ and ‘hello’. Both looked for reasons to talk to each other. They looked for each other’s class schedules to get to meet each other. And finally after much thinking and scheming, he asked for her phone number. But she blankly refused saying that she minds giving her phone number to guys. More than being hurt, Anuj was shocked and amused at the same time. But he laughed it off and tried to act cool with the situation (he hadn’t really prepared himself for her no). But that night she called him up and said, “You dumb thing!!!! You guys are all same. You take so long to ask a girl for her phone number and then when she says no you try to act as if you are the coolest person on earth. Huh!! You are dumb”. She was laughing and Anuj knew that he was in love.

He looked up. No sun. But he liked it like this. It was going to rain soon but he walked on consumed in his own thoughts…

It soon became the most famous romance of the college. He was the son of a rich, living life king size. She was the prettiest girl in the college and yet the simplest (a perfect ‘bahu’ material, someone said). She had beautiful skin but her eyes emitted intelligence. They attracted the combined jealousy of boys and girls. But driven in love they never cared for the world. He bought his bike – a Yamaha Sports in his 3^rd year in college. He loved the speed, the thrill, the risk of it all. Priya on the other hand worried much more about Anuj and her own life.

His tears had no life, no soul, no reason. As if to complement his mood, the rain started pouring in and he kept walking.

Both were placed in the same company and their happiness knew no bounds. But the happiness was short lived. Heartbroken were they left, when they came to know that they had to go different places for training. Anuj went to Delhi and Priya started her new life at Bangalore. But their love wasn’t made of glass. They talked every day. Each spent the day lonely, waiting. Waiting for the night when they would talk to each other and pour their hearts out forgetting all the distance between them. Distance relationships were difficult, they had heard. But in those careless whispers, lost in each other, who would have cared about what anyone says or hears.

On a lonely evening in his apartment when Anuj was thinking of her, Priya called…

“Please marry me”, she said.

“You want me to marry you on call? Another of the e-marriages?”, he laughed.

“Why don’t you just open your stupid door.”

He almost ran to the door and there she stood smiling. That was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. It was both serene and beautiful. Like a goddess. And at that moment he loved her more than anything in the world.

“Please marry me”, she said.

He could no longer tell the tears from the rain drenching him, killing him. But a smile crept on his face. He had never proposed her, infact, had spent days thinking about how he would. But never in his life had he imagined that Priya would leave her job and career just to be with him.

They married a year later. There was a lot of family drama. Anuj left his home and his ‘bright career’ at his father’s business. She left her career and job to look after her home. But she was happy and content. After all she had married the love of her life. Married life was bliss, they both agreed.

As married couple, they both found happiness in little things of life. She never had her dinner without him and he worked hard to look after his wife and took her to romantic dinners on weekends taking time out of his now busy schedule. Two years after their marriage their first child was born. He was the most blessed man on earth and she the most satisfied woman. A week later they had their first fight.

Even the tears eluded him now. Whose mistake was it? Back then, he was never ready to understand her part of the story and may be, she never understood his. Whoever made those mistakes kept repeating them because the fights never stopped. The pain was back. Why was he even thinking all this now? He could not be with her anymore. It was both stupid and childish to think about Priya. He should carry on. And he carried himself on, thinking…

After his marriage he had spent most of his days and nights in his office. He had worked hard to reach a position of authority and respect in his company. His rise had been meteorical and someone had tipped him to be the next CEO in next 15 years. A week later after their child had been born, he again came home late in the night. It had been the same story the whole week. The multi million project he was handling was keeping him on a very tight schedule. He entered the dark dining room. Only Priya’s face was visible illuminated by the small light from the bed-room. Apparently she had slept waiting for him. He changed and sat next to her. But something was very wrong. Her eyes had dark circles he hadn’t noticed before. Her face was smudged, like she had been crying. Somewhere inside, he knew why she had been crying and somehow, very strangely he just felt contempt (a new feeling for him altogether).

