BHARATIYA SARKAAR – No body bans it better!

To all those who understood ‘what lies beneath’ the tagline, today is a dark day in the life of every Indian youth. To all those who didn’t get the tagline, your subscription of Chota Bheem needs a renewal. This is a letter to our Indian government on why banning ‘it’ is not only an encroachment of some of our fundamental rights; it is also an end to the folklore that ‘it’ used to generate when we were young.

To,

The Prime Minister,

Sir,

You have banned it haven’t you? Till beef, it was kind of tolerable, but now that you have encroached upon the contents of the brief, it hurts. News channels are running news that all the websites showing it are now saying ‘Server not found.’

The only question I have to you Sir is – Why it?

For times infinite, it has shaped the adolescence of the youth. It was the only light at the end of the deep dark tunnel. When parents used to ‘shoo’ us while a condom ad ran on television, when shrubs used to shake as the hero and heroine got cozy in the garden, when grannies used to cite ‘bird’ and ‘bees’ as the reason of our arriving on this planet – we did know something fishy was going on. Some deep dark chamber of secrets that needed opening.  Finally during the engineering days, we saw it.  And that’s when the flood gates opened. Of clarity that is.

Yes. It was the only thing that helped prevent our concepts of screwing from getting screwed. We realized the power that we possessed. The power to rise. The power to stand up to our emotions. It made us better men, and perhaps better human beings. We finally had the answer on what we needed to do that fateful honeymoon night. It saved us from humiliation of being an absolute imbecile. When our Bio teachers failed to clarify the essential processes of life, simply because they were too shy - it came to our rescue. And that is its’ biggest contribution. You ban it? Give it the credit it so very much deserves.

Also, how can we forget the bonds of friendship that it developed? The moment we knew that the last bench guy had a disk that contained it, we would try to be friends with the person, come what may. Yes Sir, religion divides, it unites. Because united we stand, without it, we fall.  How can we forget the beautiful exercise of tracing the directory path of the shared LAN network and rummaging through the folders to guess which one would have loads of it. Normally the directory path would read something like > Study Material > Java Code > Hard Code > Bhajans.  Needless to say the thrill of landing on the final folder used to raise our spirits and dampen a lot of other things. And who would forget the alacrity with which we used to press the ‘Swap’ button on the remote when parents used to enter our rooms while we were watching it. Today you have destroyed those reminiscences.

You think it makes the society perverse. You say it wrecks the youth. You are wrong Sir. We are from the land of Kamasutra. It is in our DNA. 125 plus crore Indians didn’t come by mitosis. Look at the statues of Khajuraho. Are you now going to pixilate those statues too? If you are so hell bent on not ruining our minds, please ban Sasural Simar ka, where a cat is shown to have the power to raise hell on a whole family. Next thing, you would ban non-veg jokes on Watsapp. You need to realize we know what is right and what is wrong for us. Do you get it? Opps, I know you don’t get it, coz you have just banned it. Hell, what will these politicians now watch on their cell phones! Mata ka jagrata? Well I am a little doubtful about that.

We as Indians take pride in the Freedom of doing things.  I mean, it is that freedom which has created 125 crore Indians. By this single act, you have made a mockery of everything that freedom stands for. Hell, go and regulate it. But do you think banning it is the solution? No Sir. The world has torrent. All you will do is create more illegal ways of getting it. Trust me, anybody who says they have grown up not watching it, are lying. It has played the role of a teacher. Inspiring us to rise to greater heights with every attempt. The youth (and the old) will get it some way or the other.

A word of advice sir. If you are so hell bent on creating a better society, accelerate the proceedings against those who rape. Teach young people to object when their parents demand or provide dowry. Ban the customs which encourage female infanticide. You think it demeans the ethos of the society. If anything, it makes you a better human being. Makes you respect your body and physique. It creates a feeling of oneness that goes beyond religions, caste and gender.

Because you know every one of us, has been there and seen it. And that, like it or not – is the harsh reality.

Yours faithfully

An Indian

HEX AND THE CITY

From a metropolitan Kolkata to a cosmopolitan Bangalore

I persuade myself to look at the larger picture.

