The Queen and I (Nominated for BlogAdda Blog Awards)

I was a cry booby in school for many years. Being the youngest in class, bursting in to tears was my main weapon of defence against boisterous classmates. I also did not have many friends, in school or outside, but surprisingly did not mind it at all. I was happy in my own world. This continued until I reached standard 8 B of my school.

In the beginning of that term, two momentous events took place in our school. The first one was that Standard 4 C got a new class teacher. She was a real stunner. Her beauty was of the Audrey Hepburn kind - both of face and figure. Additionally, she had a dimpled smile that was enhanced by a small little beauty spot on the right side of her upper lip.

She also could not have been more than 4 or 5 years older than the students in the senior classes. It would not be wrong to say that the whole all boys’ school fell in love with her. But she knew how to keep her distance and did not encourage familiarity of any kind from the seniors. She was almost unapproachable. Her name was Vera D’cruz (wonder if actress Ileana D'Cruz is related to her) and so regal was her attitude that she was always referred to, by all the students, as the Queen.

Image of Audrey Hepburn. Courtesy Internet

 
It was almost unimaginable to think that in a few months time the Queen would give me a sizzling peck on my cheek in full view of the school.

The other event was the admission of a boy named Ahmed from another school to Standard 8 A of our school. He was little old for the class and one of the few in the school who actually shaved. He, therefore, always had a clean and neat look about him. He also walked with a swagger and seemed to have been born with a superiority complex. The other factor that distinguished Ahmed from the other students was that everyday he wore a fresh pair of well ironed uniform. The rest of us used to wear uniforms that were pressed under mattresses! Moreover, it was talked in whispers that Ahmed’s father also owned a car. The whole school was, therefore, in awe of Ahmed and that added further to his aura. In a most unexpected way, our avenues were going to cross each other in a short while.

Ahmed was well built and, although, he was new to the school, the Principal created an innovative designation that put him even above the Head Boy of the school. Ahmed was officially appointed an ambassador by the Principal - somewhat like his accredited representative. He was given two bright red epaulettes embroidered with the word “Ambassador” to be fastened on his shoulders. It gave a sense of a status and authority to him. 

Ahmed was specially assigned to reduce the noise levels of the students during the 10 minutes recess in the mid morning and in the 45 minutes of the lunch break. He carried out his mandate with such success that the decibels in the corridors of our school during that period must have dropped to no higher than the traffic sound on a Sunday morning. His success even commanded the respect of the staff - so much so, that if any disciplining was required anywhere in the school, Ahmed would be called.

Ahmed, in his capacity as a super monitor, also used to make, without fail, a daily call on the Queen in her classroom at 4 C. She, somehow, never seemed to care much for him. His showing off in the school did not impress her. Still, he would persist and talk to her for a few minutes every day much to the envy of all the other students. However, as far as the young Miss D’cruz was concerned, she just viewed him as a pesky nuisance but, unfortunately, could not do much as he was a blue-eyed boy of the Principal.  

 Just before the Christmas holidays of that year, for the first time in the history of our school, a debate was arranged between standard 8 A and 8 B. I still do not know who thought of the idea of the debate or decided on the subject of the proposition – “Science has done more good than harm.” All that I remember is that 8 B would be supporting the proposition and 8 A would be opposing it. I was one of the four students selected to participate in the debate from our class – 8 B. Why I was selected, I still do not understand for I was a timid and introverted child who reveled in being left alone.

The day of the debate dawned. It was to be held at 2 pm., immediately after the lunch break, in the school hall. At 11.30 in the morning, just as the recess bell rang, I was given a message that I had to immediately see Miss Doyle, the class teacher of Standard 8 A, which was one floor below our classroom.

Miss Doyle was the senior most teacher in our school and had the most benign and grandmotherly look about her. But cross her path and she could make the most unruly of the students cry out in agony as she would tightly twist his ear and continue to wrench it till the poor guy would ask for her mercy with folded hands. Her reputation for maintaining discipline in the class was such that a glare from her would be enough to quell any thought of taking her on and rarely would she have to use her deadly weapon.

Therefore, it was with great trepidation that I went down to meet her but surprisingly she met me with a broad smile. She said it had been decided that I was to be the leader of the proposition team and Ahmed would lead the opposition team. Just for a moment I thought she was favouring her own class by putting up a weak and nervy candidate like me against him. 

