The Wonder Kid

Recently, I have been to Noida. It was a long journey by train and also a journey through ideas that are triggered at the sight of sparse vegetation, shrinking water bodies, vast tracts of lands, burgeoning slums, teeming millions passing under the bridge. I ran through a chugging train of thoughts: the evolution of man, the future of mankind, the problems in society, the solutions thereto, and, then brought it all under a grand philosophical generalization (consolation) before giving up the whole effort and dozing off.

In these intellectual moorings, I put on the airs of a social scientist. Of late, the foundations of human judgement of right and wrong, understanding the dynamics of society, its utility and end have kept me mentally occupied. Swaggering in the pride of my intellectual acumen, I came face to face with a 14 year old kid of standard 9, and, it was a very humbling experience.

My visit to my girlfriend was due for over 2 years and a half. The moment I found that the hot waters I had been all these years had cooled a bit, I set out to fulfill my promise. Accommodation was a problem. I was on a very tight budget. I relied on the munificence of my seniors from college. While in refuge, I had the privilege of meeting this little terror. I was aware of his exploits and was seeking audience with him. His maternal uncle, who is my senior, introduced me to him. After a while, the whole family except the boy was out on social errands.

The boy was quite healthy for his age. In shaking hands with him I felt that I had earned the acknowledgment of head of the family. When he sat next to me, he did it in a manner that told me he would dominate the talk. Quite befitting an elder, he asked the purpose of my visit. I said I was there for some official work. I thought I had quenched his curiosity. I was about to ask him about his school when he asked: "Which company?"

"Clarion Technologies."

"Is it an MNC?"

"No."

" What does the company do?"

"It's an IT company."

"What is its product?"

"It is into web design and web development."

"On which platform?"

"PHP, .Net"

'What is the strength of the company?"

"Around 200."

"hmmm"

"Have you come here for some training?"

Luckily, my phone rang. His eyes were fixed on me. Actually he was looking at my outdated mobile and later remarked that it doesn't go with my personality. I decided that the moment I put down the phone, I would take the position of an interviewer. But, nothing struck me.

"How do you know my uncle?"

"I was junior to him in the college."

"Then, he must have told you about me?"

"Yes, he and many others have spoke highly of you."

"What did they say? That I ride my bike very rashly"

"Y...ya"

"Actually, I love power bikes. I have driven all of them. Just a week ago, my Pulsar was sent to Kanpur. Otherwise, I would have taken you for a ride. I usually drive at 150kmph," he said unassumingly.

"What are your hobbies?" I asked.

He seemed to be a little annoyed at the role reversal.
"Games, Cricket, going for a long drive in a car, computers."

I was quite taken aback when he told me that he is pursuing Oracle certification online and within 6 months he shall be completing the course. I asked him who suggested this to him. He said that his teachers have encouraged him and his other classmates to pursue these certification courses. I was a fool to ask him: "How will this help you now?"

"Knowledge never goes a waste," pat came the reply. "Moreover, 2 years from now I shall take up a part-time job."

I really wondered how much money would he make as a part-timer. He must have read my thoughts.

He said: "I would be making about Rs. 40,000 from this and take control of my finances."

I was reeling at the figure. I wished he would not ask me how much do I earn? Otherwise, he would regret the time spent with a nobody.

AND, then emerged the romantic side of this toddler. He asked me: "Do you have a girlfriend?"

I thought over the appropriateness of discussing this topic with a 14 year old. But, neither in his mannerism nor in his talk did he show himself as a kid. It was as if he was gradually trying to bring me out of my moral cocoon and then broach upon the secrets of my heart. He was jesting at my non-metro conservatism. I could see him hiding that mischievous smile lest I choose to keep mum on the topic and spoil his enjoyment.

"Yes, I have a girlfriend. Just a friend. Not a serious relationship."

"Actually, that's good. There is no point in running after a girl. Just the other day I ditched a girl. I can't stand their tantrums. An hour before you had come, I was speaking to another girl. I proposed to her and she accepted."

I was puzzled at his finished attitude and he took my expression for a disapproval of his opinion. As if to make up for his immodesty he said sighing: "I am waiting for a good girl to come into my life and mend my ways. I am looking forward to a peaceful and a settled life." He brought a richness to his expression by narrowing his eyes and looking at the ceiling aimlessly.

Me: "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

He moved on. I was expecting this from him. "Smooch..........Have you?"

My moral clock ticked again. But, it was in vain. This social thinker had become an object of amusement for a metropolitan kid. I told him some cock and bull stories. But, he wouldn't be dodged by my description. He wanted statistics.