The next night, she was wide awake and he felt the same contempt in her eyes. For the first time after they had married she had had her dinner without him. And for the first time she was really angry. She said something about him being always late and reminded him of his responsibilities as a father. He ignored her. He was back from work, tired and this silly woman could only think of how difficult it is to change a baby’s clothes. Why can’t she just keep a nanny. He had no time for family fights. He had to get back to work early in the morning. That night he had slept on her tears. Every night after that it was the same story in their house-hold. Sometimes he looked at his child’s innocent eyes and wondered if he could be a child again. May be could go back to the care-free days of college. Who should he blame. He had to look after his family and think about his child’s future who was fast growing up. And his wife was angry just because he didn’t see his child walk his first step, because he wasn’t punctual on his first birthday and because he wasn’t there when he had said ‘ma’ for the first time. He was just, never home.

His project was a success and company rewarded him with a new house and a car. They moved in with a truce not to fight again. He promised her that he would try to be a better husband and father. He gave her the old Maruti because she no longer wanted to sit in that death-trap race car with him. The days passed in peaceful but reproachful silences and humble words of love. The life seemed to be returning back to normal. She saw him playing with their child in the nursery and was grateful that the worst in their life was finally over. She had been traumatized by his unconcerned behavior but starting life all over again, he had proved himself to be a more mature person than she had thought him to be. But Priya was in for the biggest shock of her life when Anuj’s cell-phone beeped twice.

Anuj, evn i m really sorry for watevr hapnd n I kno u really luv ur wife n child bt i also kno dat u luvd me 2o. Hw cud u jst turn ur back on me nw wen i need u d most. m nt askng u to leave ur wife bt jst giv me a little space i deserve 4 all d little time v spent togedr… stil waitn 4 ur luv…

Anuj agreed to the light affair he had had with his office trainee when he and Priya were having hard times. He said that he was beyond it now and that there was nothing between them now. But she had lost it. She couldn’t face the man for whom she had left her everything. She had given up her dreams, her aspirations, had fought with her parents just to be with him. He had ignored her, traumatized her, fought with her and now was casually telling her that he had cheated on her love too. She called it quits right there.

“Did you give her a ‘nice ride’ in your car?” It was her turn now.

He called it quits there.

He walked upto the house he had been to many a times now. Several times he had tried to get the glimpse of his growing son in the same house. He had tried to make up for the time he had missed with his son. He had now seen him cry the first time he went to school. He had seen him eating ice-cream and had seen him trying to read the school poems. He sometimes peeked through the windows and sometimes barged right through the doors. Should he go in today? There was no need to think. He went in. There was no need to knock. He knew all the rooms. He had walked through these corridors for 3 years now. He could see the door at the far end. He reached for it and went inside.

There she was, sleeping soundly with one hand over their son. He had grown up in the last few years. Should he go upto her? She might wake up or someone might come in. He didn’t care. She won’t wake up and no one will see him. He sat on the bed besides his son. He put a hand on his head. Anuj felt peace he had never felt before. The pain seemed to vanish for a moment. But it came back. How much he regretted all that he had done. He looked at Priya who was looking beautiful as ever, fast asleep. The strands of her hair falling on her face. He wanted to touch them, to tell her how much he loved her. He held back because a knife was wounding him, cutting him from the inside. There are things you come to believe and there are things you carry in your blood. He felt all those voices, the ghosts of the past torturing him and telling him to let go of his consciousness.

Whose mistake was it? He had just wished her to be happy and had gone on to make her wish that she had never met him! He remembered the last day they had spent together. They had divorced and he was going to leave her to her mother’s place. Their son had already gone. Priya had his custody. They were in his car and none had spoken a word to each other when their Chevrolet had crashed into the truck.

He could hear footsteps in the corridor. A man walked into the room. But he didn’t notice Anuj sitting on his bed besides his wife. He couldn’t. He walked upto Priya and kissed her forehead. She looked up. No one seemed to care that Anuj was there with them. He took her into his arms and carried her to the wheelchair sitting in the corner of the room. Priya smiled at him. And that very moment Anuj knew he was long dead. He knew what the pain meant and that he had been a dead man since three years, walking these corridors repenting. Repenting for her endless love.

