First salary- a short story

First salary

-A short story -

It was a fine Friday evening; the bare earth cooked in july rain spread its fragrance fresh into the humid air and diffuse itself with the aroma of fried ‘pakoda’ in almost all the snack stalls overlooking the gutter of the narrow street. Sun had already set when Gopal crossed the street, took a right turn and hurried to reach his apartment. All the way home from office, he was unusually swift, unmindful of the mud splashing over his trousers punishing his old, torn and mended shoes. Chennai is not the right city for rain, it just gives away; the conglomeration of rotten vegetables, mud, gutter, overflowing drainage, mosquitoes, filth, flooded slums, epidemics, quite a nightmare month for the corporation officials. Few suffer, and many enjoy the rain. Gopal almost slipped near the market stamping upon the rotten tomatoes and plantain leaves. Unmindful of the difficulties, he rushed home. As he ascended the stairs, his heart beat rose, he noticed the pathetic condition of his shoes when he removed it, thought that he should buy a new set, but immediately postponed the idea ‘it can go for two more months, I shall buy after rainy season’. Before he dwelled further on the thoughts, he was joined by his parents and sister beckoning him inside. The joy of the cute small family was ineffable, for it was the first salary day of Gopal and it definitely deserved the joy and celebration joined by the heavy rain outside. The celebration included a special sweet from Kaveri (Gopal’s mother) and an additional hour of prayer in front of the deities for his long life and health. Gopal washed his hands, changed to ‘dhoti’, prostrated before the gods caged in wooden frames and then before his late grandparents adoring the weathering plaster of the wall in a black and white portrait and finally before his parents. All the while, he was feverishly holding his salary slip, a mark of achievement, an entry to take the baton later from his father in a never ending relay race. Kaveri looked at her son with delight, a series of past events since his birth ran before her eyes and she prayed god again with closed eyes for the everlasting happiness. Subramoniam, quite accustomed to his accountant profession for the past three decades, adjusted his rims and carefully went through the numbers of his salary slip “they haven’t mentioned the P.F account no. in the slip”, Gayathri interrupted with two bowls of sweet prepared by Kaveri, “Appa, you carry out your research with the salary slip later. I can’t stand the sight of kesari (sweet) anymore, common Gopal, this is for you”. The room filled with laughter and the china clay bowls reserved for VIP guests and special occasions went into the sink after repeated fillings. Gayathri took a spoon and started scratching the edges of the vessel for the left over kesari.

                When all of them assembled in the hall, with joy choking their words, Subramoniam said, “I still remember my first salary, Rs.400 in an envelope. I never took my hands out of the envelope fearing pick pockets till I reached home. It was quite a ceremony then. Ah! I forgot something” , he took a parcel with a cheap polythene wrapper excavating his office bag, which is a safe deposit of almost everything from stationeries to medicine, few marriage invitation cards etc .  “This book on investments is a must read for anyone before his first salary; no one gave me such advices. I learnt it myself. But the author..”

                “Oh! Common, why do you want to bother my son on the very first day? You are anyway there to guide him in these matters and cant you spare him to enjoy now?”, Kaveri intervened Subramoni. Gopal received the book with great respect, like he respected his father, whom he believed knows everything about life, culture, savings and investments. When Subramoniam started his career thirty years back, all he had was a single salary, aged parents, two unmarried sisters and a huge debt due to his five married sisters. From those humble beginnings, he had fought his way out and now proudly owns a single bedroom apartment, one of his life time dream and achievement. However meager his economic achievements may be, to Gopal, his father is better than Bill Gates or Warren Buffet. He would like to continue his father’s legacy of planned living with frugality and contentment.

“We should not touch his salary except for the repayment of his education loan, we should save everything. Bhgavathy mami has taken a gold chit in G.R.T Jewelers. I went through the brochure; it’s a monthly chit of two thousand rupees and lot of benefits. Similarly, opposite house Sridhar family regularly invests in ‘Shriram chits’. They say that we will get 2 lakhs in two years for a payment of approximately 1.6 lakhs. Both will be useful for Gayathri’s marriage. What about a plot near Guduvanchery? Can you ask our friends for suggestions? Your salary is hardly sufficient for home loan and other expenses. Ah ! I forgot, I have to send Rs.101/- money order to ‘namakkal anjaneyar’ temple tomorrow”, Kaveri spoke uninterruptedly with excitement. During dinner, she submitted another proposal of finishing the home loan supplementing Gopal’s salary and then start savings after a year. She had her fifth revision of financial plan for Gopal’s salary when they went to bed.

Sunday morning it was Krishnamurthy at the bell. “Namaskaram, I was expecting you, Kaveri, two coffees“, Subramoniam welcomed  him in. Krishnamurthy, an LIC (insurance) agent lived in the same apartment and is known to Subramoniam’s family for quite some time. “You may know Krishna; Gopal has started earning, so I thought its time to take an insurance policy for him. We need to guide him for savings, for till last year he only knew about school and studies”.

                “Yes, yes , the right decision, I would say. How many children are blessed with a father like you ?? !”, Krishnamurthy continued after a small pause, “These days, youngsters get lot of salary, their parents don’t care what they do with that and they spend every penny in movies, bikes and other unnecessary luxuries. They realize their mistakes often late in their life. Subramoni, you are doing a wise thing and I should congratulate you for an astute son like Gopal who listens to his parents. Obedient kids are rare these days, you know”, Krisnamurthy smiled and pleased Gopal, his client and Subramoni, his client’s controller both simultaneously. He knows his ways of business and his skills are anything but talking, but he survived and met his ends in this insurance agent commission. Kaveri’s filter coffee diverted Krishnamurthy’s conversation to her “Kaveri amma, its as if yesterday Gopal was playing cricket in his shorts and today he’s a big man and I’m only his humble servant”. Kaveri was definitely flabbergasted at this dialogue, which he might have recited 1000 times to his new young clients, with the same emotion and not once did it fail to make an impact. A visibly pleased Kaveri, proud of her son, offered an additional plate of snacks and told “Please, advise him properly, he’s but just a boy”.

                “Do you need to tell this to me amma? You know me very well. I don’t do this as a business. I do this as a service. To me, the welfare of my clients is the first priority. I would say its only god’s mercy that whoever took a policy with me prosper very soon in front of my own eyes; you know the Saravanan of Canara bank isn’t? He took a policy and within three years he bought a new house. I’m a staunch devotee of goddess Lakshmi and I pray everyday for my clients in front of the deity. Don’t worry Gopal has a bright future. His face says that he is a blessed one”.

                This is Krishnamurthy’s trademark dialogue and everyone including Kaveri at the present moment bought his spiritual sincerity for his clients. Never once anyone bothered to think why the goddess who has granted everything to krishnamurthy’s clients hasn’t given him anything but to own an old bicycle. Sure, he has an explanation, but no one has asked him and he never had an opportunity to unveil the mystery.

                Subramoni,  a man of details justified his accountant profession by scrupulously going through all the policy details, their benefits, bonus, minimum guaranteed returns, risk analysis and other details. By the end of coffee, he filtered three policies and discussed the technical nuances with Krishnamoorthy to choose one. Gopal was in wonder watching his father effortlessly analyzing the financial aspects of a policy and made a mental note that he too will learn those soon and keep up his father’s hard work. Its true that some of his father’s friends call subramoni an idiot hard worker, who with but professional smartness could’ve gained much more than his cocoon single bedroom apartment. However dumb a man is, he is always the first hero of his son and any son’s first ambition is to grow up like his father.

                Gopal was asked to sign the papers by sitting cross- legged in front of the deities; of course Kaveri, an adept in hindu customs, believes in ‘holy time’ for any activity had already checked the calendar and ensured that the time is marked suitable for such positive endeavours. With every signature, Gopal felt important and after a few signatures on the aged yellowed policy form, Gopal became the owner of an insurance policy, like the infinite paranoids swarming around. The weekend passed gleefully with more varieties of plans on savings, deposits and Gayathri’s marriage.

                The only purchase Gopal made with his first month salary was a new lunch bag, which is now hanging along with Gopal in the morning electric train. As the train crossed ‘St.Thomas Mount’, he hardly had a space to stand, yet he noticed an advertisement outside about some gold chit between the cracks of  human crowd and made a mental note to tell his mother that night, which would only complicate her calculations. After the usual morning struggle, tactfully escaping the mud splash from dashing auto rickshaws, filth flying from the brooms of corporation workers, smoke vomited by the city buses, he finally settled down in his cubicle allowing the air-condition to adsorb his sweat into the  humid air when a senior colleague Kumar stopped by. Kumar has been nice to Gopal since his joining. Kumar, having begun his life from humble background like Gopal, felt a responsibility to take care of the new kid and Gopal too has a great respect for him. There is nothing like having a partner with mutual respect and trust in a corporate environment, filled with ugly politics and opportunities to pull each other down out of impetus to camouflage their insecurity. Such gentle relations make the beautiful looking decorated corporate hell a family and this is one such small family who caught up on a Monday morning empathizing the raindrop tears trickling down the weeping windows *.