She then said that as a leader of the proposition, I would have the right to reply after all the members of both the sides have spoken. She, thereafter, opened her purse and took out a neatly folded sheet of paper written in her own hand. Then, in a rather stern manner, she addressed me, “This is your rejoinder to all the points raised by the opposition. Put this paper in your pocket and, I am warning, you are not to open and read it until you reach home in the lunch break. After that memorise the main points and,” then, lowering her voice to a whisper, conspiratorially added, “tear up the paper before you come back to school. I do not want anybody to know that I have written it for you. Go run back to your class.”

All of a sudden I felt quite elated at being selected to be the leader of the proposition and also thrilled in being involved in a little conspiratorial plot with Miss Doyle. As I reached my class, I informed the other members of my team what I had been told by Miss Doyle – that I was to lead the proposition. I was almost feeling as puffed up as Ahmed! I then told them, in confidence, that Miss Doyle had given me a note for my final reply to the debate. At that, all the other members wanted to see the note. I resisted initially telling them that Miss Doyle had strictly told me not to open it until I reached home. However, curiosity got the better of us. We opened the note.

The gist of the memo was that since Ahmed, who wore spectacles, had personally benefited from this invention of science, he had no business to speak against it. We were all very overjoyed at the killer reply that the teacher had drafted and swore each other to secrecy about the covert bludgeon in our possession. On this happy note, I left for home at the lunch break to rehearse my speech, my reply and, most importantly, to change into a freshly ironed uniform - especially done for the occasion. 

As I reached back to the school, I could feel that there was some kind of a buzz going around. Soon, I got the bad news. Ahmed and his team had come to know of the reply and it had been decided by them that he would not be wearing his spectacles during the debate. My small world of plotting and planning came crashing down.

However, there was no time to think as I rushed up to the hall. As the participants were trooping on to the stage, I could see that Ahmed had taken off his glasses. I saw a full house in the hall and felt that the boys were giving me knowing smiles - enjoying the fact that I had been trumped. In the audience, I also spotted Miss Doyle and the glare that she gave me made me lower my eyes at once.

Soon I was called upon to speak. The arguments presented by me were mundane and at the end, I received a perfunctory applause. Then Ahmed began in his usual confident style with an air of almost having won the debate. My mind was really not on what was being said by him or the others but on what my reply would be now that Ahmed was not wearing his spectacles.

Many ideas came but were discarded because they were not capable of winning the debate which already seemed to be drifting away from us.Time was passing by and I still did not have a suitable reply. Finally, I thought of a reply that could succeed provided I delivered it right. It was an extremely high-risk strategy that had a good chance of succeeding but also had an equally good chance of failing. I discarded it. Defeat, shame, humiliation were staring me in the face and so were the repeated glares of Miss Doyle. In desperation, I again brought back the high-risk plan into consideration and decided to chance it. I was trembling with fear because if it failed, I would have no place to hide my face until I passed out from school after a couple of years.

I heard the moderator asking the leader of the proposition to reply. As I stood up, the audience was well aware that my strike weapon had been blunted. I began, “Mr. President Sir and friends.” I could feel the tremor in my voice but I continued, “All of you will agree with me that the leader of the opposition in today’s debate is one of the most popular students of our school.”

The sarcasm worked, there were sniggers all around, just as I had hoped. Actually, this was the most critical line. If it had fallen flat, it would have been curtains for our team. Therefore, the few titters around the hall were most welcome. I started feeling a little better as I now added, “But I do not know why he is looking so different to me today.”

There was a loud burst of laughter as many of the audience understood what I was driving at. Some from the audience even shouted, “Specs, specs.” On hearing that, the whole audience started cheering and clapping for me. However, I pretended that it was the first time I had realized that he was without his specs as I said with wonderment in my voice, “That’s right, he is not wearing his specs.” With more faux surprise, I posed a question, “I wonder why he is not wearing his specs? He does not look that good without it.” After a pause, I asked, “Does he?”

This led to an uproar in the audience with almost the entire crowd seeing this as an invitation to mock him for his duplicitous behavior.  Somebody started a chant, which was taken up in unison by all the boys, “Wear your specs, wear your specs.” My purpose was served – I had virtually put the spectacles back on Ahmed.