When you see the larger picture, it does look easy- my decision to make an occupational transition from Kolkata to Bangalore. I have almost convinced myself that it is the right decision to make. Infact I have cajoled a part of my heart ( the one that actually keeps track of balance of payments)that on month end when I get the message on my cell phone that my account has been credited by a certain amount – the decision will be vindicated. Yep, I tell myself all this. But deep down I know the truth, leaving Kolkata took away from me something I will never get back – a life.

I arrived at the Bangalore airport on 11^th of June, 5.15 pm to be precise. The weather was cold. It will take a little getting used to. I convinced myself. I called ma and asked her how the weather back in Kolkata was, a not so logical question considering that I was in Kolkata two and a half hours ago.

“It rained a while back,” she replied.

Once I hung up, I grumbled on missing the first monsoon rains. I still remember how every time it would rain in Kolkata for a short time, the roads would be puddled with water. Traffic would be a nightmare. It just wouldn’t move. This would give everyone of those hapless commuters an opportunity to curse the West Bengal government, discuss the upcoming FIFA world cup and how ‘their’ Brazil is better than Argentina. The buses would reach their designation much later than the mandated time. But who remembers all that post a dinner of Biryani, specially ordered from Dada Boudi. Such is the life in Kolkata – simple, merry, unassuming and some would say bereft of ambition.

Bangalore lies at the extreme end of the simplicity spectrum. And expectedly so, being the tech capital India. No one drinks their tea in Bangalore over a discussion on the political turmoil or the railway price hike. Heck we can afford the hike, just get us to the workplace on time. Not that Bangalore needs local trains as much as Kolkata does. Bangalore has understood its significance in the Indian context - a tech capital that offers a chance to those who dream – and dream big. It has given its employees cars, company transport, private autos (that have meters that never run), meru cabs and to the less fortunate – a crumbling bus service too. Mind you traffic in Bangalore is worse than Kolkata and the roads aren’t any better. But Bangaloreans have not only got used to it but have subscribed to means that overcome this handicap. The idea is simple. Time is not money, it actually is more important. So spend the bucks, save the seconds. And that’s how the Bangalore dream works. Some here would argue that even Mumbai does the same. But since I have not been to Mumbai, I would not be able to tell you the difference. 

The two immediate differences between Kolkata and Bangalore ( I still haven’t got used to  calling it Bengaluru) is that after every ten minute stroll, you are likely to come up with at least 3 bars. Bangalore does like its brewery and unabashedly so. Gender differentiation set aside, both sexes line up for a drink or two in the evenings. Yes, Bangalore works hard, but then it likes to party harder – and without the guilt. In Kolkata bars are still a taboo, more so in the out skirts. The lone bar shops you do find are located so inconspicuously, you would have to lock them on your cell phone GPS.  There also prevails a sense of hypocritical guilt among the buyers  (mostly teenagers and men)- the bottles they buy are always wrapped in some newspaper or torn out magazine page.  I wonder what is the point of doing a thing if it has to be done with stealth. But Kolkata does it that way, and I don’t see the trend changing in the near future.

The other difference which immediately catches your eye is the dogs. The dogs in Kolkata are emaciated, skinny and look their part. The Bangalore breed is healthy, furry and boy –o-boy do they bark. You could find the Kolkata dogs hovering around a meat shop for some kind butcher throwing a piece of meat, or some kind girl of Presidency College buying a pack of Parle G for them. It seems no matter what they eat, the genetic composition just would not let them grow healthy.  I wonder what goes into the appetite of these Bangalore breeds. There is this dog that sleeps near my flat and the continuous rattle that he makes is enough to scare underworld dons let alone miniature crooks. The Kolkata dog on the other hand, does not look for such heroics. Its aim at the start of the day is to find a few crumbs to feed and move on, and if the hormones do their job, just screw an occasional female counterpart and raise a family.  When survival is the only option you have, ambition is not a luxury you should harbor.