“So,  Gopal, did you had a party over first salary? Is everyone happy at home?”.

“Oh yes sir, we had loads of fun”, Gopal was referring his extra cup of sweet and his insurance policy.

“Hmm good to hear that, Money is always good, but that always comes with a responsibility, spend wisely kid”, despite being conscious that advices are detested, people never stop advising even on trivial things.

Gopal smiled understandingly and with lot of vanity explained his financial debut of insurance policy.

“Whatt ?? You took an insurance policy ?? “

“Yes sir, Krishnamurthy mama told that in 10 years we will get double the money and my father is not a novice to be convinced on financial terms, he chose the right policy and I am glad that I’ve taken the best investment option in my first salary.”

“You could‘ve discussed with me. Which century are you living in? Insurance policies are not investment tools and young men like you shall not depend on conventional instruments like policies and fixed deposits. Your growth will be much faster than your money ever does. There are stock market and mutual funds to take advantage of the growing economy. ‘You should not work for money, your money should work for you’”, Kumar ended his sagely advise with a quote from ‘Rich Dad Poor Dad’, which a beginner believes a technical bible for financial investments.

“But shares and all are too much for me, I’m not into such gambling…”, before he finished Kumar snapped him shut, “What a fool are you Gopal !! “ and the next one hour Gopal got a free lesson from Kumar on the investments and equity market. Gopal was mesmerized by Kumar’s eloquence in equity market, thrilled by his home page of ICICI Direct, trading shares on a daily basis, and Gopal didn’t fail to acknowledge uncomfortably that there are many things in personal finance which are beyond the reach of his father. That evening was a difficult evening for Gopal at home.

At dinner Gopal opened, “Appa, Kumar sir was talking to me today, he advised me to invest in equity shares and mutual funds”

“What?? Lets not get into gambling of hard earned money, its not for us”

Well, even Gopal responded the same to Kumar that day morning and Gopal was then confident to convince his father, fresh from the tons of advice and case studies from Kumar.

“No appa, its not gambling, it’s only a calculated risk, Kumar sir taught me how to read economic times, understand indicators, of course it’s difficult, but he guides well.. you know, I was stunned when he showed how to transact shares and.. “, as Gopal continued, Subramoni’s face shadowed gloomily, Kaveri recognized it in time to interrupt, “Gopal, we will discuss later, now eat before the curry gets cold”.

When did a son took his mother’s cue !!!

Gopal continued, “No amma, even a pessimistic estimate of mutual funds is approximately 15% returns, which he says double than most fixed deposits”.

Subramoni this time got really irritated, “Gopal, you have just started earning, trust the experience of the elders, the money gambling is not good for our family”.

“No appa, am not talking about day trading, which may be called as gambling, we shall invest in the top 30 companies and in long term will pay lot of returns”, Subramoni completely uncomfortable stopped him “Gopal, we should try to create something ourselves, on our own, from the very money we earned hard, however tiny the value of the penny is!. There lies a satisfaction of building it our own, free from the curse of numerous people who lost their money in that stupid game. However humble the achievement of mine may be, it’s self made and not riding on the success of few business men. Equity shares are like cheap game, paying money for someone whom you don’t even know and relies on his business acumen; celebrate when the market booms believing that you have made the right choice and lament when the market collapses, I don’t want you to get into that nonsense”.

This time it was Gopal’s turn, especially then he had a reply for the same from Kumar, “Appa, even our fixed deposit is actually similar to that of shares. In fixed deposits, we give the money to government, who in turn loan it to other business men and agriculturists and the interest accumulated in nothing but the profits earned from those business ventures which we have invested with government banks as mediator. In this case, we analyze and invest directly into the right companies. It’s more like fixed deposit in particular companies with dynamic interest.”

Gopal lurched out exact words Kumar shared with him that day. Even Kaveri was astonished with Gopal’s instantaneous financial intelligence.

Gopal continued “Appa, there is a fidelity mutual fund NFO closing this Friday. Kumar sir recommends…”

“Rascal, its one day since you touched money and you have started advicing me, do you know the hardships I had gone through? Do you ever respect your father’s experience and wisdom? Go get lost, you want to believe in some idiot Kumar, who may be as novice as you”.

Even Subramoni was bit shocked later at his sudden outburst. It was not the subject or the content of conversation, but a feeling that the young lad, whom he had carefully adorned within his protective wings so far, have started to act smart under the advice of someone who is outside the family. He felt betrayed that his son decided to chose Kumar’s words over his one. Often and mostly always, a father’s anger has no rationale on the subject, but only such soft emotions troubles them. They feel out of place, odd, small, dejected at the thought of negligence, realization that their sons have grown up suddenly ahead of them and guilty in their failure to recognize their son’s ability.  But the sons, too young to acknowledge these sentiments, on the other hand feel disdained by their own father even for their true, good intended requests. It’s the poor mother of the family who gets caught in such trauma sharing both her shoulders to these two grown up kids, for both the father and son needs her to truly open up and yet she cannot divulge the truth to either, for it affects the balance of the relation. No one except a woman in the family can handle such trauma and all the male chauvinists of the world should think about the shoulders they relied on before they contemptuously bark at the faintest appeals of feminists.

Kaveri was surprised at the unanticipated tumult which arose out of noble intentions from two responsible pillars of the family; she didn’t speak much till night,

“Kaveri, I know how upset you might be, even I was, but think about this, within one day where did he get the guts to speak against the elders. I was sad whether I failed to teach him discipline, have I missed to teach him manners? Today I felt disastrous and an utter failure, failed to mould a son’s character, believed his innocence ruthlessly…”

“No, please don’t hold such deep sentiments, I don’t think he criticized you or opposed you. He was just attracted to the new information he got and even when he told you, he wanted to consult your opinion. But your outburst just wounded him. Who knows what thoughts the poor boy was having? You could have patiently explained. Even I was sad the way you treated him. I know him more than anyone and I swear his innocence. I’m worried how he feels now. Do you know that you haven’t scolded him for the past two years”, no one can beat a woman in chronological memory and cross referencing at the right moment. Even at this moment of despair, Kaveri did not fail to mention when and where Subramoni had shouted at Gopal and how she felt insulted when he had shouted at him in front of her cousin. Subramoni, like all the short tempered men, yielded quicker than wax “kaveri, go and have a word with him, give him some milk, let him sleep properly”, no father ever had the guts to apologize to his son and it’s in a way, good, for every son respects his father even for their mistakes and the equilibrium of relation gets affected with such transparency in attitude.

Kaveri went to her next job, to attend Gopal, who was silently weeping then. He had been rehearsing the evening dialogue several times and failed to reconcile his father’s outburst. Kaveri went to him and her maternal fragrance was just what he needed to wipe his tears, “Gopal, shame on adults to cry.”

“You know amma, I came with lot of anticipation that appa will appreciate my efforts. I really respect Kumar sir. He wants me to succeed and gives me good advice. I didn’t want to let go of an opportunity due to our ignorance. Was I disrespectful to him? Why does he feel insulted? Didn’t I come to him for his approval, after all, am anxious of Gayathri’s marriage expenses and our home loan”, Gopals words melted with his sorrow, expression unclear from the jutting tears and all Kaveri had to do was patiently comb his hairs and the miraculous strokes soothed Gopal, a satisfaction that all is not lost and the assurance that here she is for me, the one who lives for me, the one who is more desperate than me for my success. She offered him a glass of milk, “Gopal, who shouted at you? its your father only isn’t.  Believe me, he is the noble soul who cares for you than anyone in the world, he’s afraid that his son shouldn’t take even a single wrong step. Do you think he had doubts in your intention? I know him more than anyone do and I can promise that he trusts you. You have to respect his experience and he may not be able to explain several things as you are too young to comprehend, but he is always worried about you. Kumar may be a nice man, I doubt not, and even your father doesn’t disapprove of his friendship, he might only be worried that personal finances should be not be influenced by others”,

                “but amma..”

“Listen Gopal, am not questioning you, you may be right, I think father will understand that soon. Now be a good boy, the noble soul of your father is troubled at your rash behavior of talking against him. Go and apologize.”

Gopal was not reluctant to get up and apologize, for he is more troubled and guilty that he had disturbed the peace and felt sorry that he had spoken against his loving father. He went to him, stopped near the bedroom, “appa, sorry, I didn’t intend to upset you”.

“No, don’t weep now, be a good boy and sleep well, we will talk all these later. Go to the deity and smear the sacred ash on your fore head to get a good sleep”, actually Subramoni needed a good sleep.

The next day, Gopal got up and everything was normal, kitchen spread noise and flavor of kaveri’s daily fight with vegetables and spices, Subramoni finishing his newspaper and Gayathri getting ready for her college, running around looking for lost hair pins, missing assignment notebook and cursing that student life is the worst only to realize later that it was the heaven unrecognized. That’s the beauty of the family, the hatred, discomfort or any negative feelings just get wiped away in the first tide. Everything was normal, no sign of previous day’s sentiments except that both Gopal and Subramoni vowed internally to correct them. And that’s why friends are there, to tell you what exactly to do then.