The rain outside had stopped. The sun was out with brute force piercing the window and illuminating the couple in the corner of the room. Funny weather, Anuj thought, changes quickly. He stood, looked at that beautiful smile for the last time and walked back into the darkened corridor. There are many endings to a love story. Some sad, some happy. In this particular story, finally, she was happy and he…was free…

…continued forever… 

Memoir of an Everlasting Memory

This story is based upon true events. I hope I have done justice to the ten-year old mind of a child. Adltya..If you ever read this..Please forgive me.. 

I was always bad with phone numbers. Infact, I was always bad with anything to do with digits.  Imagine then, how could I memorize a 10-digit phone number. And I am talking of an age when no one had even heard of cell phones (Yes! Believe me, there was this time). So we kept a diary to maintain a phone book, interesting right? I didn’t have any though. So it was amazing that somehow, even after 4 years, I could summon up his phone number.

I had lived at my nani’s place for 6 months when my father had been transferred. So it felt like home coming when I went there again for winter vacations. But there is this thing with all nanis. They want to pamper you; they will spoil you because they have the constant habit of believing that we are thinner than she had last seen us. So what they would do all day is cook and make you eat. Now this kind of treatment where you are virtually treated as a prince feels good for a few days but after that it really gets annoying, more due to the fact that your stomach starts to revolt agonizingly. It was after those few days of lazing around and killing flies that I decided to call him.

My home town is Muzaffarnagar. It is a small district in Uttar Pradesh. Back as a child when I lived there, it defined the whole world to me. All my relatives lived there and I hadn’t seen anything beyond its borders then. I went to the best school in Muzaffarnagar. Not that it mattered much to me being all of just 7 to 8 years old. But I suppose it really mattered to mummy papa who always wanted to give me the best education possible. My dad got transferred and I spent a year or so first at my aunt’s and then at nani’s. I don’t remember having many friends at school but there was one I remembered all my life – Aditya Gupta. He was my best friend.

It had been 4 years since I had met him and the memories of childhood were weak. In those vacations when I remembered him, there was nothing much I could recall about him except that he was very good looking and intelligent. The only fact that I could hark back to was that we always used to sit together. We never met after school, we never went in the same rickshaw, we never invited each other to our birthday parties and I don’t think we ever shared our lunch either. But still he was my best friend. And miraculously, that day feeling extremely out of place at my nani’s, I could summon up his phone number. I dialled.

What would you actually say to a guy you haven’t met for so long? Does he even remember you? I was a little unnerved before calling him. What would I talk about? There was nothing to say except do you remember me.

His didi picked it up first and then put Aditya on the call. I was relieved when he said that it was obvious that he remembered me. He seemed genuinely happy to hear from me as well. So we decided to meet the other day. He gave me his address and we talked long about old times. I was surprised to find he still remembered so many things. That’s when I knew that among friends, there is always something to talk, to remember and to cherish.  

I told nanaji about him and as it turned out he knew Aditya’s father through some common friend. His father owned some cloth showroom in the main market, nana told me. He promised to drop me at Aditya’s house while going for work.   

I have always enjoyed every ride through the streets of Muzaffarnagar where you are sure to see outbreaks of some unusual fights. I loved it whenever I crossed my old school. It was still pretty much the same, tall and beautiful. I liked watching posters pasted all over the walls across the streets. And I simply adored the crowd mongering the streets. The love for your home-town flows in your blood, I suppose. Even after living there for years I just could not stop but wonder at its diversities.

It didn’t took us long to find his home. Aditya was waiting for us outside. He looked pretty much the same, I thought, except the fact that he had grown taller than me, I noticed. Nana told me that he would pick me up in the evening and so I bid him farewell. Aditya seemed genuinely delighted to see me. We shook hands. He led me inside.

Aditya was the youngest in the family. He had an elder sister and a brother. His house was furnished like all medium class families in the town. But it struck me how clean and orderly everything was. Some teddy bears neatly placed on the diwan, the wind-chime melodiously chiming in the background. I could hear the sound of television coming from the bed-room. But the most beautiful thing I found was a bird balanced over a stick in mid-air. I also saw a pendulum clock sitting in the corner of the room, its pendulum making periodic motions. I must admit that I was a little nervous at the prospect of meeting him after such a long time but Aditya made me feel at home. His mother came into the drawing room, smiled at me and said, “Hello Beta!”