"Give me the number," he demanded

"17 times till now."

"18 times in the last 8 months."
(1025 words)

Sex Maniac

Yesterday, at a get-together of old friends, some of the stalwarts from our college days were remembered with honour. Each of these stalwarts is an epicenter of widespread unrest and can unhinge, if not ruin, the most organised system if he sets his foot in. To take up the task of sketching the character of these social desperadoes, would be an introduction to some of the impossible sorts that make up our world. People, who haven't ever been under absolute providential mercy in getting their misled lives on track, will find it hard to believe such turbulent individuals do exist in our world. They can bring a prophet to shame if he prides on his abilities of altering minds and hearts of common people. Sinners can be tamed but not the insurgents whose very presence can suck the environment of its natural peace. Such are the individuals I am out to describe. Here is the first one:

I refer to him as sexually deviant. Not that he had queer sexual preferences, but such hunger for sex is unheard of. Please remember that these idiosyncrasies fitted into his student life that obviously got extended in making place for such peculiarity at this station of life. In his words, man's life, at its basic, is a struggle for daily bread and weekly sex. Now, when such a well-founded idea of life is supplied by a monthly cash flow that answers the expenses related to house rent, petrol, phone, cigarette, choice food with inclusion of fruit juice after alcohol had inflicted irreparable damage to health, hitting every new release at theater, how can sex be a rare commodity.

This guy stalked the roads of the city to find the victim. He was always on the move. His eyes were analyzing the sex demographics of the place and the feasibility of investing his energies there.

By the time I came into a close contact with him, he had already mowed many areas of its virgins. He was notorious in the college for his misdemeanour, so the areas and suburbs that were quite a distance from college became his haunts. Only an inkling of a girl's potential promiscuity was enough to set him chasing her. He was convinced that Freudian analysis of human psyche is unshakable - Sex is at the root of human instinct. This conviction was fatal to girls and their partners.

"You have a girlfriend. What for? If it's not sex lurking somewhere down in the hue of friendship, then why not make friends with boys rather than go out of your way to befriend a girl? If you treat her as a sister, it doesn't mean she doesn't crave for sex. May not be before your eyes, but, left to herself, she won't remain a nun all her life." In both the scenarios, he deemed himself justified in arrogating his sexual rights over her. This rationale was given to the juniors in the college. If anyone desisted, it was being selfish and ignoring the favours shown during the ragging period. How could one be so mean as not to part with one's belongings when he voluntary offered his bike when needed. Then, why this resistance when it comes to sharing her? Does a candle losing anything in lighting the other candles!

I remember a scene very vividly. He had endeared himself to some of my batch mates who were very studious, the idea being 'being with a winner makes you a winner'. These guys were so uncompromising in their studies that even I, who was a very close friend of theirs, kept my distance for the fear where my unassuming presence would disturb their devotion to books. Now, he used to request each of them to explain him a chapter or two. This did work for him. He was seen getting into the long neglected academic fold.

He lodged at my friends' flat during the exams. Even I was there a day before the exams. It must have been an hour of a brainstorming session and coming to grips with the vast syllabus, when this hero of the story excused himself to grab a juice at the nearby fruit-stall. He went missing the whole day and we were worried for him as the exam was almost head-on. In the evening, we heard his bike halt at the door. Everyone was seriously revising the subject. There was a pin drop silence, the one that made me very uncomfortable but I respected their involvement with the books and dared not budge from my seat.

He came in disgruntled with thumping steps. When he entered the room, everyone raised his eyes to him and asked, "What happened sir?" He threw his key chain in disgust and shrieked, "That bitch is refusing me!" And, the disappointment withheld his steps to the exam-hall.

Once it so happened that a news leaked that a common girlfriend of the promiscuous folks was visiting the town. Where, how nobody knew. All they knew was a 'why' and each wanted to answer it himself. This guy raided every hotel in the city but couldn't trace her. Around 5 in the evening he came home exasperated. The Don Juan was at a loss. We started recounting the names of the hotels. He paid no attention as he had been to all of them. During our recounting exercise, someone uttered the name of 'Puskraj' and it infused a flurry of activity in him. He dashed out saying what a fool he was to miss it out.

One of my friends, managed to get behind him and they reached the hotel. He identified one of the boys from the group that had seized her. He hid himself behind the pillar. When the guy went upstairs, he stealthily followed him and saw him entering the room. He came down mulling over the whole episode, approached the receptionist, asked her to call up at the room and tell the girl that her brother is waiting downstairs. That was an end to the orgy and the boys escaped one by one from behind the hotel with the girl left in the room. The uncontested leader went up and found his prey lying unclaimed!