                Subramoni reached his office and read “IF” poem of Kipling, a habit he imbibed under difficult situations, much helpful at the time of annual appraisals. His friend came in “What Subramoni, looks tensed?”. Subramoni was waiting for this, and he just vomited the previous days incident.

“Ha, you are a stupid Subramoni, I think you should have appreciated your son’s responsibility. How quick are kids these days. I promise you know nothing of share markets. Encourage him to do some mutual funds, its harmless. If you are anxious, advise him to invest less and understand the economics. The fundamental thing in equity is you need to invest both money and time for it. You cannot sit in office and wait for an external enlightenment. Just stop behaving like an old brat and go get him that fidelity mutual fund. Gopal seems wise, I wish we too were like him when we were young, we could have made more”.

The response was crisp and short, but it pained Subramoni’s self-ego. He once again went through the ‘IF’ poem. He was still not satisfied. He then went through some websites, read dummies for mutual funds, though not convinced, decided to trust his son’s wisdom and was simultaneously afraid in doing so. Finally, he gave up and downloaded the NFO form of fidelity mutual fund and filled his son’s details. He came home early and placed the filled form within an envelope in front of the puja shelf, hoping to give Gopal a pleasant surprise.

That evening, when Gopal went to Puja shelf to place an envelope he brought, he was surprised to see another envelope. He opened the envelope and saw the NFO form filled on his name by his father except the signature. He smiled and kept another envelope which had a form filled on his father’s name for a fixed deposit in Indian bank.

*- “raindrop tears trickling down the weeping windows “ based on the inspiration from Mrs.UshaSoman’s poem, “weeping buildings”, http://ushasoman.blogspot.kr/2008/11/weeping-buildings.html

Disco- the first sin

Disco- the first sin

It was his first time and was excited about it. Any first time activity, from our birth till our last breath, entrusts us with a store of excitement. The excitement masks itself in different forms, happiness, fear, etc and the mask changes based on the activity and the individual’s values. He couldn’t decide which mask of excitement had engulfed him that day, his first time to a disco club. A contemptuous frown concentrated between his eyebrows at the thought of alcohol and smoke around him in disco club. A fear chilled his spine at the imagination of encountering any of his or dad’s friends. What would he answer if they ask “hey Mohan, what are you doing here?”

            He had watched movies and had thought about disco as a cultural flaw, an exhibition of human weakness, an act of taking a step back in the hard earned civilization. Yet, he was waiting for the sun to sleep and hoping all others he knew to sleep along with the sun, leaving a set of alien anonymous crowd who don’t bother about him and themselves when they plunge together into the abyss of disco. Despite his efforts, he never could rationally analyze what’s so wrong with disco clubs. It's just an opaque rigid wall in the mind, which stops all the logical thoughts to a heavy halt in hearing the name ‘disco’ and turn back to say ‘No, it's wrong’; like it said ‘no’ for smoking and alcohols. Nobody has ever told what the cultural issue with smoking and alcohol is. No, it’s not due to health. There are several products which are not good for health, starting from the adulterated cheese to bread, chips, fruit beverages and what not? But they were not banished by the cultural purists. Yet, smoking and alcohols were banned with a ‘No’ label long back, long before they understood the effects of nicotin and even before they found nicotin in tobacco. They are essentially the symbols of man’s weakness for pleasure, a weakness which openly challenges the spiritual advancement of human beings to oneness, which is often referred as god. Disco clubs enjoys similar and even worse treatment when compared to other weaknesses; as it provides almost everything that are advised to be kept at a distance.

            So, it is natural for anyone like Mohan, born and brought up in a culturally conservative family to close his eyes and ears, and more importantly mind from several things in the society, with disco among the top few things. The present world would be a heaven if everyone follows what is known to them or taught to them as right. No mind is tougher than its weak moment and it gives up under pressure to pleasure, only to lament later 'Why I did that?'. Such weak moments are unfortunately not rare and occur every day, like we break our diet resolutions the moment we encounter a bakery. However, few weak moments are stronger and wilder like the big tides washing away the sand homes of faith built ashore. Mohan was sucked in one such weak moment, which took him for a toss in its whirlpool. How else could he have agreed to Philip when he persuaded to join him to a disco? The beauty of the weak moment is that they are momentary, yet it pushes us into a world of illusion or curse that we realize it only after our action, however long it may take. Philip brooded over the idea of disco in the first half of the day. But Mohan didn’t think whether it is right or wrong according to his moral values, until he came out of the disco that night.  The only thought that had occupied his mind was 'Disco, Disco!!' and he was desperately waiting for the evening during the first hour in the class room. Our mother earth started teasing him by revolving slowly; it seemed a second was longer than a second and it appeared as if it took several hours to cover one hour in clock. As the dusk passed, when sodium vapour lamps compensated the daylight, Mohan was doubly excited about the approaching significant event in his life. He walked out of the gent's room after a clean shave, dissatisfied, he shaved again. He was generous with the after shave lotion to ensure that he gains a dashing shiny chin as they show in commercials. He wore his favourite light blue shirt and a matching ‘John-Miller’ navy-blue trouser. The only leather shoes of his underwent a double coat of polishes and sparkled when his friend's shine-x was lavishly applied. When a thin film of 'cuticura' talc was gently spread over his coarse face and armpits, Mohan, satisfied with his rituals took extra care not to sweat and started fanning himself with whatever he got. But his tension was so fierce that his body fluids fought their way through his skin pores and his hanky was half wet. Philip entered his room, “Mohan, what happened? Are you not coming for disco?”.

“No, i'm ready, i am waiting for you.

“what?”

He couldn't appreciate his genuine shock till he entered disco.

“we are not going for a job interview”, frowned Philip and redecorated Mohan with his party wear gadgets. Philip swayed a jet of deodorant confined in a container labelled 'adidas' and exclaimed “Mohan, you still use talcum powder ?”.  

"There's a lot of restriction for disco clubs these days", Philip explained,  "so much debate going on about its impact on culture etc. I don't understand these lunatics. Disco is about smoking, drinking and dancing with women. This was there always. During historic days, only royal court and rich men had this luxury and they employed women slaves for dancing. These days, we have broken the aristocratic supremacy and have liberated the privileges for common man. Above that, instead of having slave women, we have given freedom for equal rights to women. Liberty, equality and freedom- isn't quite a revolution?. The thick heads never understand that." He didn't refer to me, but i know with utmost clarity that i belong to that group of thickheads preventing a silent revolution progressing without daylight and I felt responsible to undo it. My first step was self-liberation through participation. I walked in with confidence.

“The premium discos , which are often a part of 5 star hotels allow only pairs and costs very much. This one is suitable for college students like us; the entry fee is only Rs.500. You know what, they give two complimentary pints too and yours is for me, since you don't booze. I don't force people to booze; that's against my policy”, the good Samaritan Philip continued “I have brought lots of first-timers to disco. I keep a count and you are 63rd”.

Both of them entered the dark room, equipped to explode with deafening music. The loudest music Mohan have ever witnessed was during the annual temple function in his village where the loud speakers supposedly communicate to anyone within half a mile. This volume was at least ten times more than those loud speakers of his village. The whole body of everyone within it was vibrating ; one can easily dance without much effort. The dark room was filled with clouds of cigarette smoke, too strong to choke the lungs of a non-smoker like Mohan. There were tables arranged in two rows, all of them round in shape encircled with slim chairs for one quadrant and a crescent shaped cushion chair for two quadrants. The central pathway which branched into blossoms of round tables at its sides was dashingly lit with multi-coloured twinkling lights. The strange combination of dazzling bright path and its dark peripherals was strange, yet synchronized well with our cosmic and philosophical model that light and darkness co-exist within a same bubble.

Mohan and Philip merged with the darkness in one of the corner tables. “This is the best place, you can have a view of entire dancing floor from here”, when Philip noted, Mohan was awe stuck by Philip's knowledge on minor details. The pints arrived and Philip's broad smile consumed his large square face. As the bottles became lighter by losing alcohol, so did Philip by consuming the same. The divine liquid ceaselessly went inside Philip, however Mohan's interests was not even faintly linked with alcohol. He came there to experience the fantasy world filled with glamorous women, which, to him had always existed only behind the silver screen. He was impatient when the bar was still occupied by him, Philip and their empty bottles. As the clock stuck eleven, two men came inside, and soon more men stuffed in the dark room. More bottles moved in the thick smoke blanket. With time, the fluid had its magic effect and people started dancing. Still the bar was packed with men. Mohan grew impatient and turned to Philip, “are you sure you have brought me to disco, this looks like a gay club”. Philip laughed as if it was a great joke , nodded his head and turned to the waiter to order one more round of whisky.