I guess the Kolkata dog is just a symbol. A symbol of the need to change. Yeah, the famous Kolkata chromosome – it is time to look at your structure and pattern. I don’t know if anyone in Kolkata wants to do it but believe me, if we do start to tread the path of change, the Kolkata dream would be way bigger than any other. Mind you, this is easier said than done. We Bengalis do not embrace change with acceptance. Hell that is the reason the Left actually messed up our state for three decades and we kept voting for them.  I still cannot believe Infosys does not have an office in Kolkata! Perhaps then people would come back. Perhaps the change itself would be our answer to everyone who told us “Bhaloi korcho Kolkata theke beriye, eikhaane aar kichui nei” (You are doing the right thing leaving Kolkata. There is no future here!)

The promise of change notwithstanding, I will be back for sure. To my Kolkata, my land, my family. To the dhaak and the Durga Puja, to open views and bigger hearts. To both TMC and the Left (some would say the B.J.P). To opportunities of growth and a chance to realize the reformed great Kolkata dream.

And that perhaps will be the day we would not need to see the larger picture.

THE TALE OF ERR WIND AND DELLY BELLY

CHAPTER ONE

Once upon a time, in a land far away there was a poultry farm. But before you yawn and move on to the next best thing you have to do, let me assure you – this is no ordinary story.   The poultry farm did not have any name, its fame more a function of its quality of eggs and meat.  The poultry farm was huge, spreading over thousands of acres. So large were its confines, that little hope was left for the unfortunate free range stock that lost its way while returning back to their designated coop.  The head stock keeper of the poultry farm was an old man, Manmohana people called him. Although prior reputation of work behind him, Manmohana seemed to have lost his way while taking care of the poultry over the years. His neglect and despair over the dwindling stocks of the eggs that went to the market from the farm pained all those who wished well for the farm.  Years ago, Manmohana had started out as the book keeper of the farm, keeping into account the finances of the farm. The fellow stock keepers gave him the credit for bringing out the Automatic chicken feeder into the farm for better nutrition of the chickens. This is turn had almost doubled the output of eggs during that year. But with times passing by and no suitable candidates for the post of head stock keeper - the quiet and unassuming Manmohana reluctantly found a change of office. Many say he works with a spell cast on him - powerful position handed to him minus the power. I would not be able to confirm that you see. As times have flown by, my sources in high offices have dwindled. You can blame it on my age or lack of resourcefulness. But I see that I digress once again.
 

No one feels the pain of an inefficient stock keeper as much as Indie, the granny hen of the farm. Now if you would see me, you would think I am old. But a just estimation would put Indie’s age almost at par with me. Yes, I was there when she was born, I remember the year clearly because it was around that time the farm got new fences. It is said that all assumed one big fat chick would come out when the egg crackled. The stock keeper at that time - a plump old man, Lord Mountbuttocks they called him, was a shrewd man they say. Surely he must have fed some mischief to Mama hen. Because when the egg did crack on that August night two small chickens popped their head. They named one Indie and the other Packman. In the years that followed Packman was moved into a smaller farm. They say all is not well in that farm as the stock keeper grows more violent. But this is not their story.

Before continuing with my story, let me tell you the administrative set up of the farm. The head stock keeper is the most powerful man on the farm, directly responsible for Granny Indie. Working under him is a set of Care takers, accountable for taking care of the first generation of Granny. Each of the care takers under them has a sub care taker – to manage the second generation of Granny Indie.  The stock keeper and the care takers are chosen every five years by Granny Indie and the first generation hens. After every five years, men from all across the world came to this farm to woo the chickens to be there care taker – the final decision rests on the chicken.  When a chicken accepts someone as its care taker, she lays for him a golden egg. Yes, people. The golden egg. Many a times I have seen wars being waged for the golden eggs, pecking from hens of the other farms. Recently Packman perilously pecked one of the chickens of Granny Indie, Cashmere, claiming that the golden egg from Cashmere belonged to her farm. The claim of course was rubbished, but relationship with the farm remains strained for now.  Each of the care taker is responsible for the ownership of his/ her golden egg. Even after these years, Indie lays the largest of the golden eggs, they say. Manmohana sits with one of them as I tell you this story.  But as I told earlier, (I fear I am being repetitive). This is not his story.