I now motioned to the crowd to be quiet, as I was not done with. “Friends, we all know that the leader of the opposition is an honourable person,” which was met with shouts of, “No, no.” That was music to my ears. I now moved in for the kill to deliver the lines written by Miss Doyle with a little addition of my own at the beginning and at the end, “I, therefore, feel that he should not have removed his spectacles because without this invention of science he would have been handicapped. If the honourable leader of the opposition had been a person of (in a slightly more emphatic note) principles, he would have been standing in my place, of course with his spectacles on (the remark again drew a huge collective guffaw from the audience), to support the proposition. Without the invention of science, he would not have been able to read or write and, most terribly, would never have been able to identify the students who are making noise in the school.” I paused here to get the full attention of the crowd that was waiting in anticipation for my next wicked blow.

“And still worse, he would not have been able to peer into classes 4 A, 4 B and (in a little louder tone) especially, Class 4 C.” There was near pandemonium at this in the crowd – clapping, laughing and booing at the same time. I was prepared to continue but the moderator of the debate, Mr. Barretto, stopped me.

He said, “I will ask the leader of the proposition to resume his seat as I would like to put the motion to vote.” After the crowd became silent, he asked, “Those in favour of the motion?” Unbelievably, the whole audience raised its hands. Some even raised both their hands! But my eyes were only seeking Miss Doyle to see her reaction. She had a big grin on her face and had also put up both her hands!

For the sake of formality, the moderator then asked, “Those against?” He was not expecting anyone to vote against it but - and that is a moment I will never forget – one solitary hand of my class and bench mate, Jehangir Irani, went up. The crowd asked him to put down his hand but he just would not do it. Mr. Barretto then declared that the motion was carried by a majority. Had Jehangir not spoilt the party, the voting would have been unanimous in favour of the proposition but, in retrospect, a lesson in democracy was learnt by all of us.

As the debate was closed, I was mobbed and lifted by my school friends. It was a heady moment. From the corner of my eye I could see the forlorn figure of Ahmed standing all by himself talking to the Principal. Even his team pals were not there with him – they were busy congratulating us. In the midst of all this, a class fellow came up to me to say that the Queen wanted to see me.

I could not believe my ears. I disengaged myself and, as I started walking towards her, I found, almost a whole crowd following me. As I reached her, she did not say a word; she just lifted my chin, turned my face and gave me a tight kiss on my cheek. She then told her colleague, “He is my David. Saw how he slew that Goliath. Serves that bully right, peeping into my class all the time.” She smiled and said, “Now you can go, but wipe off that lipstick on your cheek before you go home.” At that moment, I came of age. 

Image of Audrey Hepburn  Courtesy Internet

This story was posted on sulekha.com on October 31, 2008. The most amusing part of this blog was that the first four comments, independently of each other, gave a Wow. And, never thereafter, have I received such opening comments.

A Review "My Lawfully Wedded Husband"

He was just deadly that Sunday morning; she had never imagined that he had it in him. She had screamed in pain and agony. Although he had got her sprawled awkwardly on the floor, although she was in a state of severe shock, yet she was looking up in great admiration at her “lawfully wedded husband” standing above her. He deservedly sported a triumphant smile. Madhulika Liddle spins a powerful story of an illicit dalliance of a woman stuck in a boring marriage, which ends in a horrific surprise.

  

Madhulika has a smooth flow in the narration of the 12 stories in the, “My Lawfully Wedded Husband and Other Stories.” What I particularly enjoyed, additionally, in her tales were the picture perfect descriptions of the everyday scenes that one takes for granted. Sample these two:

“Sudha, curled the fallen hair around the tip of her forefinger,” from Hourie.

“Her mouth was full of clothespins – ugh – and her shoulder was heaped high with pillow covers, a bed sheet, petticoats, shirts and an apron printed with bright crimson poppies. She had close-set eyes, bright and prying………,” from “My Lawfully Wedded Husband.”

Her tale about Hourie, the whore, could pride itself of a superior research and, thus, sounds more authentic than that of other Indian authors who have attempted stories involving prostitutes. Her storyline also has a mild touch of erotica. However, the ending is not very dramatic.  

In contrast, the opening story Sum Total has you guessing until the end when the author lets loose a double whammy of twists to the tale. A Sheldonesque take, if one may say so. In A Brief Lesson In Trust the author allows the protagonist to cynically take advantage of the gullibility of a naive friend.

Again, in The Crusader, the story is interspersed with enjoyable, intimate whispered conversation between a couple whilst watching a movie – eavesdrop on it:

“Hummpf. In that nightdress he’s wearing? Looks stupid.”