It was one hour since they came and Mohan finished two plates of excessively salted peanuts, a diet Pepsi and five glasses of water with ice. It was very difficult to pass time. Mohan was disappointed to see more and more men around; ugly, dark men with protruded belly filled with chilled beer, stone faced men devoid of any emotions except contempt and men who are disappointed without any women around. Mohan was trapped within a dark cell of men and was genuinely irritated with Philip for bringing him there. But, Philip was peaceful with his bottles and its fluids. His tranquility at that moment amidst the loudest music and ugly men amazed Mohan.

            At around 11:55 PM, when Mohan went for his eighth round of plain water, a jet of fresh air gushed in near the door as it was ajar. The fresh air sneaked through the doors had its lung full of thick perfume announcing the arrival of much awaited womenfolk. A gang of four ladies paraded into the dark sanctum where mortals transform to divinity by consuming elixir. One of them wore a black tight t-shirt and a mini-skirt, the black colour merged with the darkness of the chamber. All of them were in high pointed heels creating an illusion of floating in the smoky cloud like angels. Despite their knowing that they are being watched by lustful eyes, they carried themselves a casual charisma expressing their indifference to the rest.

            Ignoring Mohan's exposure to virtual silver screens, that was the first time he saw ladies smoking and drinking. The bartender whose cold stare intensified with his glasses of cold water showed a reverse trend with those ladies, for he conversed with animation, laughed easily and suggested new cocktails to those Barbie dolls in flesh and blood. Their presence had altered the equilibrium of the bar, with people entering the dance floor portraying their clown-like dance moves. Soon, very soon the sex-ratio got altered when few more women entered the bar. The alcohol loosened their stiffness and they soon decorated the dance floor. Their dance moves, though incoherent like the other men around, had an attraction and grace. With their dance moves, they drove away the laziness which had still then stuck with the people around like mosses on wet rocks. Along with, they also drove away the contempt and irritation of landing up there, especially a girl in a sleeveless yellow tops and black jeans attracted lot of people's attention.

            Mohan's eyes were glued to the dance floor, trying to absorb as much for future memories. He was too shy to go there and kept looking at how easily others approached the ladies, bought them drinks and took them for a dance. When he went to toilet, he accidentally bumped over the yellow topped beauty pumping his adrenalin in full power. In the next ten minutes, he visited the toilet several times placing himself in strategic locations for potential accidents, though nothing happened after that.

            When Philip called Mohan for the dance floor, he was excited; excited that his fantasies were finally coming true. Even amidst the mixed emotions, he didn't fail to thank Philip for bringing him there. Philip dragged him to the centre of the dance floor and started dancing. But Philip didn't pick any of those girls, didn't even go near them, worse than that, he didn't allow either Mohan to go near them. He started teaching Mohan how to dance. Though Mohan didn't appreciate the idea of dancing away from the crowd, with lot of ladies behind, he didn't want to disappoint Philip and complied to Philip and his movements. But he went on and on and Mohan whispered, “we shall go near the girls”. He frowned, “common Mohan, we are not here for them. We will dance”.

“What? Dance?, well , if we need to dance, we can do it in our hostel, I need not come here to learn dancing”, shouted Mohan overcoming the screaming DJ's music.  Philip started laughing at his desperation, at his weakness; when Mohan left him with irritation. He then marched to the dance floor and started dancing with fierce random body movements in front of a girl. She smiled and moved away to another guy, who bent and whispered something into her ears before they settled to a corner. He then went to the next lady; but she was already dancing with a guy. He stood near them and danced for a while.  Receiving no attention, he went to the next girl. He imagined that Philip would be laughing at his actions, but he was angry at him and didn't care to look towards his side. The girls, old & young, dark & fair, slim & plump were there in plenty, yet no one paid any attention to Mohan. As time passed by, the men around formed couples and started leaving slowly; Mohan became inert to the lack of attention he received.

He went to the bartender, asked for a glass of plain water with ice and came back to Philip's table. Philip's eyes were closed, and his face bore a divine serenity. His sweat spread over his face and glistened in the tiny flame of a lighter in the next table. They left the bar soon. When they came out, one of the couples they saw inside was returning. Mohan , visibly upset told Philip that he couldn't impress even a single girl. Philip turned calmly, exhaled the puff his lungs had temporarily borrowed from his cigarette and said, "You know Mohan, not a single girl turned here today is worth pursuing. All of them are hookers".

"What????"

"Who else do you think will come to such disco clubs? most of the clubs allow only couples, and real couples will go only there. Only hookers come here to win their customers."

"you mean, those girls with red tops, black tops , the fat girl- all of them ??? "

"Well, let me not disappoint you . Very few of them are not. Few college girls who can't afford their alcohol also come here. But the whole of today's crowd belong to the first category and they got their customers easily."

Suddenly, Mohan felt it so disgusting. It dawned to him that no wonder discos are considered bad. It's a gateway to decadence of our own moral values. The guild feeling of voluntarily jumping into abyss churned his stomach and he started sweating profusely.

"You brought me to prostitutes", Mohan's words were sharp with frustration.

Finishing his last puff, Philip replied casually "Not exactly, I brought you to disco, where they too come". His smile was intense and to Mohan, he appeared so ugly like a satan who dragged him into the quicksand of evil. Mohan's pace slowed with shock.

The night was troublesome. He couldn’t sleep well, his heart was burning constantly; two bottles of cold water was gulped in feverishly. Despite his mental restlessness, he was too tired and after a struggle between his mind and body, he somehow slept. But he couldn’t sleep well, his dreams haunted him teasing for his loss of morals by walking into the disco. He woke up startled , wept for a while and then slept again. The cultural shock he was subjected to was too intense for his gentle mind to handle.

He wept for the whole sunday, even skipped the fried rice, the only worthy food of the hostel. But, one day was too long for any information to pass through the transparent ears of his hostel mates and by sunday evening his adventure was known to all.

As he entered his classroom monday morning,  Anand, Gokul, Abhijit, yusuf and many other greeted, "hey Mohan, welcome to our disco group". But the bolt from the blue was when Raghavendra, the pious, gentle and topper of the class told him "next week, you come to my area, that’s better."

Mohan was surprised and angry; surprised to know that there are actually so many regulars and angry that no one ever told him. He just smiled and avoided the crowd. That night's sleep was again disturbing; his dream was about a debate between two Mohans arguing the positives and negatives of disco. Unlike the previous night, the new Mohan of his dream was justifying disco with new vigour. Next day, he went to Ragavendra, "isn't wrong?”

Ragavendra smiled, "Mohan, there's no absolute right or wrong. Every moral rule is defined by the standards of the then society. Our society has changed greatly and the rules you define are outdated. If you think this is wrong, then quitting dhoti to trousers, quitting 'paatshaala' to colleges and every similar occurrence is wrong. Don't confuse yourself.  The only rule is the purity of your heart. "

Mohan felt refreshed in the new age philosophy casually conceived by Ragavendra. Yet, he was still confused. Wednesday, he met Gokul who said, "If one day visit to disco can spoil you, then your mind is perverted and is already impure whether you go there or not." Mohan couldn’t accept the new accusation of perverted mind and started to yield slowly. By Thursday, he was able to justify that what he did was not a crime and there is nothing wrong in mere going to a disco. In fact, people who had never been to one, allowed lavish imaginations and unnecessarily spread irrelevant moral policing.

Seven days passed since then when Mohan stood before Anup's room, "Anup, can you spare your adidas shoes tonight?"

"No prob dude, by the way, where are you going?"

Mohan was quick to reply without hesitation, "To disco, with Philip".

P.S:  I was inspired to write this on the basis that anyone who plunges himself into practices or habits which he/ she considers unacceptable, undergoes a tumult based on the original values. However, once a weakness is exposed, the person and his environment encourage him/her to continue and often justify the new habit. Slowly the habit just sticks..

A very very short story- submitted for a contest

Place: Mars

People are bald and prematurely aged. Everybody carries oxygen cylinders. Advanced solar vehicles are the only means of mobility.

Gayathri was having dinner, a plateful of artificially synthesized powder, the only food in planet. Pointing out to the orange heavenly body, she asked, “Whats that?” Her mom sighed, “That’s earth, where our ancestors once lived. The nature fell prey to greedy men and poor earth is now bald like us”.

Save environment

5 star ladies hostel- A short story

(The theme of the story is inspired from a true incident told by one of my dearest friends, whom I respect for all she is.)