Indie had seen two generations. Many at the farm call her Granny Indie, probably because now during the evenings she sits on a high hay stack and tells stories to her grand children. Out of the many grand children of Granny Indie, there was a one of particular interest, more so for this story I am telling. Delli belly was no ordinary hen by any stretch of imagination. She was of capital importance to the farm. The quality of eggs hatched by Delli belly was the talk of the farm. And it is rumored that she was Granny Indies favorite. I do not agree to that. Granny liked all her children equally. But then rumors have a way of finding the right ears and then proliferating. A lot of care takers  claim that Bambi, known for its dark brown eggs is more productive and off late the care taker of Delly Belly has been neglecting her duties. Stella Missus, the care taker of Delly Belly denies this of course. But the truth is eggs have been rare and fewer for Delly Belly, her coop not cleaned as regularly, and her nails are long and untrimmed. I have sometimes heard Granny Indie discuss this glumly with Manmohana. But Manmohana denies these claims.
 

It was a very cold winter night. The month of December as I recall. Granny Indie lazily sat on the hay stack observing her children and grandkids. One of the new born, Tell-a-gaana who had just popped out of the incubator mischievously peeped through the feeder door. The care takers sat on their seats engaged in either reading the account books for the month, or some new trimming techniques for more restless roosters. Stella Missus was reluctantly combing the feathers of Delly Belly, after Granny Indie had raised her concerns on Delly Belly’s itching for the last two weeks. It was a night of which nothing much was expected. Well how wrong they were!

They almost missed the feeble knock on the door. But when the banging on the wooden door became persistent, Granny Indie asked one of the care takers to open the door.  Outside, in the chilly night stood an old man. He wore a khaadi hat, and a plain white kurta. Over it a simple grey shawl. He carried a small briefcase with him. As the care taker looked over the old man’s shoulder he saw a motley group people behind him.

“The chief is sleeping,” the care taker said, the snoring of Manmohana being heard even from where he stood.

“It is not Manmohana whom I wish to bother. It is Granny Indie,” the old man remarked. There was a childlike enthusiasm in his voice. His throat ringing with passion as he spoke.

“Granny is taking a nap”, the care taker replied, hoping that it would convince the old man to return.

“We will wait for her then. It is cold outside. Let us come inside.”

The steel in the old man’s voice suggested to the care taker that he was not the one who would relent; hence the care taker opened the door, albeit with reluctance. He made a mental note of rebuking the watchman looking out on the fence for ushering these uninvited set of people.

The old man entered the enclosure along with the people who accompanied him. Among them was a boy with horn rimmed spectacles. He wore a white scarf over his neck, and a dark grey sweater. He too wore a cap similar to the old man. He looked all around with keen intent. He had never seen such a huge farm. He looked around at the large coops and the rooms for the care takers. The large set of cartons with food and wine for the care takers. But all this were of little importance to him. His eyes were fixed on Stella Missus, the only female care taker in the entire farm. She had just finished combing Delly Belly and was now tending to her egg-the golden egg. She held it with care and placed it next to her seat. Two golden eggs  for ten years of service.  She looked at them with a gleam in her eyes.   She slowly sipped the red wine as she sat on her cozy soft seat and stared at the warmth of the golden eggs.

One of the other kids from the crowd nudged the boy with the horn rimmed spectacles. “What are you looking at with such rapt attention Err Wind?”, he asked.

 Err Wind cupped the mouth with his hand and coughed twice. Off late his sinusitis had become worse.

He slowly moved toward the kid who had posed this question and spoke in a hushed voice, taking care that the words did not reach the old man.

“I was wondering what it would be like to sit on that seat and hold the golden egg.” He pointed to Stella Missus as he said the words. Never before had the kid heard Err Wind speaking in that manner.

The people who led the institution of prophecy would tell you –it was this moment that changed the history of the farm forever.

Dedicated to Ma & Papa, who made me believe in unconditional love.

BOOKED TILL DECEMBER

Nasrun min Allahi wa fathun qareeb

(With the grace of Allah, victory will be near.)

                                                                                                          The Holy Quoran

Part 3

WB-1734, left Sealdah 10 mins ago.