“Who cares about the nightdress? It’s what’s under it that matters.” Deeksha giggled.     

A Tale of a Summer Vacation is about two sisters loving the same man and lays bare the machination of one of them to achieve her goal of getting him. St. George and the Dragon is a story set in a government office that goes on to prove that there is lot of merit in the Biblical Beatitude that says that “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth!” Of course, with a little help from Shivani Sinha.

Feet of Clay falls a little short because it is along expected lines; perhaps, because the newspapers cover the subject of child molestation extensively. Hence, the twist is not knotty enough. On the other hand, On the Night Train is quite naughty and delightful. Silent Fear is creepy enough to give cutis anserina. 

The last story, The Howling Waves of Tranque Bar, is of an artist of a different kind. It is the story of grève d'orage.

This compendium of crime stories makes a good read.

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Oh, to be a masseur

It was, indeed, a showcase wedding. The entire elite of Mumbai and Delhi, it seemed, had descended upon Jaipur for the event. Film stars, industrialists and politicians intermingled in a fusion of power and affluence. The décor at the scene took one back to the opulent times of the Mughals. The global cuisine, lavishly spread over the vast venue, completed the picture of the glitz and glamour on that memorable evening.

But the showstopper of the evening was not any of the celebrities or the bridegroom or, even the bride, but it was the bridegroom’s father – Rohan - my friend of more than forty years. Standing on the stage with the bridal couple, he looked dapper in his black bandh gulla with the top two buttons stylish left open to display a sparkling white shirt with a Chinese collar. Needless to say, he was clean shaven. His athletic stance was still intact but his totally gray hair, slicked back with a left sided parting, made him look both debonair and avuncular. The guests who were going up to greet him were all known and identifiable faces.

Therefore, it was understandable that I felt a total misfit in this setting. My wife succinctly summed up the situation – that I appeared to be the only non-achiever in the crowd! She is a great one to pep up one’s spirit – especially, if one is feeling low!

Then it happened. Suddenly, I got recognition. Rohan caught my eye, gave me a broad smile and topped it with a wave and a thumbs-up. A bejeweled film star of yester years, sitting in a row just ahead of us, turned around and in a well modulated silky voice asked me, “Aap Rohan ji ko pechhantein ho?”

With a put on nonchalant voice, I answered “Oh yes. When we were both fifteen years old, we had together run away to Goa …….to become hippies.”  

The unknown face of a few moments back had actually made a former film star burst into a good-humoured laugh. In between her mirth, she told the friends around her, “Can you believe it, yeh janaab and Rohan ji had gone to Goa to become hippies.” This was followed by another round of hilarity.

A well known builder of Delhi double checked, “Do you mean to say that Rohan Shenoy, the samrat of the stock exchange, once upon a time wanted to be a dropout? Unbelievable.”

With a conspiratorial smile on my face and theatrically raised eyebrows, I answered, “But it is a fact.” 

Turning to his wife, he said with great admiration in his voice, “Rohan Shenoy hardly pays any tax. Most of his income is officially tax free.”

Sadly, as quickly as it happened, so did it end - my fifteen seconds of fame were up and over.

However, Rohan’s generous acknowledgment took me back to my school days. He and I had been bench mates from the KG class. Then, in the final year of the all boys’ school, like everyone else, we were also suffering from the onslaught of the hormones. Concentration on studies was getting more and more difficult. Mere pictures of female models in magazines would light us up.

Venerable female teachers had suddenly turned into desirable objects. However, at few times, Rohan, looking at the shapely legs of a teacher, would sigh under his breath, “I wish she had opted for her hair removal.” Rohan was beginning to develop aesthetic sensibilities. But the overarching turbulence of the testosterones continued to overwhelm us.

It was during one such time of acute stress that Rohan told me, in all seriousness, that he had decided upon his future; he would like to become a masseur. Massaging was to be his career of choice.

He told me all the positives of that career. I was totally taken in by his argument. Day and night we would passionately dream of achieving our aspiration to become masseurs. We would think of new and innovative ideas that we would bring to our job. Client satisfaction would always be our main goal. Studying for the Board exam was proving to be such a distraction.

At that time, we heard stories that hordes of hippies had descended on Goa and were leading a totally carefree life – life free of all encumbrances, including clothes. Better news was that enterprising Malayalees had set up Kerala massage shacks on the beaches of Goa and were doing rip roaring business. Rohan and I were drooling to set up our own shop on a beach in Goa.