The bus stopped inside usilampatti muddy bus stand with a heavy sigh from its brakes after a long 14 hours journey. I got down from the bus when the dust was still attempting to settle down. The dust took its revenge over the bus for disturbing its hibernation by settling down on my trouser perhaps because I travelled in that bus. It was still early morning and the yellow rays from sun had not picked up its temperature yet. I decided to take the shortcut behind the bus stand so that I could reach my house in ten minutes after 15 turns and 8 crossings. Velappan was coming back after his morning schedule of milk distribution. Seeing me, he smiled broad enough to expose his loss of one tooth in the upper jaw. ”sundara, have you forgotten us?  How are you? How is the weather over there? Huh! You seemed to have lost weight and I think you were much fairer last time”, he continued and pedalled away neither waiting for my reaction nor reply. I just kept smiling till he was out of sight.
I knocked my neighbour’s door to collect the keys. Kamalam mami emerged amidst her busy kitchen schedule with the remains of rice dough in one hand and saree is tucked in for swift and easy perambulation in her cramped kitchen., which hadn’t witnessed a single whitewash after Gopalan master’s ( kamalam’s husband) retirement 8 years back. She gave me the key, enquired about me, the same set of queries I’m encountering since velappan.
Though it is hardly one year since I had come here, I felt nostalgic, especially after my father’s demise last year. The emptiness of the small house devoid of his physical presence definitely reflected a part of heart’s feelings, which still haven’t recovered from the emptiness he had left back. He was an ordinary farmer by profession. But, his respect and love for my mother made him extraordinary, especially in this society packed with filthy male chauvinistic pigs. Somehow most of the men in the society think that wives are mere alternatives for cheap labor, a live machine to replace housemaid, mixie, grinder, washing machine and above all a dumb robot made just to vent her husband’s frustration. I thought the poor fate of the society’s fair sex is confined only to my town of usilampatti. In my past few years in Chennai, I can boldly claim that the male domination is a part of every single family, whether it is usilampatti or Chennai or for that case any society which has human beings. Even those gentlemen and ladies talking and writing at length about women freedom do not spare themselves from their attitude of male domination.
The freedom for women in its real sense can be achieved only by changing men’s mind and nothing else. Till men change their attitude to accept their counterpart as equals, women’s social freedom will be just but a distant mirage. My father not only understood this, but also lived by what he understood. He respected my mother and hence was an aberration in the small town. My father used to tell that only those families who can respect their ladies will prosper in their life. I sometimes feel guilty at my prosperity as it can be staked as evidence against my father’s hypothesis.
After enjoying nice fresh water bath in the stream nearby, I finished the customary duty of visiting all the houses in the street. Each family had a lot to share with, some joyous, some sorrowful, and the prize of patient listening would be a filter coffee at the end. The day melted quickly giving way to the milky moon light. I was relaxing in my father’s easy chair in our pyol, when ramaswamy, a grocery shop owner living in the corner house hobbled towards me, “Hey sundara how are you? Was busy on the shop for the whole day. Sita( his wife) told that you had come”. I welcomed him, hiding my irritation of his unsolicited entrance disturbing my solitary bliss amidst the moonlight and neem breeze. A casual chat on the climate, water problem and politics went on for a while. Ramaswamy, with a sudden curiosity asked, “What are you in Chennai?”.
“Well, I’m a real estate agent where I actually help people buy, sell or rent their properties. It’s basically a service business.”

“oh ! Broker a”

“Ptch!!, Despite my endeavours to avoid the ignominy of being called as ‘broker’, I fall victim to such affronts, especially at a place like my hometown. Why can’t people use ‘real estate agent’? Doesn’t it sound more decent? When I first came to Chennai, I didn’t intend to become the so called ‘broker’. I wanted to start a business of my own. “Business !!, that’s not for people like us”, amma had exclaimed when I told her my plan for the first time. I argued and convinced her later that business needs only acumen and is not confined to one set of people. Later, I had to convince my father for financing me and I carefully delegated the responsibility to amma.
“Sundar wants to start a business in Chennai.”
“Business!!!”, almost the same exclamation as that of amma.
“Like Tata and Birla?”, my father asked. Any one or anything related to business is extrapolated to Tatas and Birlas. For example, after my settling in Chennai, amma used to tell her neighbours, “my son is doing business, like Tata and Birla”, this time Tata and Birla are seated in a statement of pride. When I told my friends “I’m doing business”, they reply back “oh, like Tata and Birla?”, a hint of sarcasm.
Huh! I really pity Tata and Birla; for they are the most used and abused names in Indian family’s conversation on business.
Ramaswamy interrupted my flashback thoughts, “Sundara I have come to you for a favour. Who else I know in Chennai and who else could help me”. One good thing about usilampatti people is that they talk straight to the point. Though Ramaswamy tried to plodder around, he couldn’t manage to conceal his plea for more than a short interval. In less than 5 minutes, I understood that Ramaswamy’s daughter had finished her engineering and she was planning to come to Chennai for a job search and that I was supposed to take care of her. A sense of pride over powered my irritation, at being entrusted with the new responsibility of being the girl’s guardian. It meant that I would have to take her to Chennai, find a good accommodation, take long walks with her during the late evenings when the roads are relaxed from traffic, advice her like a father, listen to her childish narration, take care of her health and list went on. Coupled with my pride, a sense of satisfaction started creeping in; like that when you feel when you help a blind cross the road or that you feel when you buy a biscuit and a cup of tea to the road side crippled beggar and so on.
With my acceptance and within a week, the three of us (Ramaswamy, his daughter Gayathri and I) left to Chennai. When we reached usilampatti bus stand, half of the village had assembled to bid Gayathri farewell. Everyone had the same farewell message, “Gayu, you wont forget me, will you? And don’t forget to write letters”. Indian postal department should be proud about usilampatti as its still unaffected by internet and its viruses.
Gayathri proved in our journey, why she deserves such an affectionate farewell. Within the twelve hour journey to Chennai, I knew all her details, the schools she studied in, her friends and their families, her teachers and their families, her neighbours and their families and the list went on. Since I knew many of the people she referred to, she got even more excited at my acknowledgement and went into further details to ensure that she was able to feed me with some first hand information. Her main ambition, it seemed was to join a software company. And I also understood from her that most of the engineer’s dream and ambition is to be a software engineer, where a fat salary fills the pocket, enabling them to enter into a new culture characterized by Pizzas, latest English movies and an on-site trip to the western hemisphere. About a century back, Indians were transported to Malaya and Burma in bulk by the British for rubber plantation. Their families sent them with cheer and lots of hope for clearing their financial debts. Little did they know then that these people were going as slaves to obey the orders of a capitalist. When I see the software engineers slogging late hours and weekends under the pretext of competition and career development, I somehow see not much difference between software engineers and those rubber plantation workers.
“Wow, how beautiful sunrise is,” Gayathri got up. “It looks like an orange, but in usilampatti, we don’t get oranges like this. That mohan, the fruit vendor sells only lemon sized oranges. Instead we can buy lemon itself. Ha, why should we buy lemon? Mangalam mami has a lemon tree in her garden and she is generous in distributing her lemons, unlike Kavitha mami who guards her guava tree as though she won’t even let the squirrels touch it…….”, she stopped finishing one around of gossip about all her neighbours and friends. Suddenly she stopped, “what uncle, you are talking since I got up, let me brush my teeth”, and she left. There was complete silence other than the periodic lullaby of train’s wheels.
We soon reached my one-room apartment cum office in Anna nagar. Before evening tea, I had found an accommodation for Gayathri. It’s hardly few streets away from my apartment. A white board hung outside and within its faded area was encapsulated in small blue font, “5 star ladies hoste”, sacrificing the ‘l’ of the hostel to environment. The lady in charge, in a shiny chiffon blue saree matching the font colour of the board outside, welcomed us clenching her broad smile to her beautiful face. With age, she was overgrown and her cheek muscles drooped making her smile even broader. The tiny vermilion mark caught between her eyebrows melted in the Chennai sun and descended her long nose. When she assured safe lodging for Gayathri, all of us were convinced.
Next day Gayathri shifted to ‘5 star ladies hoste”. The lady was in a plain green cotton saree and more beautiful than the previous day. A sign of maturity and responsibility blended with love may describe her in brief. Ramaswamy couldn’t control his outpour of the gathered tears hidden under his eyelids. Before leaving, he thanked me thousand times for my service.
Days went on, I often met Gayathri, and mostly when she came to ‘M.G. internet café’, diagonally opposite to my apartments. She would go through all the job search sites, read tips to make good resume and keep applying. With hundred applications and no responses, she came there again to re-edit her resume and explore new companies. Often, our meeting would confluence to the coffee house nearby. Our one hour meeting would witness her talking for 60 minutes, with diverse topics ranging from job market, usilampatti, her friends and so on. And never had she failed once to tell some good things about the lady in charge.
Occasionally I used to visit her in her hostel, for after all I’m her local guardian. I felt a parental responsibility for Gayathri, may be because of Ramaswami’s trust over me, or perhaps the self-consciousness of ageing witnessed by the graying hairs over my ears. I would be able to hear Gayathri at the gate itself and would wonder whether there is a time in her life when she could remain silent for 5 minutes. She used to greet me with her cherubic smile and immediately start talking, “uncle how long have you been , you know what happened yesterday…. “, a lady in brown house coat passed us, Gayathri interrupted, “hey Kavi, I old you about an uncle from my home town isn’t….”, she continued for a while when someone else passed with Gayathri interrupting again. After some time, she turned to me as if gaining consciousness after an accident, “uncle, what were we talking?” I was amused by her use of “we” as she was the one who used to talk and I would merely listen.
I got a wealthy client who was looking for investing his big chunk of black money in real estate. Money in black pays well and I soon became busy. One day Gayathri called me and said that her lady in charge was planning to take all the hostel in-mates for new-year party. She sought my opinion and I encouraged her to go out as it would definitely be a good change for her.
Two days later, I got a call from her hostel conveying an unbearable message. Gayathri had committed suicide. I rushed to her hostel. The whole building was silent, evidencing the void of Gayathri’s departure. The wrinkled thin white cloth formed an opaque layer over Gayathri’s dead body. The lady in charge explained that she was in love with a guy and he had cheated her. She showed some letters from her bag.
The post mortem report confirmed that Gayathri was raped before the incident. Ramaswamy’s fragile hand trembled when he received her body from police custody. We neither spoke nor ate anything. The shock drenched in sorrow melted and mixed with my stomach fluids causing some uneasiness. The sorrow vapourized, expanded and occupied my abdomen and chest. It further expanded pressurizing my ribs and choked my lungs. Like a safety valve, my eyelids gave way to the sorrow fluid and tears flew.
Separation and sorrow are inseparable. Even earth enforces gravity on its objects to escape the sorrow of separation. Gayathri, was suddenly omnipresent; in my apartment, in the net centre, in the coffee shop, her memories dwelled everywhere. Her innocent talk kept echoing into my ears. I was like a parent or an elder brother to her, enjoy and relished the bits of services to Gayathri; sometimes it was posting her resume, sometimes it was buying some stationeries, sometimes even accompanying her for interviews. All these, however insignificant it may be, had acted as a catalyst to improve our relation. Thinking further on these lines, I was convinced that I was closer to her that we acknowledged. The revelation brought along with it some amount of possessiveness into my mind. I felt that she should have discussed it with me and my intervention then could have avoided this tragedy. Had I known about her affair with that unknown guy, I would have admonished her, or I would have dealt straight with that guy. I felt like killing the guy who took advantage of her innocence. With the anger drifting towards the guy, my possessiveness shared its positive side of compassion to Gayathri.
Often I missed her and more often I became frustrated. I wanted to take her to beach temple; wanted to buy her the pearl ear-stud which she sighed at with awe when we went to Hyderabad bazaar, wanted to cook her favourite pulaav and so many other things which were postponed added fuel to my burning frustration.
As time went by, my sorrow slowly melted like candle wax. Gayathri’s memories were only intermittent; her constant presence slipped to dreams at night. The rigidity of her thoughts relaxed its grips and my real estate business diluted it further. I became busy with the wealthy client to convert his black money to land. That day I went to internet centre to email my client about a property.
I heard a voice, “hey it’s the lady at 5 star hostel”, the voice belonged to a group of excited guys in my next cubicle. From my seat, I could see a portion of their monitor. Yes, they were right, it was the same lady in charge of 5 star ladies hostel. My astonishment in what I witnessed later sealed me into my chair. The lady in charge was calm as usual; but the girls around her were crying, some of them looked tired; some of them bleeding and yet the lady in charge’s tranquility was intact.
Oh my God, that’s Gayathri. What am I seeing? Is it true? No, this can’t be. I wanted to close my eyes, but couldn’t; I wanted to run, but couldn’t. My legs went tired, a solid mass of energy just escaped out of my body, like air out of a burst balloon. I was stone fixed as two men damaged Gayathri. She protested vehemently, but in vain. The lady in charge stood beside, smiling. Ahh ! I ran out, like a mad man towards unknown destiny to escape an unknown force following me. However, despite my restlessness and hasty running, a corner of my mind smiled at my consciousness and told, “How much ever you run, you can’t escape the guilt inside forever”.

