Awesome Blossoms: Horn OK Please (21 page)

***

A decade passed in a heartbeat and I grew older. The postman is not there anymore. It was the time when you watch the world from behind the silken curtain of cobwebs, the same ones that had enamored you into their lovely-golden embrace. And now they had turned into intangible threads.

Now, we live in a new era of the internet and electronic communication. This was the age of the I
nternet and instant communication. Almost everybody had a digital footprint online. You can find them if you looked hard enough. Google them or find them on social networking sites. Everything at your fingertips.

This is the time when some brilliant insights come to you: About everything big and small that you did wrong in the past. An era where nothing can be hidden and truth will change the very fabric of morality as we know it.

I was trying to come out of my failed relationships. It was then when I googled him up. Having broken through not one, not two, but many such confinements, I was pretty tuned in to my wrongdoings. It had struck me like lightening that I was under the curse of a broken heart. What else could it be? No matter how much or how hard I tried, I just could not find a person true to his heart.

I wanted to find
out if the stalker was indeed a wastrel or had he become a somebody. My curiosity now got the better of me and I spent hours on the internet trying to search for him. Not because I cared for him but I needed some answers. What did he want? Was he any good at all? Was he in prison where any menace to the society should be? Where did I go wrong? Why did he come after me?

I had renewed my search once more. I almost hired a private detective but then I realized that I
was behaving like a neurotic.

T
here was no sign of him. Just like there was no sign of peace in my life.

***

Another decade has passed. I now have a wonderful family and a beautiful life. The foolishness of my youth makes me smile now. Time has swept the floors clean and this is what it is, the present. I live alone and enjoy my garden, my books and the company of my friends. I do regret the mistakes made, apologies unsaid, but life goes on. Honestly, it's not been too bad.

It is liberating to be a rich old woman doing my own thing.
I still like to answer the doorbell in not more than two rings. In this day and age, you always know who is at the door. No surprises there. When I visit my grandchildren, they know that I will answer the door.

I love to travel
. My friends and I have travelled across the whole world. A bunch of old women on a special package! It is always a treat. We live not too far apart, and rally around each other when in need of help. The trickiest surgeries and bad falls have evaporated in the midst of this bonhomie. We walk in the park, go watch movies and even go out to the disco sometimes.

I keep going back to my hometown. My old school friends are there. They are organizing a charity gala at our old school in a week, and have called me over. And I am going to attend the event!

I have always preferred train travel. Out of the rat race, who wants to get anywhere in a hurry? I have my boarding ritual:
Arrive early at the station and smile at nice youngsters, who do not fail to help with my luggage later when the train comes.

Before that I like to sit on a bench and do what my grandson calls “people-gazing.” When he is with me, we do it together, cooking stories about people by just observing them!

One thing I enjoy and never let pass is to study the chart stuck on the board at the platform. It too reveals a story about your fellow traveler. 

I am an old woman now but I still take the train.
Delhi to Bhopal, my home town, is a breeze. The sights and sounds of the stations on the way are interesting to take in - Agra, Jhansi, Gwalior...

With glasses perched on my nose I search for my seat number and name on the chart. There it is, all right.
Life is good at sixty-five.

The seat next to me is vacant. I hope I do have someone interesting to talk to during the journey. I don’t have many years to live anyways. An old man makes it somehow and makes himself comfortable beside me.
It is him. It is the stalker.

***

SECTION VI

ORCHID

By Mayank Jain

***

In the mysteries of the night

Lies another soul

Twisting and twirling in her mind

Vying for freedom,

From her mundane grind.

Her worries should be gone.

Scared of unknown

She watches the world unfold

Heart sticking out to the

Window in her room.

Her existence is a mystery.

That she is out to decipher

Almost arrived, but never there

She wonders about the stars

Which roam and dance in the cosmos

Never finding their way

Towards something bright and better

Telling her stories of shine and glitter

With so much more to say.