He looked out through the moving bus immediately after he sent the message. He tried to recall how long he had followed this routine. 3 months. Every working day, he would get into the bus, take a seat and message her the bus number. She would get on the bus two stops later. She would offer her best smile to him, tuck the forehead hair that would be flowing around her ears. He would just look at her, stand up and give her the seat. And then the journey would commence. All along he would just listen to her talk, pelting him with questions, stories about his childhood, about his boss, the targets. At times Prakarsh stole a glance at her, taking care that she never noticed. He would often wonder at the radiance of her smile, the tattoo on her palm, her white skin, the precision with which her hairs were interlocked before tying a knot out of them. He felt uneasy when she looked at him. He felt weak. Nervous. It made him feel good and wretched at the same time.

One day , around 3 weeks ago, Aasman had just learned that Prakarsh didn’t bring his breakfast as he had to leave home very early to catch the train.

“So you eat at that dilapidated street dhaba? Every day?” she exclaimed, shocked at the revelation.

He stretched his arms and looked at himself.

“What is the big deal? I am alive and kicking”

He thud his right leg to support the latter assertion.

“It is dirty, filthy, totally non vegetarian, and absolutely unhygienic”

“Why don’t you cook some breakfast for me? Vegetarian and hygienic.”

He smiled at her in sarcasm. She didn’t.

Two things changed after that day. Aasmaan enrolled for classes on ethnic vegetarian cooking and Prakarsh Tiwari never ate at the dhaba ever again.

His chain of thoughts broke only when she tapped his shoulder.

“Thinking something?” she smiled.

He has got used to her smile. The day felt impossible without a bit of it.

“No” he said, got up and gave her the seat.

When they got down, like the daily practice, Prakarsh was handed a Tupperware lunch box (it carried his breakfast however). He was about to leave when Aasman stopped him.

“Prakarsh, I almost forgot. I made this for you.”

She took out a neat small box and handed it to him.

Prakarsh opened it. Sewaiyaan, sweetened vermicelli.

Prakarsh never said no to anything that she offered. He did not know what to say.

“What about you?”

She smiled.

“It is Ramjaan. I have my fast.”

Prakarsh put the tiny box in his bag.

He was about to take to the pavement of his office, when he realized something. The fast. It would break in the evening.

He rushed to catch her.

“Aasman...”

She stopped.

After some initial struggle, he took the box out from his bag.

“Here, you keep this for me. We will have it together in the evening on our way back.”

Aasman smiled and took the box back into her bag.

Neither of them noticed a guy clicking a picture of the two of them from his latest Iphone.

...........

He was with his brand team when he first saw the lights go off.  About a minute later the lights were running again.

“They have put on the generator. But the damn air conditioners won’t work.” Ashraf growled.

For reasons he never understood, he wanted to message Aasman and ask what she was up to. During the last few weeks that had been the most perceptible change. In seclusion, he would open the inbox of his cell phone and read her messages. He would then recall what his replies had been.

 About an hour passed and nothing strange happened. It was around that time Ashraf ran to him.

“Sirjee, save your excel databases, we are about to be blacked out.”

Prakarsh merely glowered. Being the brightest new sales manager, Ashraf always had the propensity for the theatrical.

Ashraf raised both of his hands in the air seeing that his words had not elicited the desired response.

“The Eastern electricity Grid. It has tripped. The entire state is out of electricity.”

Prakarsh thought for a moment. The air conditioners were off for a long time now. He had himself loosened his tie to combat the searing temperature.

But the computers. They aren’t working on generators. The supply to the computers is still there.

He looked beneath to confirm. The C.P.U was blinking.

“Sirjee we are lucky. The Nightingale Hospital next to our Unilever Building. It is being provided electricity because there are three emergency operations going on. So we are also getting the supply. But it will close any moment.”

Prakarsh saved the file he was working on. He came out of his workplace and went to the reception. It was dark. He knew the blackout would last for a while.

He rang up Aasman.

He was about to hang up when he heard a response from the other side.

“Prakarsh?” she responded. He had never called during office hours.

“The electric supply to your office ...is it there?”

“No, the generators were running till now. But it has given up now.”

Prakarsh felt strange asking the next question.

“You are fasting. Right? You are ok?”

On the other side, Aasman smiled. In the last three months, she knew she had someone who cared more about her than she herself did. Only thing was Prakarsh never made this explicit. Aasman knew it would have taken a great effort on his part to ask her this question.