Lost debit card- short story

As the tiny white blades swung gently, the 2 ton air conditioner pumped cool air, laden with a strong aroma of room freshener into that small ATM. Today’s freshener flavour is sandal and is soothing unlike the previous week’s penetrating jasmine flavour.
But, inside the small room, I was not bothered about anything around. It was the third time I’m dialing from the wall-hung dust laden white phone inside the ATM. I pressed the button “Direct Manager” and waited impatiently when a computerized voice answered, “Welcome to JM International Bank, for banking related queries, please press ‘1’, for credit card enquiries, please press ‘2’, for demat account and other related enquiries, press ‘4’, for personal and housing loan queries, press ‘5’, for insurance and related queries, press’6’, …. And if you want to talk to our phone banking officer directly, press ‘9’.
I was desperately waiting for this and immediately pressed ‘9’. This time another cute computerized voice answered,” Please wait, you are in queue” and beautiful sitar music replaced the computerized voice. Had I not been in my current agony, I would’ve flirted with the owner of the computerized voice,” honey, your voice is better than the recorded music and…” But this time I didn’t entertain any such distractions. The loop of computerized voice and sitar music continued for sometime when a natural live human voice broke at the other end, “good morning sir, thanks for calling JM bank, This is Seema in banking accounts section of JM Bank, my staff no is 81435, what can I do for you sir,” she finished her routinely repeated constant greeting dialogue.

God knows how many million times she had repeated the same greeting to several customers and it’s really appreciable that she still holds enthusiasm in her voice. Who knows, may be the fat monthly pay includes her acting enthusiastic hiding her work’s boredom..

I repeated for the third time. ‘My name is Rajeevkrishnan, my account no is 460324589311 and I’ve lost my debit card.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Seema’s sweet voice answered at the other end.” This is Banking section, you may have to contact Card service” and transferred the call to some other desk. The monotonic ringing continued for sometime and there was silence, pure silence, the absolute solution for my complex problem. I slammed the receiver.

“Today is a bad day for me”, I thought. I tried to recollect all the possibilities under the sky for losing my wallet. “Did I forget to take it from house? Did I miss it in fuel station? Or…..” a series of mental questions with a single answer “No”.

Sometimes, under extreme pressure, your mind lands up somewhere unconnected to the present. My mind flashed back and forth and Gayathri haunted my thoughts. More than the loss, my worry then was how to face her that evening. “How many times I’ve told you not to keep debit card and license in your wallet? Are you that lazy to keep them in a separate pouch?” and a series of bashing. A corner of my mind generally agrees with her. But what I’m afraid is about the worst that follows, a solid half an hour of lamenting starting from my missing her uncle’s cousin’s nephew’s marriage eight years back and continuing chronologically event by event which ends in my forgetting to buy a cough syrup for her mother last week, which she claims that I should voluntarily have bought seeing her mother coughing.

I followed the ritual again for the fourth time. “Welcome … Please dial 9”.