It was déjà-vu like I had never experienced before. I had heard the same words before, the same voice but not the same face. Suddenly the memories of years long ago came back to me...

I remembered the day when Aditya and I were standing at the school gates. Me, waiting for the rickshaw and Aditya, waiting for his mother to pick him up. His mother had come first and I remembered even then how graceful and beautiful she was. She had walked upto me, smiled and said, “Hello Beta!”.

But it wasn’t the same face I had seen just some years back. Her face was now pockmarked, there were dark circles under her eyes, her complexion had become dark and she wore a cloth around her head now. Two things that hadn’t really changed were her smile and the young twinkle in her eyes, I noticed. I wish I could remember something else about that scene except that how desperately I had wanted to ask Aditya the reason why Aunty looked ill, but couldn’t bring myself to. Instead she asked me how I was and how I was doing at school.

Mind is a cruel animal. It is like a chameleon, playing tricks on you, changing colours to deluge you. Sometimes it wouldn’t let you recall the second past and sometimes it would give back to you memories that you didn’t even know existed. Sometimes you would spend hours researching on a thesis and the idea wouldn’t come to you and sometimes while sleeping it would give you that same idea as a dream and when you wake up you wouldn’t remember the dream or the idea. Mind can be a cruel animal.

We children went up on the roof and played cricket for a while when didi called us all for lunch. We were served rajma and naan. The food was delicious and for a moment I forgot the rotis my nani cooked. The whole family was there and we joked for a long time. Aditya kept coming up with all the stupid things we used to do at school. It was amazing how Aunty remembered the ball dance where I had participated.

I was wearing a green suit with a bow-tie I had borrowed from my cousin. I was standing in the first row with a girl in my arms. Aditya was also there besides me in the second row. I looked at him and he gave me a thumbs up. I remember feeling jealous of how good he looked in that matching black suit. The dance was about to begin when Aditya’s mother came and gave him a kiss on the cheeks. She then saw me, planted a swift peck on my cheeks and said best of luck to both of us. The music began...

After lunch, Aunty took some medicines, so I knew that she was ill. It made me feel terrible that she had to do all the work inspite of being unwell. But Aditya reassured me that didi had also helped but he avoided the topic as soon as I asked what really was wrong with Aunty.

I had come to meet just my friend but somehow, I found myself analyzing the whole family with my ten year old mind. The way they saw each other, the laughter on their face but the sadness in their eyes as if waiting for a long-impending doom. But then it was just a ten-year old mind discerning the facts.

It was a day well spent. In the evening nana came back to pick me up and I said farewell to the whole family not knowing when I will get the chance to meet them again.

I don’t remember how much time went by after that one day. May be a year or two, I was sitting at my home reading news paper on a Sunday morning when I noticed a story. It’s very rare that news papers publish stories but then, when there are no terror attacks, no actress getting murdered or no scams over politicians, I think they have no worthy news to publish.

The story was about a boy and his mother. It told of their early memories together. It told of all the happy times they had had together, of all the times they had cried together, of the times she had told her bed-time stories, the times they had danced together, of the times when they sang together, played together. It told of a bond greater than God Himself. And it told of the time God himself became jealous of such unending and selfless love. It told of the time his mother suffered tumour, of the time when she lay in bed dying and he could do nothing but see his mother dissolve in the nothingness of time, of the time when he saw her first hair falls, of the time when he saw her getting whiter every day and of the time he saw his brother setting the ashes of his mother into Ganga. By the time I finished the story, tears had welled up in my eyes. I could relate to so many things, could associate myself to so many things. Doesn’t every son feel the same belonging to his mother? But one thing that kept haunting me was the signature below the story - Aditya Gupta, Muzaffarnagar.

It is wrong being a kid. We are not sure of our self being, waking up every morning just to learn from whatever we see and feel around us. Kids don’t get to make decisions, they look for someone to make it for them. And what if a time arrives when a kid has to make a decision? Will he chose to call his best friend when he hears of his mother’s death or would he just let it go, creating in his minds a yet another sad memory. 