“Yes Prakarsh, I am fine. You have got loads of work?”

“I will complete it in my home. You let me know when you will leave. I will meet you at the bus stop.”

“If I finish early, I will come to the Unilever building.” she said.

“Okay. The one who finishes work early will reach the other’s office. We will take a cab if need be.”

“Ahem, ahem,” she coughed.

 There was a moment of silence.

Prakarsh remembered.

“And the vermicelli... We will have it on our way back.”

It was about 5 pm, when the security staff of the Unilever Building called all the employees for something important. They all gathered in the cafeteria. Ashraf was the one most excited. No more branding plans, no more storyboards. Every adversity had a flip side, and Ashraf thrived on it. Prakarsh could not feel the same wave of enthusiasm. His mind hovered around a girl, who had not had lunch.

After some time, Mr. Devang Mehra, the man responsible for the logistics of the Unilever building, entered. He was carrying a rock in his hand.

The entire room went quiet. Mr. Mehra was pleased at the effect his entry had produced.

“You know what this is?” Mr. Mehra interrogated as he threw up the rock from his hand and caught it.

“The ingredient of our new fairness cream.”

 Everybody turned back. Ashraf looked at them with an innocence that is the badge of a salesman. The entire staff laughed. A senior manager stared at Ashraf gesturing him to shut up.

Mr. Mehra was livid. The momentum. The idiot had broken the momentum he had managed to pick.

“No Mr. Ashraf. Novel as your thought process is, that is not the case.”

He looked at the others dourly. Pin drop silence. This was the fifteen seconds of fame moment he had dreamed of all his life.

“We are under attack.”

Some ladies gasped. Other men just looked bewildered. Prakarsh was unimpressed.

“A girl was molested near Nagaland house about an hour ago. We don’t know about her identification yet. People started pelting stones at the traffic policeman nearby. As he was trying to save himself a car crushed him.”

He paused for a moment for the story to sink in.

“Gentleman and dear ladies, we have a mini riot going on outside.”

This time the gasps were louder. The exclamations more pronounced.

Devang barked, “The police have secured the area. You are out of bounds. All of you. We don’t know when the electricity will be back. We are trying to make arrangements for dinner. Stay put fellas. We have a long night ahead of us.” he looked at the staff for a few seconds knowing very well his moment of limelight won’t come again.

Prakarsh felt uneasy.

 If I finish early, I will come to the Unilever building.

 He shuddered.

 Prakarsh went to the corner of the cafeteria, and looked out through the frosted glass. 

He could see a swarm of people gathered around the hospital gate, very close to the crossing. A motley group of armed men were trying to control them.

Boom....at first he thought only he was the one to hear the blast. But when Ashraf clutched his hand, he knew.....this was no Hindi movie scene which would get over as soon as the director blurted CUT.

He felt a weakness in his chest he had seldom felt. He quickly moved to his place and dialed her number. The line could not be connected. He tried again. But it still could not connect to his cell.

He had a vague sensation that a part of him was quivering.At times like these the mind can recollect all the horror stories one reads in the newspaper. Prakarsh shook his head.

 It was only a matter of time before he made the decision.

His work place was on the 7th floor. He would take the stairs. He wondered how long before he encountered opposition. He got his answer earlier than he expected. Ashraf caught hold of him as he was about to descend down the stairs.

“Sirjee, where are you going?”

“Ashraf, I need to leave. It is a matter of life and death.”

Ashraf had known Prakarsh for the last six months. He had been the happiest when Prakarsh had been transferred to the Theatre road office. He often wondered how easily Prakarsh achieved his sales targets. Twice he had given Ashraf leads so that he could achieve more than the assigned sales volume.

Ashraf idolized Prakarsh, but was only too scared to say it. He had never seen him smile. He wondered how someone like him could be so serious.

A matter of life and death. He knew Prakarsh was not exaggerating.

“Sir, someone from security or the police will stop you midway. The police just fired a tear gas to disperse the mob.”

Prakarsh did not say anything. He looked at Ashraf with resignation.

Ashraf gave the situation a thought. He looked at Prakarsh and gestured him to follow.