Every girl that he loved, he loved her from the bottom of his heart. After a few days, from the core of his soul and then it was time for getting maximum returns on love. Sweet words, threats, promises, anything that would serve his end would be employed. He wanted a girl anyhow. If his efforts did not pay him with the good act, he would at least manage out some undignified pleasure that can be had by messing with the girl's person. There were occasions when he would surprise the girl from behind and make such persuasive and nagging appeal to get on the bike that the girl was left with no choice. Now, that's what is called killing instinct!

Once I asked him: "In so many flings that you have had, did you never take pity on a girl?" He replied, "Of course, I do pity them. But, it's like feeling pity for a beggar. Now, overcome by compassion, you cannot bring every beggar home. Moreover, if I don't screw a girl, someone else would do it, then why not me."

Finally, he did clear his papers, got into a job and is happily married. Now and then, he does call up his juniors asking for phone numbers of girls. And, all embittered hearts who failed to woo a girl, happily pass on the number. Usually, he plays a havoc at the girl's hostel.
(1278 words)

Folly of Being a Trek Hero

Heroism is not a trait but an opportunity. The opportunity seized me when we were at the foothills of Sahyadri range and were to begin our trek to Rajgad. The other hikers were in no hurry; they were more interested in photo shoot. But, my spirits were raring to seize the fort. The bottle in my hand felt like a sword and the jacket was my armour. I was a commander leading a troop and mounting on my horse-like feet, I galloped towards the fort. Soon, I lost sight of my troop. The voices were heard for a while; I quickened my pace and the voices died out. I was now alone.

As I was scaling the hill, I saw an old lady standing under the shade of a tree hiding behind the trunk. “What is she doing here in the desolation?” I thought. I recently started reading Dracula and an encounter with ghosts had caught my fancy. But, it was an inappropriate place for my fascination to materialise. The oldie had drawn her saree over her head and only a part of her face was visible. The wrinkles on her face were very frightening. I slowed my steps and turned to catch a glimpse of my troop but they were nowhere in sight. I collected myself and proceeded ahead without looking at her. But, what if she struck me down. I continually glanced at her, posing as if her presence did not deter me. I wished that the trail struck off elsewhere before I crossed her. But, it led to her and to my ill-luck there was another old lady at a distance waiting in ambush. I could have wrested with one spirit but two was too much. I was unprepared for such an organised method of haunting. I regretted my stupidity and found my heroism deserting me.

Various thoughts crossed my mind. "Are they forest-nymphs waiting for me to kiss them to replenish their lost youth and seek a release from a curse, or are they blood-sucking vamps?" I scanned the first lady for any weapon that she could be hiding. She did not have any. Next, I looked at her nails (expecting claws) that would be used to rip me apart. Ghosts need not rely on any physical aids to hurt the victim, I thought. Perhaps, bravery would prevail over their evil intentions. Thinking thus, I moved ahead. When I was at a hand's distance, the woman picked up the bottle in front of her and said something in Marathi. I thought they were incantations to lull me...but it was lime juice that she wanted to offer for Rs. 5!

I excused myself and handed out a Rs.10 note. The fear still lurked inside; I unfurled the note to its full length holding one end and maintained distance just enough for her to grasp it from the other end. I crossed the other lady without paying heed to what she uttered. I ignored her and pranced into the direction straight ahead.

I was a commander and a hero again. I had successfully passed the test of courage, boldly facing two suppositious ghosts in guise of old women. Now, there was no looking back. My target was to reach the fort quickly. I thought I would rest for a while and absorb the silence of nature about me, unlike my colleagues who will barely have time to rest before they start marching back. Another intelligent consideration backed my decision: a crowd for company makes one thirsty!

The sun was a little harsh for monsoon season. But, as I ascended the hill, it got cooler. I could hear the voices of trekkers ahead. I was literally running towards the fort. I derived the joy of a discoverer treading the unchartered. I crossed muddy grounds, hard clay, stony tracks, barren regions, dense vegetation. On the way, I could find cigarette buds, plastic pouches and footprints. My enthusiasm drooped a bit on finding these human prints. It was taking away from the joy of exploration. I wished I was the first to tread along this trail. “Never mind, I don't have a company. Isn't it adventure enough?” I reasoned.

I continued my strut on 'the path less travelled'. Reaching a little ahead the footprints vanished. This whet my appetite for adventure. Now and then the sunlight would lose itself in the thickness of the forest. It delighted me. For a moment I thought that I would hide myself in the bushes and frighten my fellow trekkers. But, they were too slow and I couldn't wait for them.