I stood there feeling the cool air spit from A.C, watching the Monday morning sun slowly engulfing the mother earth with his flame lips and waiting for the irritating computerized voice to stop. The other end got life again.
“Good morning sir, Sumathi here”. This time its Sumathi, earlier it was Seema, before that Pearl who followed Kavitha. The beautiful names and their honey filled music-like voices were good, but gave no solution for my missing debit card. Kavitha didn’t know what to do and promised that she would call me back after discussing with her boss and she thinks she gave a smart answer. Pearl followed the same tactics of Seema, transferring my call to some department without waiting for a reply. And I wonder how none of the transferred calls are answered.
Having repeated several times, even my voice hardened like the emotion free computerized voice. I repeated the whole story again. Listening to my tragic story, Sumathi said “Oh ! I’m sorry”, a compassion not expressed by any of the previous ladies adoring beautiful names. Anyone, especially when in distress is easily moved by a couple of soothing words. Even in the state of misery, my brain made a mental note of the importance of empathy. Sumathi’s “sorry” made me believe that she’s going to solve my problem. Sumathi continued, “May I ask you few questions to verify your details?”.
“Yes, please”, I replied as courteous as possible though my mind was telling “you lousy lady, finish it fast and talk about my debit card.”
She asked, “May I know your mother’s maid’s name?”.. “What? maid’s name? Why do you need that”. “Sir, please tell me your mother’s maid’s name.” I was confused and answered, “Backiam”, the lady whose rough hands are responsible for the shining utensils of our kitchen for the past several years.
“Sorry sir, its not matching our records.” “But how come my mother’s maid’s name entered your database and it seems complete nonsense.” Even amidst the agony of losing card, I felt awfully irritated at her questions. My mind, for a moment went blank, a state of thoughtlessness surpassing the present tension. Sometimes, when you are forced to a complete state of pure confusion, left with no solution, you will surely have some clue in front of you just waiting for you to crack it. This time it was a fresh application form lying over the glass top which melted the dirty handprints leftover by someone unknown who might have taken its assistance for filling some forms, or may be to drop a cheque. But why do I care about all these?
The application form, printed nicely in orange colour also shared some dirt from its glass bed. The application form read as follows
“ NAME (CAPTIAL LETTERS):
MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME: ………”,
Oh ! She wanted to ask my mother’s maiden name. My god! I was rather panicked wondering how insane the bank is to appoint such a crack brain in the help desk. Her sweet voice didn’t appear sweet anymore. I felt talking further about my lost debit card was abominable and I slammed the receiver.
My cellphone kept on the glass top vibrated riling my temper. The green colour monochromatic display contained within itself, “boss calling” in dark block letters. I could see unpleasant changes in my face even in the distorted reflection in the stainless steel contoured plates in front of me. I attended the call and for several minutes I kept on uttering only two words, “yes sir”. I had to rush for an urgent meeting and to send an urgent email and….. nowadays I’ve lost the feel for urgency as every damn activity is prefixed with ‘urgent’ and I do it as normal as possible.
Frustration from the calls I made and received forced me to get out of the ATM. I decided to send an email to the bank rather than calling unhelpful helpdesk. I took my briefcase, the one my brother in law presented for one my wedding anniversaries (Gayathri thinks that the suitcase is made of diamond, though I know the truth that he got the foam brief case as a compliment for some cheap conference on some useless topics he attends) and brusquely walked out pushing the aesthetically bent stainless steel handle of the heavy glass door.
I came out, took a deep breath of the warm air. I need to think what I should do now. I couldn’t get rid of Seema, Pearl, Kavitha and Sumathi. All of them haunted like devils and somewhere nowhere I could see them ganging up to mock me. I imagined them laughing at me hysterically, how crude!!
The ATM watchman approached me. The peach shirt has a coffee brown label, “B.S.K security services” embroidered over it. The shirt might have witnessed some tough blows during its previous washes, the embroidery has started unthreading. First thing that entered my mind was “hey black shoes don’t go with your trousers”, I controlled my thoughts and gave him a confused look. I’ve read in internet about ATM watchmen abducting the customers at gunpoint for money, but I seriously couldn’t believe that he’s attempting the crime at day time. Hmm, many criminals don’t even know how to perform a crime, and finally get caught to the big bellied khakhi policemen.
He might have understood my anxiety; he smiled relieving me from the thought of my being abducted. He searched for something in his pocket. Oh my god! Tension again, what could be that? A pistol, a knife, or any other pocket size weapon our film industry hasn’t captured yet for its miraculous heroes?. He took it out of his pocket. It was dark brown in colour and very familiar to me, yes, yes that’s it. He spoke for the first time, “ When you went in, your wallet fell down, please count the money”.

Relay Race- short story

Our town might have had one of the best engineers to design the gates of ‘Queen Victoria Park’. Since my childhood days, thousands of kids have swung on the iron gates and it still stands majestically holding my grandson between its slender vertical bars. The huge boughs of the Peepal tree near the gate fanned in the scent of fried cashew nuts sold outside by few black skinned, gray haired ugly-looking women. As a reflex to Peepal tree’s call, my hand scanned my shirt pocket. Scanning my shirt pocket is an easy job; it hardly holds an old fountain pen, a small pocket diary scribbled throughout with random information, a small bit of ‘to be bought’ items list written legibly in my wife Gayathri’s handwriting, few coins and few rupee notes totalling a value less than one hundred. My hand pressed my pocket, like Dr.Seetharam does with his chill stethoscope during winter fever. With the five rupee coin excavated from my pocket, I walked briskly towards the gate. The thin summer air was thick with the scent of cashew. In exchange of that five rupee coin, I got a small pack of cashew nuts and a murmur from the wry ugly face “now a days you wont get a cup of water for five rupees and people want cashew nuts..”. Ignoring the comment, I gently opened the shabby pack revealing bright yellow coloured cashew nuts. I took one cashew; it looked like a penguin with a broad hip and a narrow neck; its curved neck was charred due to excess heat from the clay ovens in the thatched roof huts of those ugly women. Appreciating the beautiful symmetry of cashew, I felt the fine dimples spread over its golden yellow surface. I happily allowed my appetite empty the packet. I slowly unwrapped the paper cover that till few minutes back held those daffodil cashew nuts. One side of the wrapper was decorated by a black and white photograph of some actress, whose name I don’t remember. The other side had a quote of Albert Einstein about Mahatma Gandhi. I carefully tore along the black lines embroidering the quote and slid it into my shirt pocket; who knows, someone might have thought that I’m actually storing the photograph of that actress; but I don’t really care what others think about me.
When I got up to deposit the remaining wrapper safely inside municipality’s never-cleared dust bin, I saw Vichu (Viswanathan) coming towards me from the park library. Soon we were sitting in the concrete bench under the neem tree, the one which we have been sharing for hundreds of evenings since our retirement. “Ha Nana (Narayanan) where is your grandson Ramu?” When Vichu asked, I realized that I had forgotten Ramu for quite a while. Startled, I turned back and was relieved to see the iron gates still holding him between its vertical bars. Pressing his palms on the concrete bench, Vichu bent back to relax his posture and enjoy the neem breeze. Breaking the silence, he farted, controlled explosions in the park air. May god bless all the holy hands that planted the trees around us which instantly purified the air contaminated by Vichu’s emissive presence. The Peepal tree’s breeze this time cleared the odour and relieved me the effort of wrinkling my nose tip. Vichu spared an unembarrassed casual smile, stroked his belly and said “today’s culture….”
I was surprised. In general, eye brows broaden in response to pleasant surprises and vice versa. This time, my eye brows contracted when Vichu attempted to reason out today’s culture for his invisible gas bubbles. Relieving my surprise, Vichu continued, “Today’s culture has ruined our lives. Those days, we had healthy food; spinach and vegetables that grow above the earth’s surface enriched with positive energy. The diet was balanced then. But, today’s culture have shifted towards pizzas and coke, hardly my daughter-in law cooks vegetables. Mention not the technological demons. The food, already poisoned with artificial chemicals is cooked with microwave. And what remains is only gas trouble and stomach ulcer.”
Being a part of retired men association, such bane for technology is not new. I think the hatred for technology stems out from the ignorance of not understanding the same.
“Vichu… I agree with you that our eating habits have westernized. But, weren’t we different from our previous generation? May be we didn’t had pizzas, but we adopted chappathis which were not a part of any of our parent’s dinner menu. The increased work pressure has decreased the available time and energy and hence increases the sales of packed foods. And about your curse on microwave oven, Vichu, don’t you remember how upset your father was when you bought the gas stove. He feared that the inflammable gas stove may one day shatter the whole house into pieces. We were different from our previous generation and so are this generation from us.” Gayathri’s words echoed in my ears. Once when I was upset with my son, Gayathri told me, “You were not like what your father expected and your son is not like you expect him to be.” Gayathri might have mentioned it casually. Truth, even if casually mentioned is indispensable.
Vichu was silent for a moment; may be his emotions were pricked by my mentioning about his father’s displeasure on gas stove or perhaps he was in agreement with my argument.
“But Nana…”, Vichu continued “Its not just about food. I’m talking about overall degeneration of this generation. It’s disgusting to see people being stingy in their costume and still be unabashed of it. Disco clubs and night-out parties have become a part of family life. Movies and internet spread venom and people are trapped into it.”
“Vichu, I think there is some problem in our viewing the next generation. We are unable to accept changes and at the same time we fail to realize that we ourselves had introduced some changes in this society. Talking about costume, our previous generation wore only traditional dhoti. Did you continue that? In fact, you were the first one to wear bell-bottoms in our college. I still remember your blushing when kamala told that you looked like Rajesh Khanna when you wore that coffee-brown colour bell-bottoms and tiny executive check, long collared full sleeve shirt. It’s a matter of fact that our social system is changing, may be the rate of change of social life is faster in this generation than ours.”
Vichu interrupted before I finish, “Nana, you mean to say that everything is allright?”
Evening sun had already started fading. Ellipsoid bulbs of sodium vapour lamp came to life giving birth to continuous flood of yellow light attempting to compete with the setting sun over the local area of concrete bench. Vichu’s discontent on my supporting this generation was visible in his facial changes, now illuminated by the monochromatic light flowing through the translucent (once transparent) glass panes of the sodium vapour lamp.
“Vichu, I’m just trying to say that every element in this society is changing. Few years back, we were the source of change and we didn’t realize then that we were changing. Now, when this generation is changing, we become mere observers. According to our parents, we were not right and according to our grandparents, our parents were not right. If you extend the time scale into both past and future, you would always observe that the older generation is reluctant to the changes of the present generation. And whether such changes are good or bad, we can’t comment. Because what we witness as changes are just symptoms, symptoms of something bigger and sacred. Yes, all these changes are just symptoms of another slow invisible change of our society’s value system. Among the infinite changes in technology, social life, dress, eating habits etc, some may positively influence and contribute for the betterment value system and some may not..”
Ramu came running to hug me, with soiled shoes and sweat laden T-shirt. When Ramu hugs me I forget everything, even my line of thought; but this time I didn’t and continued, “Vichu... Life is like a relay race, each individual run only for a certain distance and handover the baton to the next. Similarly, each generation run a certain distance holding the baton of ‘change’ and hand it over to the next generation. So, lets not worry about this relay race, but shall try to channelize the these changes to the overall objective of a better value system for future.” Vichu this time appeared to be relaxed and extended a smile. We walked towards the iron gates built by an unknown ‘best engineer’.
We crossed a couple of young men in their thirties, who might have come to the park with their kids and probably were returning then. In that silent atmosphere, amidst the soothing music of Peepal tree, those voices were clearly audible. In a hoarse voice one of them spoke, “these kids... God, they are no way like our generation. How nice we were as kids? I am really scared about the future of this new generation.”
Vichu pressed my hands, a gentle sign of approval…

That Stupid thing!!!!!- A short story

My name is … ah ! who cares about my name in the Chennai city holding more than 7.5 million individuals, including the yesterday born grandson of my friend, Srinivasan. Even the one day old cute kid whose feeble cry from his teeth free empty mouth making his rosy cheeks red, will not care to talk to me one day. From the one day old kid to people who have only one day left to live in this funny world, nobody wants to know about me. The 7.5 million individuals in this Chennai city, some percentage of whom I witness daily, some other percentage I witness rarely and the majority I never witness, to me appears like 7.5 million individual societies. All because of that stupid thing.