Prakarsh switched on the torch of his cell. It was very dark. He had a faint idea he was going through the emergency exit.As he kept descending into a never ending hollow pit, Ashraf remarked, “I come here to smoke sometimes.”

It was a while after which they both saw the faint outline of the moon. They had evaded the security guards.

“This road leads to the American Centre. Please be careful. If they get hold of you today, they will think they have a jackpot.”

Prakarsh looked at the boundary wall he would have to cross. His wrist watch beeped. It was 6. He thought about Aasman.

“Ashraf, I owe you one.”

“That you do Sir.” Ashraf replied as he saw the lanky outline of Prakarsh disappear in the dusk.

The road was surprisingly empty. Prakarsh tried to understand his location. He knew he could not take the direct road to the alley that lead to Aasman’s workplace. He would surely be caught. He tried to recall the name of the building. Amherst Towers. He did not know where she worked. Come to think about it, he did not know anything about her at all. A pang of guilt bit him. In these three months, she had asked everything about him, his favorite color, the sneakers he wore on Fridays, what his brother’s favorite song was, how his three year old nephew pestered him when he returned from office - she had grilled him better than a cop. He did not even know where she worked. He trembled that he may be too late.
The indirect route which Prakarsh took to reach the building helped him avoid cops all right. But it took him an hour to reach there. As he approached the building he could see a large crowd in front of the portico. He wondered if the effect of the riot had reached so far. He did not want to think about it. He struggled through the crowd. When he reached the entrance, two heavily built men stopped him. One of them lighted a torch and pointed the pen of light right on to his face.

“Where to, Sahib?” one of the men asked.

“I am looking for a friend, Aasman Pervez.” He hoped they would not ask where she worked. He did not have the answer.

Prakarsh waited for an answer from either of them.

The older one looked gravely. He twirled his moustache and remarked, “I am afraid Sir we had to evacuate the entire building once we heard about the riot.”

Prakarsh turned back. For most of the past three months, Aasman returned with him. He had adjusted his work schedule deftly. He attended most of the client calls early morning, his presentations in the afternoons and the inhouse team meetings early in the evening. He waited for her at the bus stop. The entire day, he waited for the 20 minutes of the return journey on the bus. Every minute of it.  With her. Just with her.

 In ways he could never imagine, Aasman Pervez had turned his life upside down. And she had managed the feat with just a smile and a Tupperware lunch box.

He walked back to the entrance portico of Ahmerst towers. He looked around the swarm of people meandering near the pavement. No sign of her. As he was brooding over his next course of action, he heard someone.

“And that is the whole summary of my life, when I need the cell phone network, the connectivity is zero. No network. Great.” He looked at the direction from where the voice came. A young man was looking at his phone in disgust. Some of his friends were giggling at the young man’s plight.

It was then that it dawned on him. Some of the cell phone towers run on electricity too, others use a generator. He prayed that the former was the reason why Aasman’s phone was not getting connected.

He looked at his watch. 7 pm. He raised his head and looked at the darkness all around. He would wait. Nothing can happen to her.

 She is fine. Absolutely fine.

 He sat down on the stairs of one of the electronic shops that had closed for the day.  His cell phone had lost its network. This time he did not think too much about the newly generated travesty.

She is fine. He kept muttering.

...........

She looked at the watch. 7 pm. She realized she was only 10 minutes from his office.

She had left office almost immediately after she got the news of the riot.

The one who finishes work early will reach the other’s office. She trembled at the consequences of those words. She had tried to call but there was no connectivity .She kept walking close to the pavement. Far away she could hear the vociferous bleating of a large crowd. She looked around. She only saw two more people walking behind her. The street was deserted.

It was then that she heard the explosion.

Almost on reflex, she rushed to take shelter in a boutique nearby. The two other men behind her also entered the shop. The shopkeeper did not want to invite any more guests. This was a boutique not the American Embassy. He lit a candle. Then he rushed forward and closed the front door of the shop.

“I will open this door only when I am sure this place is out of trouble. If you want to leave, now is the time.”

He looked at the faces of the three people. Only the girl looked like revolting to the proposition.

 A minority.

 He locked the door from inside.

..........

 He looked at his watch. 10 pm. Then he looked at his cell phone. No network. He kept gazing at the far end of the street hoping to see her.