After two hours of brisk walk, it occurred to me that we should have started a little earlier. The fort walls appeared very near from the base but they seemed to be receding now. But, I was determined. I crossed one valley after another. To my surprise, going further ahead, the trail sloped downwards. "If only our ancestors had the modern technology, they wouldn't have laid such a long-winded track. When the fort is yonder up, what is the point in paving a trail sloping a kilometre into the valley. "

The trail was often covered under the trees. But, I wouldn't be discouraged. I cleared my way and emerged victorious each time. I commended my decision because there were also girls in the group. It would have been a task to persuade them to continue walking in such a wild terrain. I was sure that some of them would have stopped half-way and given up the idea of trekking altogether. "But, some boys would definitely make it to the top inspired by my example." Moreover, we had ordered our lunch in the village hotel. Our food would be carried to us to the fort. But, it was scheduled 4 hours later. "It would be very cruel of my colleagues if they had their lunch mid-way and returned without me." But, can a hero be discouraged? No way!

I reached the other side of the hill and it was a welcome relief from sun. As it was rainy season, the soil was very damp and loose. My legs were trembling with exhaustion. My thoughts turned to the poor labourers who must have toiled in materialising the royal ambitions of an emperor. It must have been an unreasonable display of a king's fancy that subjected those labourers to untold suffering in erecting a fortification in such an impassable terrain.

Three hours passed and the fort was now out of my view. Now it happened that the trail suddenly met a dead end. I retraced my path and found another trail and expressed a sigh of relief. But, after some 20 minutes I reached the edge of a precipice. I froze! I had lost my way! I started shouting for help in the wilderness. I kept on shouting names of my colleagues till my throat went dry. There was no network coverage, so I couldn't even contact anyone. I played music on my mobile with the idea that if I happen to miss shouting for help, a passer-by would atleast listen to the music and respond. I sought company in the bottle that I carried with me. I held fast to the bottle as if it were some amulet that would save me from danger. "Do hell with the deceiving trail", I started the climb uphill holding the branches and twigs that snapped in my hands and I often slipped in these attempts.

I started looking for footprints but now I was actually exploring the hill! I strained my ears for footfalls but all I could hear was birds chirping and the sound of crickets. Insects crawled over me and I had to pull them from my skin. When the trees shook in wind, it appeared that a hungry bear or a cruel wolf was advancing towards me with force. I would look around frightened and chant Hanuman Chalisa loudly. I lost all hope of reaching the fort. "I would be lucky if I could atleast make it back to the village." Even that was not to be. I could not even identify my trail backwards. Now, I had a different concern. I was looking for a place where I could spend my night! Under the trees it was risky; near the stream, there were crabs; in the open, I would be drenched in rain. There was no clear ground. I was indeed lost! I slapped myself. Commander, troop, sword, seize were history and I was living in the face of absolute danger. I kept shouting and searching for a place to camp at night. I had no match sticks to burn fire. Even if I had what would I burn – there were no dry sticks.

I gave up all hope and started walking wherever the trail led me. I slipped but now I did not care to steady myself. I was dead tired, sweat dripping from my face. I continued walking with unsteady steps. I thought I would walk till sunset and reach a safer ground. As I continued walking, it grew brighter. I guessed that I was on the other side of the hill. A little ahead, the path branched off into two. Now, was the crucial hour of decision. I told my prayers and took the one to my right. I entrusted myself to providential care.

Gradually, the path opened into a well-laid track. I decided that it would be my resting-place. When I reached the open space, I could see the village down and the fort up and... my colleagues were shouting from the fort. God had saved me! The trek must have been an adventure to others, but for me it served to strengthen my faith in the Almighty. Men, carrying our lunch, were a little behind me.

I halted after every 10 steps. I was never so tired in my life. Only the joy of meeting my people kept me going. By the time I reached the last ordeal to the fort, I could not speak and my face was brick red. Everybody had made it to the top, including girls and they were still chatting excitedly and I was out of breath. They were surprised to see me slogging my way up!

During the rest of the trek, I did not take a single step without someone leading me ahead!
(1760 words)

Deep, Very Deep!

You shall be gone,
Gone in the glorious indifference,
Gone without requiting my love,
Gone leaving violent memories.

I shall return too,
Return in the shameful sentiment,
Return with dry sobs,
Return carrying a dying twilight.

You are gone,
I sneer my affection true,
And vow it'll never ever,
Pass from me hence.