I couldn’t summon the courage to call Aditya or to comfort him in any way. I knew I had no words to console him and somewhere inside I even wondered if he would even care. So I decided to create in my mind a memory of the beautiful day where I actually saw a woman and her son laughing away the approaching death. Aditya and me, we havn’t talked since that one day.

Sometimes, I remember the pendulum in his drawing room and the irony of how life moves on, the time goes by, while the pendulum returns to the same position with each tick in the hour. And in times like these I wonder if Aditya had grown up much faster than me.

The thing about beauty is that besides being a joy forever, it also lasts forever. One day walking by a store I saw a plastic bird perched over a stick and bought it. I had learnt to respect life.

I still remember him. I remember his mother. And there are so many ways you remember people. I chose not to remember her as the fragile ailing lady I met on that day but instead, as the woman who had cheered when I won the cricket match with her son, as a woman who was courageous in the face of death and as the elegant lovely lady who had once walked upto me with a twinkle in her eyes and said, “Hello Beta!”.   

Shahi Paneer

He woke up with a start. It had been a nice dream (he had been made the Sarpanch and was driving a brand new tractor across his lands). Nice dream indeed. Time to wake up, he thought reluctantly because above him was the horrible face he saw every day. His wife was almost strangling him, asking him to get off the mat. He swore (not to his wife ofcourse, he wasn’t out of his mind), pulled up his ragged dhoti and went outside for a bath.

Murari had lived in this small village for as long as he could remember. From the stories told by Sarita Chachi living next door he presumed that he must have been born here as well. He had grown up in the village streets with no friends. He had seen this small village turn into a town. They even had a cinema theatre now. And though much had changed around him, Murari himself remained the same. He was what could be very generously considered, a poor man but still a man of honor and values. His occupation included picking scrap from the road and industrial waste which was bought by the ‘big thakur’ of the village for his industries. He, along with some shouting kids went street to street for their livelihood which ironically was the waste of the rich.

His wife Lakshmi (who he never failed to compare to an old goat) was a God-fearing woman in her late 40’s (though she looked much older). Well! She wasn’t very good-looking, he often thought but all in all she was a very honest and a loving partner who had stood by him in the worst of his days (his days were always bad, he meditated). He loved her too. If only she could cook shahi paneer for him someday, he would love her even more.

“Wake up! Wake up you moron!”, Lakshmi was not in best of her moods.

“Huh! Hmmmph!”, was all he could manage.

He had been dreaming again. Of food, a much better dream. A five course meal was being served to him. Shahi Paneer and butter rotis, tandoori chicken, rajma with curd, gulaab-jamun for dessert and all the things he could…well…‘dream of’. If there was anything he loved more than dreaming…it was food.

“I want Shahi Paneer when I come back tonight”, his mouth was still watering.

She looked at him incredulously.

“What? Just a simple nice looking Shahi Paneer. Didn’t your mother teach you how to cook?”

“My mother taught me how to cope up with nagging husband but not his stupid demands. Look at the vessels. All empty. You will only get onion and chapati for lunch today. Shahi Paneer”, she mocked.

“Have you done anything but fight all your life?”

“Oh yes! I have given a nice spanking to my husband whenever he tried to irritate me”

“What Lakshmi? You never have. Please! Just this once! We will save for some time but cook paneer tonight. I promise I will buy you payal from the mela”

“You haven’t taken me to the mela in 20 years. Just get the hell out of this house and don’t show your face before 9’O clock”

Crestfallen, he started to leave.

“Wait… You were right I think”, she called out from behind.

His eyes shone. Finally. With a sly smile he turned back.

“You were right I haven’t given you a beating yet but if you come back without raashan today, I will have to think about it again”

Murari who knew his wife pretty well saw the belan in her hand and decided in his best interest to leave as soon as possible.