Stars hide her mysteries in their shine

Every twinkle, to her, is a sign

Of greatness in making

She has a long way to go

But the journey isn't tiring

She is happy,

More than she used to be

When she was just smiling.

Now, she feels alive.

She lives closer to the skies.

***

CHAPTER TWENTY

By Srinivas Iyer

***

Riots happen because rationale is eclipsed by revenge.

- Vinita Kinra

The Keeper’s Hat

A
nand rushed to the window of his first floor flat and looked out expectantly at the rectangular patch of ground in the park. There they were, driving the stumps into the earth with the cricket bat. Thump! Thump! Thump!

“
Ma, I’m off! I’ll be back by seven!” he ran to the door, hastily wearing his slippers.

“Nandu, wait! Here’s money; buy a loaf of bread on way back”, cried his mother as she ran behind him.

“Aw! Ma, please! Why can’t you get it yourself? Why is it that only I have to do all the chores in this house? OK, can I please have a soda on the way? Please? I won’t drink it if it’s cold!” He grinned, pocketed the five-rupee note, He then picked up his bat and was out of the house before his mother could say a ‘no’.

It was late October; the time just after
the Hindu festival of Dussehra, when the misty fingers of the approaching north Indian winter gently tickled you at the scruff of your neck for the first time in the year. And of course, it was the onset of the cricket season! Boys dressed up in white trousers and t-shirts could be seen scampering around in the cricket field, the captains carefully machinating a plan for the game that would begin after a toss.

While they waited for the others to arrive, Anand tossed the ball
.Sampath, the college going guy, picked up the bat for a few trial balls. Baapu, Anand’s Sikh friend, ran on cue to keep wicket behind the stumps. He always kept wicket whenever Anand bowled.

Sampath was an ace batsman, and the younger boys would often stop playing to watch him bat. But they also knew his weaknesses and discussed them keenly. As Anand ran in to bowl, Baapu moved to his right. The ball was full length, and wide of off stump. Sampath stepped out to drive, and got a big nick. The tennis ball curved right up and flew towards gully, but Baapu was already running towards it. As it slowly descended; spinning, Baapu stretched full length and caught it with his right hand.

That’s an out!

They exchanged high fives, and Anand hugged his little friend. Baapu’s long hair, tied in a knot and packed inside a blue cloth
patka
, caught him in the nose, and he sneezed. It was good to be the best fast bowler in the neighborhood, and it was even better to have the nimblest wicketkeeper around standing for you! Anand thought of the great fast bowler and ‘keeper pairs in world cricket - Lillee & Marsh, Marshall & Dujon, Willis & Knott .... and Anand and Baapu ...some day in future! Though Baapu wasn’t his best friend, he was Anand’s best mate when it came to cricket.

There was a story associated
with the unusual name, ‘Baapu’. He once came to the park with a figurine of Gandhi’s three monkeys that symbolized the great man’s credo – Speak no evil, hear no evil and see no evil. The monkeys are popularly called ‘
Baapu ke Bandar’
and the name stuck. From then on, everyone called him Baapu. However, Anand was one of the very few boys who knew Baapu’s real name.

Not that Baapu made any effort, it was just the flick of luck that anointed that one particular evening to divulge his real name.
It was a scorching, hot summer day. After finishing one of their evening games, they were playing with marbles. Suddenly, Baapu dipped into his satchel and took out a notebook that was stained yellow with oil from his leaky lunchbox. He opened it and thrust it out towards Anand.

“Look”,
he said, “I got 8 on 10 in my Math test. Equations!”

Anand laughed loudly.

“Oye Dosa, why the hell are you laughing? Don’t tell me you think that I forged this!” asked Baapu indignantly.

“I’m laughing at your name!” grinned Anand. “Preet Mohinder Singh Gill? That’s quite a long name for a little ‘keeper!”

“Well, that’s my name – don’t call me Baapu anymore, call me Preet.”

“OK, Baapu, I’ll call you Preet!” said Anand impishly and ducked as Baapu swung his fist at him.