Now the anger smoulders inside,
And anguish bursts in refrain:
Do it unto another,
Do it unto another.

Donned in a cold armour,
With hidden swords of insult,
And, sweet allurements.
I am ready to avenge.

To stage the old sentiment,
Trap the love victim,
And, with all might and main,
Thrust the indifference, the insult, the vengeance deep, very deep!
(114 words)

My First Love

In the summer of 1999, my parents had some unusual plans: we were to spend our vacations 900 km away from home at Chitrakut where Shree Ram spent 11 years of his 14-year exile. There was an ashram in Chitrakut and the swamiji heading the ashram was a renowned Yoga exponent. The swamiji also conducted yoga classes in the sacred environs of the ashram. People who derived benefits from these classes spread the word and one such beneficiary also met my father.

My mother had been suffering from arthritis. This made father very anxious and he did everything possible to alleviate her suffering. But, her resistance, to which every devoted wife has a right, which every devoted husband acknowledges, proved a hurdle in my father’s attempts to restore her health. He could neither pull her into the habit of morning walk, nor make her run on the treadmill set up near her bed. When he bought her costly, light-weight sneakers, she poked fun at him saying that he was stepping into dotage. When he pampered her, she would become a child and no reason could convince her. At times, when father had to raise his voice, the quivering tears in her eyes would get the better of him.

While mother was mother to her kids, father knew that his dear wife is a kid herself and demands as much attention and unflinching support like his other kids. He decided to take her to the ashram at Chitrakut. Again, the queen of the house raised an objection. She said she would neither stay at the ashram nor at a hotel. She wanted freedom for her children and not spoil their vacations spent in a confinement just for her sake. My father was about to lose his temper again and we kids wondered how she could be so bold as to impeach such a fervent appeal from him. But, father knows when a ‘no’ is a ‘no’.

This is when he started exploiting his contacts and finally worked it out through a two-month house exchange, house swap as we call it, with an old couple that moved to Haridwar for those 2 months. This ensured that mother had a home away from home and her suzerainty continued uninterrupted.

We reached Chitrakut in the evening. The couple and the negotiator had been waiting for us. They were very cordial and took us around the house and the old lady gave mother some special advice about the household and utilities. We would also have a retinue of three female servants at our beck and call. At night, a requisition was signed by the old man and father and the couple left for Haridwar.

Before we retired to our beds, the maid came along with her daughters. I could sense mother’s uneasiness at the fact that she was a Muslim. Mother’s human concern was, undoubtedly, above her religious considerations but kitchen was bound up with her deeper religiosity and she told the lady - Zahara was her name - that she would prefer cooking herself. The lady got the hint and seemed quite prepared for it. Later, my mother introduced my brother and me to her. I responded with an Adaab and recompensed her, as it were, for the curtailment of her kitchen services.

One of her daughters, Zeenat, was my age and the other, Ashiya, was much younger. The mother and the daughters were very fair. We came from South where a fair skin draws a special attention, and standing before us was a retinue of maids as fair as my mother!

Father reminded us that we were to wake up early the next day and be at the ashram by 6:30am. My mother sulked as she was enjoying the soft breeze that kept the swing in motion. Moreover, she was in the holy land of Rama. To her the very air of Chitrakut was sprinkled with the dust of Rama’s feet, her chosen deity. Only such strong religious allurement could convince her to visit the ashram. We retired to our respective rooms and so did the lady attendants.

The vacation home was quite spacious and had a rich interior. We had the advantage of a personalized setting which could not be possible in a hotel accommodation. I was tired of incessant observation and I soon fell asleep. I was the first to wake up as I always have a hard time clearing my bowels so early. I switched on the lights, drank water from a copper jug, and the door bell rang. I walked down to open the door and that was just when my bowels recorded movement. I flung the door open. It was Zeenat as fresh as the morning air. The sun rising behind worked her face to crimson. I greeted her ‘good morning’; she smiled and waited for me to give way, she sprang past me to the backyard and began spilling water. I was drawn to her and wanted to follow her, but nature summoned me a second time.

We had our tea and started for the ashram. My brother and I were worried that even we would be enrolled for the yoga classes and denied the sweet pleasure of staying late in bed. I hail Swamiji great for that solemn advice he gave father: 'Nothing that is forced is forceful.' He directed us to the mango grove in the ashram premises and warned us against troubling the monkeys that roamed freely there. It sunk into us at that moment that we were in Chitrakut for holidaying.