It was then that we decided to run away from home immediately after the painful Board exam would get over. It would be for the noble purpose to pursue our career dream. The entrepreneurial spirit in us was aching to get started.

Finally, the two charged youngsters landed in Goa. The Baga beach was a voyeuristic delight. The youngsters found it difficult to suppress their happiness; it was showing. But their top priority was to get an internship at one of the massage shacks to get a hands-on experience of pressing, rubbing and manipulating muscles and other soft tissues with their hands and fingers. But apprenticeship was difficult to come by – the Keralites proved to be very clannish.

However, what brought our dreams to a crashing end was an encounter with a 21 year old Swede – one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen to date.

Rohan and I were a dejected lot by Day 5 in Goa. We were listlessly sitting on the beach when this beauty approached us and said, “Mind if I join you? Do you speak English?”

Rohan was the first to recover and suavely said, “WHOA, for your sake I am ready to speak Chinese too!”

“Then Swedish is what you will have to learn,” she replied with a saucy toss of her head.

Her next observation took us by surprise. “Kids, it is obvious you have come here on a naughty mission. Have you achieved it?”

We were left speechless not knowing what to make of it. Was it just curiosity or a subtle invitation? The androgens jumped to a rash conclusion that it was the latter.

Alas, it turned out to be the former.

After a long pause, she said, “I have also come here to have a mischievous escapade but you guys are not the ones.”

We were crushed.

“Actually, I am looking for a fisherman. I really get turned on by these bare chested, dark sinuous fishermen here, especially as they cast their net in the sea. The whole rhythm of their heaving the net in the sea drives me up the wall!!!!! And the sexy colorful short wraps around their hips …………..drives me crazy.”

After being lost in a long reverie she said, “Unfortunately, they don’t speak English. Hey buddies could you help me out - be my interpreters? Of course, I could recompense you with some pocket money for doing my work.”

Rohan and I looked at each other. Rohan, with his usual sardonic wit, whispered to me, “We had come here to become masseurs but it seems we will end up with a career in the second oldest profession!”

Sheepishly, we decided to return back to Bombay, as Mumbai was then. With tears in our eyes, we bid adieu to our dream career of massaging. But one can never forget one’s first love.

A couple of months after the splendid wedding, I read a scandalous news item in a tabloid. An Indian actress, who had a few months back given a big Bollywood hit, traveling first class on the national airline to London, was found having a surreptitious massage under a blanket from a fellow Indian passenger who had recently celebrated his son’s marriage in an ostentatious manner in Jaipur. Her alternating moans and giggles had disturbed other passengers.

I called up Rohan’s house and was told, “Saab London gaye hain.”

Oh, to be a masseur, is my dream once more.

This post is a part of the Gillette Satin Care contest in association with BlogAdda.com

 

How I Came To Be A Wish Tree

The rains had failed the village again. Starvation was rampant and extensive. Villagers were walking miles in search of water. Men, women and children were subsisting on roots and plants. There was unbroken weeping and wailing all over the place. Despair was written far and wide. A dreaded epidemic seemed just a breath away. In such a landscape, I was brought to this village.

The tragedy that the village was going through was partially man-made. The green shield that the village had enjoyed for centuries had been destroyed by greedy predators and now the land lay barren. The government thought that if trees are planted, a rain cover could be recreated. The truck carrying us had trees of all shapes and sizes. I, being a mere sapling, was the smallest and weakest of the lot. Looking back it seems fortuitous that I survived at all. 

After it was unloaded at the village, I was the only one left behind because I was lying in a neglected corner at the back of the lorry. Luckily, a young girl saw me, quickly climbed into the van, retrieved me and jumped out just as it was about to move.  

At night she took me to sleep with her. She wept copiously as she unburdened herself to me. I must have provided some solace to her for I happened to be a very silent and attentive listener. She told me that she was in the final year of her school but because of the drought the school had nearly closed down. However, a fellow classmate, by the name of Ajeet, was helping her with the syllabus study. It became clear to me that she was fond of him. Everything in her talk was in relation to Ajeet and his thinking and opinions. After her long soliloquy, she coolly addressed me, “Chintu, you have been talking for long and, now, please allow me to go to sleep!!!”