***

It was Wednesday, 31st October a
nd Anand was at school. It was Chemistry class, and Mrs. Verma was teaching them chemical bonds. Anand looked longingly at the
Hero
fountain pen that his classmate, Chandru, was using. Royal Blue ink. How he wished his father would get him a pen like that, instead of the stick he had now, which leaked ink in his shirt pocket. And let him throw away that bottle of obnoxious Blue Black ink that looked so ugly on paper!

He looked at th
e watch on Chandru’s hand. 11 AM. A half-hour more to go for ‘India versus Pakistan at
Sialkot
’. He would rush towards the gate and ask the gatekeeper Keemti Ram about the score. That guy glued the transistor to his ear whenever there was a match going on.

He now looked at Mrs. Verma’s eyebrows. How very thick for a woman, he thought. No wonder she got so angry. Her son had joined the nursery section this year. Anand made up his mind to check
on the boy from a distance.  He was sure he would see bruises on the child. What could you expect when you have a violent mother who suffered temper fits?

While Anand was busy imagining the wrath
of his teacher, a peon walked in and handed Mrs. Verma a note. She read it, frowned and looked at the class. She looked perplexed.

“Children”, she announced, “I have
some bad news for you. Mrs. Gandhi has been shot. She is in the hospital, and quite serious. School will continue as usual, and buses will leave at the normal time. But please make sure you go straight to home and don’t loiter around. Back to the lesson.”

They talked about it after our class got over. Chandru’s
classmate, who read all the news papers and watched the news, was telling a group of eager listeners his take on the story and the events of the past months that had unfolded to this assault. Anand tried to listen for some time, but it was too crowded. So he went out to look for Keemti Ram. He found the gatekeeper busy in conversation with the Principal, who pointed towards the closed gates of the school. Anand noticed that the gate was chained shut with a large and imposing lock dangling on it.

The rest of the day was uneventful, except for a brief moment of respite when Sumit Sengupta slipped on a puddle of water and fell square on his back. School broke, and the roads were quite empty as the bus drove Anand back home. Kunwar Singh, the conductor of his bus, who was usually very chatty, was very quiet as he
scribbled something in his notebook, standing at the rear door of the bus.

Anand leaned forward from his seat and asked, “Kunwar ji – do you know what the score is?”

Kunwar looked up from his notebook and glared at him. “Who’s listening to the commentary, kid, when there are other incidents happening in the country? Anyway, they called the match off.”

“Why did they cancel the match?” asked Anand, full of anger.

“Go home, boy. You’ll find out. Leave me alone for now!” grunted Kunwar Singh.

“What are these rumo
rs about? Did you hear anything specific??” he asked his mother, struggling for breath, as she opened the door for him.

“The Prime Minister is dead – that’s what they are saying. But
there’s nothing showed up on TV yet. Some say she’s still alive. Is there trouble on the streets? Raja’s mother said there might be trouble; I have already staked the kitchen with items that will last us a week – all the shops will shut down if there is  curfew. Come and have your lunch. I am going for a nap. Do not go out! Do you hear?”

But no order was great enough to restrain Anand from playing cricket. Anant surreptitiously slipped out of the house that evening and went out to play in the park, of course his were friends were there as well!
Baapu was there too, and they were talking about what had happened. The TV had announced, finally, that the Prime Minister was dead.

They formed teams and tossed for the sequence. Just as they were about to start the game, Baapu’s brother came
running towards the field and called him home. Baapu’s mother and father were standing on their balcony; they seemed worried. “I need to go guys. Bye!” said Baapu, as he ran towards home. The boys carried on with their game.

Suddenly
a boy came running towards them. He was Jagdish, the laundry boy. He often used to play cricket with them. He was panting, “Go home everyone, please go home NOW! The people from the village are going to attack us. I saw them, they are standing at the roundabout with swords in their hands! Run for life!” There was a village behind Anand’s colony, which had now been swallowed entirely by the city of Delhi making it an integral part of itself. It sprawled between the new apartments and the park, like a strip of plaster on a new wall. Many Sikhs lived there.