We made friends with ashram people who were working in the gardens. They were uprooting carrots and radish. We joined them in the labour. They were amused seeing us overjoyed at this mundane task. We also spoke of our garden back home, but that the flora we cultivated did not contribute to our dinner table. The rustic crowd listened to our prattle very patiently.

When we were returning to our vacation home, we saw Zahara and her daughters walking down the stairs of a temple. We were quite taken aback. We stopped by them and Zahara offered Prasad and all of us extended our palms promptly. It was jaggery coated with ghee. My hands got sticky and I was aimlessly looking for something to wipe my hands with. Zeenat sensed my uneasiness and came round the rickshaw and from a brass pail poured water to wash my hands. She was watching my small fingers very carefully and she could not stop herself from exclaiming when she noticed my white nails. I assured her saying that I inherited them from my father. Zahara told my mother that she had cut the vegetables clean and left it covered on the dining table. We took the younger Asiya with us and drove home.

My mother took over the kitchen with Asiya accompanying her. Mother’s hesitation was slowly withdrawing. Father caught with the stream of news on TV; my brother and I were encouraging our holiday spirits by devising plans for the days ahead. I was reclining on the sofa when Zeenat entered the room with a broom. She ran her chunni from across her shoulder taking it round her willowy waist, tied it in a knot and began sweeping the room. I watched her go about every nook and corner of the room gently running her broom twice over.

Zeenat was of same stature as me. She had silky black hair collected in a chignon with a ponytail hanging out. Strands of hair would fall over her face and with a shake of her head she would jig them behind her ear. While doing this she caught my eyes and with an unaffected grace continued her work. She was well-covered and so there was no reason for her to check her person. She was agile and moved so gracefully that even the act of swabbing the floor seemed to me nature’s delight.

I took my bath and was wiping myself when Zeenat again entered the room. I ran back into the bathroom holding the ends of the towel in one hand. The fact she stopped at the door made it clear that she had seen me half-naked. My brother giggled and I felt embarrassed. She informed us that the table was laid and that mother was waiting for us. Before I went down, I first looked for her so that I could opt out looking in her direction and at the same time behave as if nothing had happened by holding my head high in all other directions.

Alu Parthas trickling with butter were served on my plate. Mother found it difficult to walk after her first Yoga session. Zeenat who was silent all this time, approached my mother and spoke in her sweet voice: “We are vegetarians, we take bath twice a day, we fast on Tuesdays and break the fast only after reciting Ram-sankirtan. Please allow me to cook for you. You have come here to rest and regain health. If you continue working here, it would defeat the very purpose of your visit. Please let me take charge of the kitchen. I would follow your instructions meticulously.” Mother was moved at this daughterly remonstration coming from Zeenat. From that day Zeenat took over the reins of the kitchen and at other times Zahara would fill in for her. Both mother and daughter were excellent cooks.

In the afternoons, it was very hot. After the lunch, we usually rested till 4. Sharp at 4:15 Zeenat would call us for tea. Zeenat would stand near the table and mother had to persuade her to sit. This happened daily; she would sit only after a lot of insistence. Mother then set down the etiquettes for the next two months. Mother’s soft-side was soon evident to Zahara and Zeenat. They took her for their eternal mistress.

Father had contacted the locals and was busy arranging for our trips in the fortnight he would be with us. He had his business to take care of and so couldn’t stay for long. Also, my brother would join him as he was getting bored. Father would be back when it was time for us to leave. While he was with us, he wanted that we visit all the places of interest, especially the temples and shrines in the vicinity. In these trips, either Asiya or Zeenat would accompany us. I always avoided visiting temples because it involved conscientious observance of religious injunctions. My parents would get busy performing some puja or other.

During this time, Zeenat kept us company and told me many stories related with the lives of Rama and Sita. With a vermillion mark on her forehead she looked fantastic. She plucked the flower while reciting a mantra; the first flower with her nimble thumb and supple ring finger, the second with her thumb and crane-like middle finger and never using her index finger that was twice bent while plucking the flowers. I wondered how she knew so much about Hindu customs and practices.

I grew fond of her. She took good care of us. Taking us to marketplace, an otherwise quiet Zeenat, haggled with the shopkeepers and paid only what was reasonable and saved every penny for us. She was especially concerned for my mother and wouldn’t allow her to carry anything. In a few days, she also started administering medicine to her at the appropriate time. Mother would pamper her and she would blush like a bride.