Next morning, apparently, I must have appeared withered to her for she very poignantly told me, “Chintu, I think we will all die very soon but let me at least plant you in our courtyard.” With great care she dug a hole just big enough to accept my roots. After placing my roots inside the opening, she packed it firmly with the soil. However, I was so weak that I wilted. She started weeping and in between her sobs said, “Chintu, there is no water for you. I think you will die tonight,” and burst into further tears. 

Just then there was a rumble in the sky followed by lightning. The whole village was stunned by this phenomenon. A light drizzle ensued and, thereafter, it rained steadily the whole day and night. Just as I was thinking it was too much water for me, it cleared up and the sun shone strongly. My health improved and I found that I could stand upright. Madhuri, my young friend, thought that this freak rainfall was organised by me and that I was empowered with supernatural powers.

The word spread fast and soon a group of women performed an aarti for me. Only Ajeet was skeptical about all this and said this change may have come about due to the El Nino effect. When he tried to explain that the unusual nature of the El Niño‐Southern Oscillation (ENSO) event in an ocean thousands of miles away could have caused the unseasonal rain in their village; most of the villagers just nodded to him out of traditional politeness but preferred to give me the full credit for it. 

The next monsoon was bountiful and there was a dramatic change of mood in the village. There was joy and laughter in every household. Madhuri and her friends were now sporting the latest mobile phones and were dancing around me to songs specially composed in my honour. I was also growing fast and was now taller than most of the women in the village. I had a most luxuriant growth of branches springing out of my trunk. Now people from even surrounding areas were coming to have a look at me and clicking my image on their cameras.

One day a poor harassed woman came to me and complained that she was childless although she had been married for fifteen years. She then took out a string, smeared it with her sindoor and tied it to one of my branches. Having full faith in me, she may have relaxed from the worry of not conceiving. Unsurprisingly, after a month, she was expectant. However, the news spread like wildfire that tying a thread on one of my branches was the surest way to get pregnant. The crowds started getting larger everyday. Soon stalls for eateries started sprouting all around to cater to the throngs that were starting to arrive from early morning. It was a mela everyday. The only sad part was that Madhuri was not spending any time with me. 

After a couple of years, at about 3 a.m. in the morning, when the crowds had thinned out, I saw a beautiful young lady approaching me. As she came closer to me she said, “Chintu, do you remember me?” It was Madhuri. Oh, how she had grown up. She was accompanied by a young handsome youth. Madhuri, in whisper said, “Chintu, this is Ajeet. He has got admission in a top college in the city. He wants me to accompany him. But my father will not agree to our marriage as I am of higher caste than he is. Chintu, how can an accident of birth determine our choices for the rest of our lives?” 

Then she turned around and called out, “Ajeet, come and do pranam to my Chintu and our problem will be solved.” With hesitant footsteps and a most sour attitude, the young Ajeet folded his hands before me. Just then a leaf from one my branches chose to fall on his folded hands. Madhuri thought it was an omen sent by me.  

Unfortunately, Madhuri’s family and the gram panchayat, proved recalcitrant about the blending of the castes and no amount of pleading by Madhuri could make them change their minds. After a week, Madhuri was a totally shattered person. She came to me one early morning, carrying a stool with her. She put the stool next to my trunk and stood up on it. There was an eerie silence all around us as she started speaking to me in a soft voice. However, it also had a tone of suppressed anger. 

“Ajeet was right. You are just a dumb tree. It was so stupid of me to attribute so much power to you. Now, I am going to hang myself from one of the branches and let me see how you can stop me. Good bye Chintu. In a few moments, I will be gone from this world.” I was dumbstruck as I saw Madhuri pull out a cord which already had a knot at one end. She started tying the other end to a shoot protruding from my trunk. I could only mutely watch her. She then put the knot around her neck, gave me a last look of contempt and kicked the stool out from below her.  

And then, I heard a shriek followed by a thud. Thereafter, I saw a surprised Madhuri lying on the ground trying to shoo away the white ants which were all over her. It seems the termites had weakened the shoot and it gave way under her weight before the knot could tighten. 

On hearing her scream, Madhuri’s entire family rushed out. Most concerned was her father. After a while, tenderly he asked her, “Beti, are you sure that you want to marry Ajeet.” 

Madhuri, with tears in her eyes said, “Yes and no. Yes, I want to marry him. But no, not without your ashirwad.” 

Father and daughter hugged each other, as the father said, “There can be no grater happiness for me than your happiness. Madhuri, you have my blessing for your marriage and may you and Ajeet live happily ever after. Love should not be bound by any borders.” 