It was a two mile walk to the town from his hut. Everyday he took this walk with utmost enthusiasm. Murari loved the world and it’s many miracles. He loved the creation of God and the wonders of man alike. He liked the colors around him. He was infatuated by the noise all those big cars created. He sometimes stood for hours admiring the big hoardings with beautiful people looking out at him. The posters attracted him as much as the nice dresses the children running off to school wore. He liked to watch people, their attitude towards their fast life and the way they all looked at him. Wherever Murari went, he was looked down with contempt and an ill feeling. He often wondered why? Wasn’t he made of the same elements that they all were? Didn’t he sometimes clean the filth no one would even want to touch? But those questions were old now. He had accepted his life as it was. Though not much of a philosopher, he had his own ideas for himself which told him that it is only the poor man who accepts life as destiny.

He often wondered what lay beyond the borders of this town. If they had the same colors, same light, if there were better people there and sometimes, if there was better food there. He looked at a child eating an ice-cream and gave him a murderous look (who immediately returned the favor). His work required him to move around the town looking for scraps of metal. He loved the job. It gave him the opportunity to explore. He would often go upto thakur’s house and marvel at it’s white beauty for hours before the suspicious guards turned him away.

He chose a different path that day and went to the residential colony area. The houses looked same here, all arranged in a neat row of blocks. He went through various houses noticing the big cars people had kept and their beautiful gardens. He acknowledged Babu, the gardener who he knew from the village. He was walking by one of the houses when he saw her. His eyes popped out, his tongue hung open and he remained rooted to the spot. He must be imagining. Was this some Goddess in disguise? She should be in her early 20’s, he calculated. She was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had skin as white as snow. Her eyes were as big as an almond (though he hadn’t seen an almond in years and wasn’t sure if it had changed its size in these years). She must be a Goddess, he thought and what more; the Goddess was waving at him, calling him.

“Hello! You there! I am asking you. Come over here”

Should I go? Why is he asking questions? Questions are bad. He went there.

“Could you please help me with my luggage? I am having trouble carrying it in the house”

Till now he hadn’t noticed the 20-odd bags lying around her. Ofcourse she was having trouble. How could such a sweet fragile looking girl carry so many bags inside? Still, he kept staring.

“Not much of an Akshay Khanna (from Dil Chahta Hai) I expected. Don’t worry. I will pay you”

Pay. She was talking money here. He remembered Lakshmi and immediately felt guilty. And the girl must be her daughter’s age. But she was so pretty. What was he thinking about? He slapped himself within. But what the hell does she think he is? A coolie?

“Ofcourse madamji. I will help you”, he found himself saying.

Half an hour later, he was exhausted. The bags were heavier than he had expected. He put the last one on the floor. He was sweating profoundly. She was sitting on the sofa drinking some juice. She isn’t all that beautiful afterall, he thought. But she helped him with a glass of water and took a 20 rupee note out of her purse (which was stuffed with money, he noticed) and gave it to him. He thanked her and started to leave.

“Wait!”

She stood and gave him a new 50 rupee note. She was smiling at him. She is pretty, he added as a final thought and walked out of the house.

70 rupees! He had 70 bucks all to himself! His happiness knew no bounds. It was a week’s worth of pay. And all for just half an hour work. There was no need to work that day. He passed by an ice-cream shop. He could buy one, he thought but decided against it. He even looked longingly at the dairy, paneer was on his mind but he had better plans. He half walked and half hopped towards his home.

She was sitting outside the hut.

“You are early! You will have no food tonight”, she said with a tone of finality.

“Lakhi! Why are you always angry huh? Common go inside and wear your best saree. We are going to the mela”, he said happily.

She wasn’t very impressed though.

“Crap! First I don’t have any ‘best saree’ and second I won’t buy your bull-shit about mela. I know you better than you think”

“Offo! Come inside. Let me show you something”

Still suspicious she went with him and was amazed when he brought out new 70 rupees from his dhoti.

She hadn’t seen so much money together in a long time. After staring at the 50 rupee note for quite a while she said, “I hope you haven’t been stealing”

“You are just stupid as your mother”

Then he told her the story of the day conveniently avoiding the exact ‘description’ of the girl.

“God bless her”, she said.

“Now if your blessings are over shouldn’t we go to the mela?”