The boys dropped the game and ran home. Anand’s father was already home from work and he was
narrating the entire bloodshed to his mother. “There is an outbreak near the Hospital. Bhattacharya said that there was violence and looting on the road. I don’t believe him; there were so many policemen nearby! That man either tells half-truths or plain lies!” Anand was worried about other things. “Appa, the laundry boy told us that the people from the village are about to attack us. They are standing at the gate with swords.”

“Don’t believe and spread rumo
rs, boy!” said father, sternly. “No one will come and attack us – have we done anything wrong? Stop worrying and finish off your homework”.

But things got worse with the nightfall. Clusters of neighbours gathered on the street beside the park, engaged in quiet discussion; huddled together. Anand’s father refused to step out, but chang
ed his mind after their neighbor rang the bell. “Please come down, Mr. Natarajan. There might be mob attacks on our colony any moment. We will have to defend ourselves till the police come for our rescue”.

Anand spent the night in his parents’ room, tossing and turning from side to side. He had never experienced fear of this magnitude ever before in his life.

***

31st October, 1984. The then Prime Minister of India is shot at by one of her bodyguards. She dies of her wounds shortly afterwards. The news of her death causes violent protests outside the hospital where she was admitted. The violence escalates and spreads, first all over Delhi, and then to several cities in the northern half of India. Rioting mobs target members of the Sikh community, looting shops, burning property, and assaulting people. The violence continues unabated for three days. Delhi witnesses the worst of it. By 2nd November, 1984, more than three thousand people are dead, and several thousands have lost their homes in the riot
s.

***

Schools closed down because of the trouble. The next morning, Anand went to the terrace of their flat with his father. He saw plumes of grey smoke rising at a distance. He counted them – eleven plumes, and some more hazy ones far across.

“Homes burning”, said father grimly.

“Sir, they have been burning and looting Sikh homes since yesterday. I hear they are killing them too ....... no Sikh is safe in Delhi right now”, said our neighbor Mr. Sharma, who had joined us for the discussion on the roof in the meantime.

“What about our neighbours? Where are they? Hazara Singhji, and Tarlok Singhji? That gentleman on the back row who is with the Labour Ministry?” asked father, full of concern. Tarlok Singh was Baapu’s father.

“Hazara Singh and Tarlok left the town last night with their families. I heard that they had Army escort. They are safe, I think. Jaspreetji is staying back. Not such a good idea, in my opinion”, responded Mr. Sharma.

Anand’s stomach
convolved into a cold knot. He clutched his father’s hand and asked, choking on his words, “Appa is Baapu safe? Has anything happened to Baapu? Please, Appa?”

“No, Nandu, I am sure your friend is safe. They had escort. Don’t worry, nobody is coming to kill you – remember how scared you were last night? Pray for your friend though, he needs it right now”, said father, patting his hair.

Nandu fought back tears. “He is our ‘keeper, Appa......” and broke down.

The next two days passed in similar gloom. In the mornings they would go to the roof and count fresh plumes. Neighbours would gather and exchange news on
the recent happenings. They talked about a place called Trilokpuri, where Anand’s father was planning to buy some land along with his office colleagues. There was no fresh news on the Sikh families who had left some days before. The neighbours formed a night watch to protect the empty homes of the Sikhs, just in the colony in case the mobs attacked. The watch included children too, and Anand was one of them. They would start at 9 in the night and patrol the streets with the neighbours, finishing by 4 in the morning. They armed themselves with whatever they could lay their hands on – stout bamboo sticks were the preferred arms, although some carried satchels filled with stones. Anand carried his bat.

Mrs
. Dua, a widow who lived alone at the corner of the street, would make them hot tea tending over a kerosene stove in her porch and they would drink it out of paper cups.

There was a curfew during the day, but by evenings, the children started coming out to the park to play. No mobs came.
There was no police as well. The number of plumes decreased in numbers, and soon there were none.