After this event, my reputation had sky-rocketed and the multitude is much larger today than it ever was. VVIP passes, costing a fortune are being issued, to have a priority darshan of me. Only Ajeet is still holding out, saying it is just a matter of coincidences. I humbly say, to each his own. 

This entry is a part of BlogAdda contests in association with Zapstore.com

   

Smoke and Mirrors

Alex Jr. McQueen, a white American, considers himself a lineaged investigative lawyer. He is the third generation of “McQueen, McQueen & McQueen.” However, at times, he wonders if there would be a fourth-generation McQueen, for, if truth were told, Alex Jr. does not fancy the female of the species. Actually, he fears that he is leaning otherwise.

Presently, the business at his firm is on the upswing thanks to his highly efficient knowledge partner, Sundari Subramanium - an Indian by birth and, particularly, proud of it. Otherwise, she is a complete American. Sundari, also popularly known as Sunshine, is of good height, well groomed, comes to work in smart bespoken western office wear and, above all, is supremely self-assured. Moreover, the sparkling hexagon-shaped diamond studded ring, a family heirloom, she says, that she sports on her finely chiseled nose adds to her stately look. Alex Jr. considers himself lucky to have found her. However, he is unaware that Sundari is as happy to work with him for she believes that he is safe. She does not believe in mixing work with distraction.

It was on November 30, 2011, that McQueen, McQueen & McQueen came into the life of India. A call came from an important TV news anchor of India to their office on the 5^th Avenue, New York, asking them to investigate what the anchor called the curious case of petroleum pricing in her country. She gave a brief background of the events in the last few weeks.

The story began on the midnight of November 3, 2011. At that precise moment, the oil marketing companies (OMCs) of India raised, once again, the price of petrol in the country citing the rising prices of imported crude oil and the dropping value of the Indian rupee as the cause of it. The so-called expert analysts unquestioningly bought the argument. Perhaps, sitting in the comfort of air-conditioned TV studios had made them too lazy to do any serious homework.

A couple of days after that, on November 5 to be exact, to lend a sharp edge to the rationale for the increase in the price of petrol, Indian Oil Corporation, the nation’s largest oil firm, came out with its financial performance for the quarter ending September 30, 2011. It reported a net loss of Rs 7,485.55 crore (US$1.5 billion) due to mounting losses on fuel sales.

The scenario turned scarier when the Chairman of Indian Oil Corporation said on November 9, that the borrowings from the banks has almost reached the limits and getting further loans from banks may not be possible after December. At that stage, the corporation may not have money to import crude oil and may have to close down some of its refineries leading to a shortage of petroleum products in the country. Another massive price increase seemed to be in the offing for all petroleum products – petrol, diesel, kerosene, and gas cylinders.

However, in a most dramatic turn around, on November 15, to the disbelief of everyone, the news came that the OMCs had reduced, yes, reduced, the price of petrol by Rupees 2 a litre. It was a theatre of the absurd at its best. And, again on November 30, the price was reduced further by another 78 paise per litre.

It was for this reason that the TV channel had called Alex Jr. McQueen to look into the mystery of the double price reduction considering the heavy losses claimed by the OMCs of India in the past. 

Alex Jr. then called Sundari Subramanium who said that she had overheard the whole story on the extension line and had already started studying the matter. Thanks to the internet, she said she would have the report ready in 30 minutes. She was true to her word.

She began, “Alex, the first thing to be understood is that the petroleum pricing in India is an optical illusion.”

The statement startled Alex Jr. McQueen but recovering quickly he said, “But Sunshine, I was under the impression that India had long given up being known for its rope trick.”

She gave a small smile and continued, “The U.S. Energy Information Administration (EIA) publishes every month, for the benefit of the US consumers, a ‘What We Pay For In A Gallon of Regular Gasoline,’ giving the break-up of cost under four different headings — crude oil, refining, distribution and marketing, and indirect taxes. Indian OMCs could also furnish numbers in the same EIA format. Unfortunately, they will not do it because it would give away their game.”

“Uh, uh that’s interesting.”

After a pause, she continued, “Alex, you would know that the average retail price of petrol in the U.S., for the week ending December 05, 2011, was US$ 3.29 per gallon (an American gallon is equivalent to their 3.79 litres.) Therefore, converted into rupees, even at the rate of Rs.51.75 to a dollar, an American only pays Rs.45 for a litre of petrol at his gas station.”