In the days ahead, we grew comfortable in each other’s company. After father and brother left there was nobody to disturb me in the morning. Zahara would accompany my mother to the ashram and return with her. Zeenat would come with her broom and wake me up saying, “Chote malik utto” (Wake up Master Jr.) And, I would coil up under the duvet. She would turn off the fan and when it was warm inside, I would throw my blanket. She sang a bhajan while working. She had a nightingale’s voice and I could sense a mocking glee in her voice watching me sulk. If I wouldn’t quit my bed even at this, she would sing louder and move things nosily. I would wake up irritated, but the moment I looked at her endearing countenance, I would be cheered up.

We would chat for long over tea. When Zahara used to call her, ours hearts would ache. But, as soon as she was through with her chores, she would first rush to my mother, ask for her comfort, and, then steal into my room.

During one such private meeting, the discussion brought us to the question ‘who is fairer of the two?’ I declined the obvious and gave her reasons that my complexion darkened due to exposure to hot afternoon sun while playing cricket. She brushed away my argument saying that even she stayed outdoors for work and still she is as fair as Sita, pointing at the picture that hung on the wall. I sidetracked saying that men who are fair I consider them feminine and I found an exemplary of manliness in Rama, again pointing at the picture. At this, she only smiled sheepishly.

One morning I wanted to bathe with hot water. But I could not turn on the geyser. There was problem with the switch and I was frightened of handling electrical appliances. I called Zeenat to help me identify the right switch. She came, entered the bathroom and helped me fix the switch. I turned a knob and poor Zeenat was standing right under the shower. The moment the jet of water fell on her she jumped towards me and lost her balance. She was in my arms! Her soft body pressed against mine and I could feel the pounding of her heart. I released my hold; she turned the tap off, and walked out with a worried look. This incident invested me with a confidence that Zeenat felt safe in my not-so-fair arms.

It never occurred to Zahara or my mother that there was anything between Zeenat and me. They left us undisturbed even when we were alone for long hours. Moreover, when mother used to walk up to my room, it always so happened that were discussing an episode from Ramayana.

One evening, mother and I were strolling in the backyard. We walked up to Zahara’s quarters. She had just offered her Namaaz and was rolling the carpet. My mother knocked the door and entered the room. Zahara was very pleased and behaved as if we had come from far off after a long absence. Zahara and Zeenat got into a fit of hospitality and it took some sternness on mother’s part to bring them out of it. It was no mean house. It was decently furnished. There was picture of Kabirdas on the wall in the front, a picture of Mecca on the South wall and Lord Rama’s Darbar (court portrait) garlanded with hibiscus flowers on the eastern wall.

I was intrigued about Kabirdas’ picture - it was unusual to come across him other than in books. Zahar told me they belong to a faith professed by saint Kabir who believed that all pray to the same God and so their interfaith beliefs are not inimical to one another. Mother was impressed on hearing such deeply religious words. Very hesitatingly she asked about her husband. (Whether guided by concern or contempt, women are oblivious of propriety) Zahara told her that he worked in Haridwar and took care of the property of the old couple. They also served us dinner and we chatted till very late and then returned home.

That night I dreamt of Zeenat. In the dream, she would make fun of me and rub her nose against mine. I could also smell the incense that always enveloped her, she was so close. I woke up hearing her voice. I felt like pulling her into my blanket and hugging her tightly. I winked at her, she winked back and I rubbed my eyes in amazement. There was also a naughty side to her, I never knew. Was she the Zeenat from my dreams!

One afternoon Zahar was resting in her quarters and mother in her room. Zeenat was with me. My spirits were drying up in the dull routine. I expressed this to her and she asked me whether I could climb a tree. I said this was much below my enterprise but she would not be convinced till I proved it to her. We went to the backyard where there were 9 mango trees. She pointed at the tallest of them and threw a challenge at me. I was ready, but then, I noticed monkeys sitting on the tree-tops and my courage yielded.

Zeenat was undaunted. She spoke to the monkeys as if they were her friends. She started climbing the tree and rose to the top like a butterfly. Zeenat was uniquely endowed. Though she had a lithe frame, she was buxom. There she was handing out mangoes to the monkeys. This assured me of their harmlessness. I got to the foot of the tree and started my climb. By the time I reached the offshoot I was panting for breath. She directed me to the top and clearing the hurdles, I reached her. Zeenat’s house was visible from the glades of trees.

For the first time, I was so close to monkeys. As a friendly gesture, I handed them some raw mangoes, which they threw away without tasting. I thought I better keep my distance. I went a little ahead when I could hear the branch creak under my weight. Zeenat immediately asked me to shift to her side of the branch. I caught hold of another branch and landed safely next to her. The branch shook and we held each other. Our sides rubbed against each other. Her lips were very close to me and very inviting too. She was in a very vulnerable position. I said, “Zeenat”, she turned towards me and I pursed her lips. She clutched the twigs so hard that I could hear twigs snap in her hold. Her eyes were tightly shut.