The basic principle of human society is to interact and cherish relationship. Every individual influences the society. The society is run by the response of each individual to the responses of other individuals. Everything was fine till few years back, until the stupid thing made its presence in the peaceful Chennai. From dawn to dusk, even while sleeping, people need only one thing, that stupid thing, that hand-held stupid mobile phone. Nowadays, I’m not seeing people around; I just see 7.5 million mobile phones roaming around holding human beings with it. Earlier, 8 out of 10 people I encounter used to greet me, but now; sometimes even I wonder whether I exist or not.

That day I really thought the guy has gone insane; what else you think about someone who talks and laughs by himself without anyone around in the middle of the road. Another day, when I went to milk booth, the person filling the decade old broken chair inside the cash counter asked, “ya tell me” and I replied “two packets”. He started shouting, “I don’t care who you are and let me see how you get it”. I was stunned and twisted my complexly entangled brain cells to think what the problem in buying two packets of milk is. Thank god! Only then I realized that he was talking-to someone through his mobile phone. Everybody everywhere is busy talking to someone nowhere in mobile phones. The whole world looks like a lunatic asylum where every individual confines to himself, an aberration in the society. But, since the whole society is behaving like infinite individual societies, only I look like an aberration for them. The black colour, grey colour and many other coloured plastic boxes with rubber buttons and a small screen have eaten away all my friends and relatives from me.

It’s long since I’ve talked even to my daughter. Normally when she comes home, she complains about the weather and also grieves that she had to walk a long distance. Compressing her big eyes, her cute little face wrinkles when she complains. I love to see that expression and often tease her for that. She’s indeed beautiful and like her mom, she’s a chatter box. During dinner, we sit together and we listen to her while she narrates incident by incident since that morning. Whether it is a quarrel with her classmate or an appreciation from her teacher, her food won’t digest until she completes the whole days stuff. The practice continued for years even after her joining the job, but until recently. Nowadays, she enters answering a call, later get hooked up in another call and responds to some other call even while dinner. No more narration from her and no more wrinkles over her face. All because of that stupid mobile phone. I feel like puking over it.

The worst part occurs during my daily travel to office. I use electric train for commuting to office. It’s a half an hour journey and I used to enjoy it very much. We, the co-passengers had formed our own local groups. The first one of the group will reserve seats for people boarding in subsequent stations. Our group mostly comprised of old men, Mr.Sankaran whose pot belly hits the passenger in opposite seat, the bald headed Balakrishnan who have never missed the sandal scratch on his forehead, a proud symbol which he used to portray that he is a keralite and Mr.Shyam,smart and handsome, an odd man in our group used to discuss about varied topics. Though we had never been to each others houses, we knew all of our relatives, functions at our homes and everything personal about us. Similarly, there were other groups; those who play cards and makes lot of noise, who sing film songs using compartment walls as drums, who stands on foot board to look around girls entering each station and so on. Basically, people of similar interests got together and enjoy. But, now, everything has changed. People are idle. Though they travel together throughout the year, they don’t even know each other’s names. They are always busy talking to someone or other in their stupid mobile phones.

Another group of people sit idle like Egyptian mummies. Yes, they are listening to FM radio in mobile phones. They sway gently by the cradle vibration of the train and I think they liked it as the swaying is sometimes coherent with the rhythm of the music that stupid mobile phone vomits. Once, I sat in between these swaying people, suddenly when one started talking to some stranger. He didn’t care about his neighbours and was revealing all his personal details. From his monotonous conversation (believe me, its killing to listen only one half of conversation), I understood that he is a diamond merchant and is going to Europe next week. Had my dad not inculcated some good value system, I could have used the free info to own few diamonds. If I go on listening to such numerous one sided conversations, I’m sure I will go mad one day. Already, my wife complains that my behaviour is awkward.

But one relief is that this train trauma will last only this Thursday. Tired of this old man who still uses his secretary to check email, my company thought that they should get rid of me at the earliest opportunity possible. Though I would have loved to work for some more years to avoid being with my wife for the whole day, the very thought of everyday train journey made me love my wife.

The most awaited Thursday also came at last. Since nursery school, I’ve been a part of many farewells. Every farewell is associated with mixed emotions, a grief of losing the past and excitement of entering the future, like a cup of water after eating gooseberry, a sourness mixed with sweetness. Relishing the past memories and expecting the future moments, I was experiencing the last official 30 minutes train journey. The train stopped in between at local stations and the railway platforms exchanged passengers and all the passengers with stupid mobile phones. A lady clad in a bright yellow saree reflecting the morning mood was standing near the entrance, perhaps for getting down in the next station. The breeze, which remains still at railway station, gushes with heavy force when the train moves blowing the lady’s yellow saree exposing her waist. Sweat dropped from her first waist tire to the second, slowly, very slowly like the collaboration of left over water droplets on an automobile windscreen after rain. But this sweat is an irritating feeling, especially in places like Chennai, the sea water provides enough liquor for the sun that the atmosphere is always fully drunk unable to suck even one drop of sweat from us leaving all the salt laden sweat to trip over clothes making us embarrassed with white salt patches. Everyday, I face the same problem. My loving wife always have something or the other to tell me in the last two minutes before I leave and I have to run from the railway gate to platform within 30 seconds at least to push myself into the last compartment in font of the white uniformed black skinned guard. When I force myself to equilibrium holding the passenger rails, I gasp severely accompanied by wild oscillation of my drooping belly like the bellows of a harmonium. My heart beats rapidly pumping through all possible blood vessels and spit sweat on my forehead and neck. The sweat collects and flows down through the side and reaches my earlobes. I feel tickled, try to wipe it off and I drop my bag in the attempt. The pot belly compels me to get my trousers stitched with the only known tailor Manickam as there is no standard size that fits my disfigured physique. While gasping, my belly pushes my trousers and the white lining peeps out. I can’t see it as y belly prevents, but can realize it by the teasing half-lipped smile from some teenage girls opposite to me.

Being the last day, I started early and escaped the embarrassment of white lining from the teenagers. But, today the teenagers were replaced by the lady inside yellow saree. She was deeply involved in her mobile phone that she was not even aware or didn’t care to be aware of her waist getting exposed. But some college guys who were swaying to the music inside the stupid mobile phone were fully aware of the lady’s exposed waist. I felt sick, but soon forgot about it as I entered my office.

Evening, my office staff hosted a farewell for my retirement day. All of us assembled in the conference hall and for the first time, I took the leading chair in the dais. Most of the people gathered 5 minutes before the scheduled time. Perhaps, the aroma of cutlet behind the dais might have attracted them. We heard some unheard music when one of the guys excused himself with his mobile saying, “hello, ya Ravi speaking”. Soon, one more lady followed the same way. By now, Ravi had come and Gopal received a call. I’m sure it is his fiancée. Despite his dark skin, he blushed; but I had been to his engagement and I personally feel that she’s just an ordinary looking female and doesn’t deserve so much blushing. Within 5 minutes, everyone around me was talking to someone who is not there then and I stood aloof experiencing the unfathomable truth of my loneliness. Under some strange permutation all the potential friends of the gathering were silent for five minutes and hence could finish my farewell.

First our G.M spoke and was followed by many others, my bosses, peers and subordinates. As a custom, they all spoke nice about me. I felt proud despite my complete knowledge that all these are alive only for few more minutes and will vanish like Cinderella’s chariot the moment I get out of the dais.

Before that moment, my G.M garlanded me and gave me a nicely packed gift box wrapped in satin ribbon. I was so delighted, especially at the packing and satin ribbon. With so much of excitation, I slowly opened the box. There was a small greeting card signed by all saying “you will be with us always”. I slowly took the greeting card and found a … god !... the stupid mobile phone.