“Yes Yes. I will just get ready and come. You wash your dhoti too. You don’t want to go there looking like this”, she said excited.

The mela was the great carnival of town where people from far off villages came in thousands with their families and their extended families in buses full of people. They both couldn’t help but notice the huge crowd (not to mention the variety), the happy looks on their faces, the excited kids sticking to their mother in fear of getting lost. They saw the huge wheel rides and Murari with satisfaction saw the expression of fear on Lakshmi’s face (he wouldn’t have to take her there, he thought smugly). For a few hours they had forgotten all their worries.

They roamed about looking into various shops with expressions of wonder and awe. They decided to have ‘pav bhaji’ (today they could afford the luxury of two plates) and had softy after that. Rs 30 already spent, Murari calculated. Merrily they walked around the mela again when Lakshmi saw what she was looking for.

“Murari! Ae Murari! You promised to buy me payal. Remember?”

“When?”

“In the morning today. Buy me one na. Please”, she said making a childish face.

“Na na! I don’t have any money”, he retorted.

“Ok let’s atleast look at them once. I will not buy anything. I promise”

“Oho ok let’s go. I know you won’t let me live unless you get what you want. It won’t hurt just looking at them. But mind it! I am not going to buy you anything”

“Offo! Ok baba! Now come. Will you?”, and she pulled him towards the shop.

She tried a few of them. Murari couldn’t help but notice how much beating time had given her wife. Her legs looked like a badly shaped stone. Her ankles were cracking and skin had started to peel off from all the labor she did in homes. In all these years of marriage, why hadn’t he noticed these differences? Wasn’t it all his fault that he couldn’t bring any happiness to his wife in all these years? Couldn’t promise any in the future as well? Her neck, her hands were all bare. He, somehow had failed in his responsibilities as a husband. He bought her the payal…It was a cheap anklet but still, it made her look beautiful. That night, he later remembered that her wife wasn’t as bad looking as he had thought her to be.

They saved a little money for daal and completely exhausted, but exhilarated, they returned to their village. They had had the best time of their life in a long time. Absorbed in the daily chores, working for daily bread they had forgotten that they themselves had the will to make each other happy.

They chatted merrily for a few hours talking about all the things they had seen and experienced that day. Lakshmi showed off her new anklet and then very carefully kept it in the big box in the corner which was taking most of space in the hut. She came and sat next to Murari.

“You didn’t buy anything for yourself”, she said.

“Some other day”

“Thank you”, she said in all little English she could manage.

“Ha! That’s the last gift you get alright. Forget going to the mela for next 20 years”, he smiled.

“I don’t think I will live for 20 years Murari”

He remained silent. May be he wasn’t sure of his own fate 20 years later.

“Murari…”

“Hmm…?”

“Will we remain poor all our life?”

“Probably”

“Isn’t there any way we can become rich? No shortcuts? No lottery?”

“No”

“I am sorry Murari”

They were hunched in the corner of the room. He looked at her. Her forehead was creased and her eyes were wet.

“For what? Because you couldn’t cook me paneer?”, said Murari who had never seen Lakshmi cry.

“No! Because I couldn’t bear you a child…”

They both remained silent for long time just looking at each other. That night they couldn’t tell what looked more beautiful. The silence or the tears. He wanted to comfort her, to tell her that it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that they were poor, that they have had to look for little happiness like scavengers, that he didn’t need a child to look after him. Wanted to tell her that nothing mattered as long as they had each other. That all that he always wanted was to look at her face whenever he came back home. That nothing beats the roti she cooks for him. That nothing mattered to him more than the comfort of having her with him. But words weren’t needed that night. Wouldn’t she understand it all if he just…cried…and then in the silence of the night he did something he had never imagined he was capable of…he put a hand around her and cried, cried his heart out, not speaking a word but still saying everything, she understanding every sob and every tear.

Between those sobs, she said, “I am so selfish”

“No you are not”

“Oh yes I am! I bought payal for myself and forgot all about how you keep nagging me about paneer. We should have bought some right?”

“Some other day Lakshmi…Some other day”, he sighed…