Almost at that instant he saw the lights coming on. Some people gathered and pointed to the traffic lights that had just sprung to life. Then his cell phone rang.

He did not even need to see the number. It had to be her.

“Where are you Aasman? I am at your office.” he corrected himself  instantly,” I am at the entrance of Ahmerst Towers. Are you all right? Have you reached home yet?” he was panting as the words came out.

There was an eerie sense of silence.

“Aasman where are you?” he repeated.

“Prakarsh…” Aasman called from the other end. “I am in front of your Unilever building.”

Prakarsh looked at his watch. Everyone at the office must be out. She must have waited for him like he did.

“Aasman you should have returned home. Your parents must be worried. You should have returned. Why did you need to wait?”

Aasman did not reply. She just clutched a tiny circular box containing sweetened vermicelli.

………………………………..

As he puffed out the smoke of his bidi, Bishnuram nudged the elbow of his fellow security staff. He pointed the fellow’s attention to the couple sitting on a bench just close to the entrance of Ahmerst Towers. During nights he often saw young couples sitting on the bench. The ritual that would follow next was almost routine. The girl would sit on the boy’s thighs and start biting his ear, while the boy would caress the breasts of the girl with one hand and try to undress some part of her clothing with the other.  Bishnuram had come to take a voyeuristic pleasure in that. He only intervened when the moaning of the girl exceeded the mandated decibel level of the posh society. Today as he was taking the mandatory nocturnal rounds of the Ahmerst Towers, he saw a boy and a girl sitting on that notorious bench. None of them talked. A small round box was placed on the bench between them and they took turns to eat something from it using a lone spoon.

Yes, that was the strange part. No one talked.

“And I thought I had seen it all.” he remarked knocking down the charred ashes of his bidi.

………………………

She looked at his message immediately after she closed the door of her room and shut the lights.

“I got the train. You go to sleep.”  Aasman had now memorized the travelling pattern of Prakarsh. After the bus journey, he would take a train from Sealdah. The whole train journey took him an hour. You go to sleep. She smiled as she read the message again.

She typed the reply.

“I will be awake. Let me know when you reach home.”

She looked across the road from her window. Her father had been livid with her being late. However he did not tell anything. He never did after what had happened in the past. His brother on the other hand was loud in his remonstrations. He had called all her friends at the office. They had reached their homes long back. What was she doing so late?

Aasman told him about getting locked down in the boutique. She told him about the blast.

“And where the hell is your bag?” he barked. Aasman’s father did not react.

“I kept it in my office. I was afraid it would be snatched in the mob frenzy.” she answered quickly.

“But you remembered to take this vermicelli box with you?”

This time, Aasman did not reply.

Half an hour passed.

Her cell phone beeped. He must have reached. She quickly rolled over the bed and grabbed the cell.

An unknown number. She opened the message. It had an attachment. She raised her eyebrow. While the attachment downloaded, she read the message.

 She wished she had not.

“Saw you with this guy today. I knew there was a slut in you the first time I saw you. Then why all the drama that day? All I wanted was to give it to you just once. But if you think I will let you go, you are wrong. I will make your life such a hell you would wish it was over that day itself. My fucking whore.”

She trembled as she opened the attachment. It was a picture of her handing Prakarsh a tiny box. She shuddered.

Her cell phone beeped again. She fumbled with her phone. Reluctantly she looked at the message. She wiped the tears off her eyes to clear her vision. She was shaking.

“I have reached. Now get a good night’s sleep. And thanks for the vermicelli. It was worth the wait.”

Now get a good night’s sleep.

Had the message not been from Prakarsh she would have found the lines almost cruel. There would be no sleep tonight. Not anymore.

She put her head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling above. The past. She had forced herself to forget everything. The memories. They swarmed back.

A speck of glistening tear rolled from the corner of her eye. As she was fighting to force back those memories into depths of void, she kept mumbling the only words she could remember.

Nasrun min Allahi wa fathun qareeb

6 months ago she had heard her father say the exact words as he had looked over the corpse of his wife, vacillating from a ceiling fan.

The next day Aasman had slashed her right wrist with a knife.

Part 4 Next Week.

Please post your comments here.