The monkeys around seemed embarrassed at this situation. They continually looked at us and turned their gaze towards Zeenat’s house, keeping a vigil. Zeenat would not open her eyes. When she had plucked all the twigs around she caught hold of my shirt and then took me closer (perhaps to prevent falling). Her breath hardened and her face turned complete red like pomegranate seeds. And, for the first time she whispered my name into my ears. My name was like a spell that brought me to senses. She slowly opened her eyes, looked at me and then looked towards her home. She started climbing down with trembling hands and feet. While she walked towards her dwelling, I could see her frame shaking. I was still on the tree-top relishing the first kiss of my life on a tree-top with my ancestors for spectators!

The next day, Zeenat wouldn’t wake me. But, I was awake and feigned sleep. When she came near the bed, I caught hold of her hand and she was standing before me motionless. I asked her if she was angry about what had happened yesterday. “No, but the monkeys are,” pat came the reply and we started laughing.

Thus, began an unprecedented romance that kicked off on the tree-top. I would lay my head in Zeenat’s lap and she would fondle my hair. She would always say that I have beautiful eyes and make fun of my long, bulbous nose.

I never missed my friends in those two months. Zeenat meant world to me. Everyday I hugged her atleast 5 times and kissed her cheeks thrice, forehead twice and her lips once and hands countless times. She had bee-stung lips and one kiss wouldn’t suffice to sip the honey out, so I increased the number to 5.

One day, I asked her whether she visits a beauty parlour as I had never noticed hair on her hands or feet. What she told me was very unusual. She said that when she was a kid her grandmother rubbed her hands, feet and underarms with a dying fire from cotton soaked in spirit. I asked her whether it hurt. She said there was a slight singe but the hair would never grow again.

We had spent 50 days in our exchange home. How the days passed, I have no idea. I would be her in the kitchen, in the dining room, in the backyard except when she was with Zahara.

One day, she was working in the kitchen. I entered the kitchen and found her lunging into the refrigerator. I walked on tip-toe and stroked her buttocks and shouted ‘Zeenat’. When she drew herself up, lo, it was Zahara standing before me! It was a dark hour of repentance. I stood pale with a gaping mouth. I said, “Sorry. Sorry”. But, Zahara was immersed in her own thoughts. I left her and came back to my room and cursed myself for being so careless. The affects were soon perceived. Next day it was not Zeenat but Zahara. I did not leave my bed, nor stir from my posture till she left the room.

I did see Zeenat during breakfast but she maintained her distance. Mother noticed that Zeenat was not her natural self and asked her the reason for same. She answered evasively. At this, mother asked her to take a break from work. I did not see Zeenat the whole day and could not sleep that night. Next day, it was again Zahara. I mustered courage and spoke to her: “Zahara, forgive me for what happened the other day. Zeenat and I are good friends. I….I like her. I am not a bad boy. Please don’t punish Zeenat for my mistake.” Zahara replied very calmly: “I know you like each other, but there are limits that need to be observed. You are from a good family. You need to concentrate on your studies. Zeenat is a servant maid and would be married to somebody of her social standing. But, if her revelry becomes the talk of the town, nobody would take her hand in marriage. She has reached a marriageable age. I am not against your meeting her. But, it’s just that you two are too young to understand the implications of such closeness. And, I have not punished Zeenat either for the intimacy she shares with you. But, she has to understand that she is a girl.”

Father joined us two days after this episode and we were to leave Chitrakut in another two days. My frustration was evident in my behaviour. I think mother also had an inkling of what had passed. She chose to remain quiet on the issue. Zeenat’s absence was raging within me.

On the last day, in the morning, when we had packed our bag and baggage, Zahara came with her daughters. Zeenath had shrunk in grief. Mother embraced her tightly and told her that she would miss her a lot. Zahara also wept when mother hugged her. My father had brought dresses and other things for them. My mother pressed those things into Zahara’s hands as she wouldn't accept them. Zeenat and Ashiya received an envelope from my mother. I walked up to Zahara and cried like a baby. She showered blessings on me. Zeenat was standing by her side. I did not know what would be a fitting farewell. I extended my hand and she received it hesitatingly. I gave a quick handshake and slid a small bottle of perfume in her hands and cried again. But, Zeenat wouldn’t cry.

We sat in the car waving at them. When the car went a little ahead, I turned again, waved at Zeenat who now broke down in Zahara's arms.
(4,000 words)