“And what does an Indian pay?”

“Alex, hold your breath – even after the reduction of Rs.2.78 per litre, he still pays about 50% more per litre.”

Alex Jr. exclaimed, “Oh, my God. You mean to say an Indian pays Rs.68 for his litre of petrol and yet Indian Oil Corporation makes a loss. Gee, that requires some accounting jugglery. Sure, rope trick is still alive in India.”

“Yo, there is still some more to come. If one deducts the indirect taxes of 12% and the gross profit margin of 20% that is charged to an American in the Rs.45 per litre that he pays at the gas station, the total cost of production of petrol would work out to little less than Rs.32.00 a litre in the US. Even granting that the cost of production of petrol is the same in India, a recovery price of Rs.32.00, without taxes, would not entail any loss for the Indian OMCs.”

“Hey Sunshine, since petrol in India is currently being retailed at an average price of Rs.68 a litre, our mission is to trace where the difference of Rs.36.00 per litre is walking off to.”

Sundari Subramanium laughed at the lawyer’s witticism.

Alex Jr. happy at her appreciation, continued, “Seriously speaking, the OMCs can only make a loss if they are recovering less than Rs.32.00 a litre for themselves of the Rs.68 a litre being collected from the retail customer. And, if the OMCs are, indeed, making a loss, then the conclusion is that the various governmental authorities are collecting a hefty amount of indirect taxes - far more than the actual cost of production! And, thereafter, to blame the rising prices of imported crude oil and the dropping value of the Indian rupee is, indeed, smoke and mirrors.” He followed it with a light-hearted guffaw. 

Sundari, tapping her nose ring, a sign that she was in deep thought, finally added, “Alex Jr., there could be a corollary to that. Suppose, if by any chance, the OMCs are recovering more than Rs.32.00 per litre, they should be making a profit. The question then would be how these profits are being turned into losses.”

“Wow that could be a multi- million dollar question!” 

“Sure is. But Alex, there is another interesting story. A former Petroleum Secretary, T.N.R. Rao, speaking on the prices of a LP cooking gas cylinder, said in 2005, “that routine cost-padding and inefficiencies actually hike the per cylinder price by as much as Rs.100!” At that time, the so-called “under recoveries” per cylinder were also put at Rs.100! I suppose the present cost padding must be Rs.246 per cylinder.”

“Hey, how can you say that sitting here?”

“Elementary, dear Alex. The present ‘under recovery,’ hyped by the government is that it is Rs.246 per cylinder.” 

With a loud chuckle, Alex Jr. gave a thumb up sign to Sundari.

“Alex, pack your bags, I have some good news. We are leaving for Delhi tonight. I have booked two first class tickets on Jet Airways and the Indian TV channel is putting us up in one of the special suites at the Maurya Sheraton,” and, with a wink, added, “to unravel the rope trick!”

PS: The Math for those inclined.

Reference for USA prices per gallon:

http://www.eia.gov/oog/info/gdu/gasdiesel.asp

PS 2.  1 US gallon = 3.78541178 liters.

PS 3. Broad Calculation to arrive at the cost of production:

US price at the retail outlet                                    Rs.45.00 per litre

Less 12% indirect Federal and State Taxes        Rs.  5.40 per litre

Less 20% Gross Profit Margin                              Rs.  7.92 per litre

Cost of production at American prices              Rs.31.68 per litre.

Rounded up                                                                Rs.32.00 per litre

Flirting with Anna ji

My husband is the strong, silent type and speaks only to the point. His favorite piece of conversation with me after marriage was, “Sweetheart, tea, coffee or me.”  And my reply used to thrill him. After all I am a Punjabi kudi. Although we are happily married, I am very different from him.

I do not mind confessing that I am a chatterbox and was always one. As I tell him quite often “After you, I love gossiping the most.” However, these days, the Gujarati chchora is little doubtful about my loyalty – he thinks that ever since I joined the new kitty group, he is no more numero uno. But, I must say, he has some justification for it.

Recently, a scandal broke out in our kitty group. A young married female member from my new kitty group got involved with the husband of another member. I was waiting anxiously to know if this would turn into a relationship. Naturally, I had to keep in constant touch with my friends to know the latest developments. The suspense to find out how far they had gone with each other, in real time, was killing me.

It was during one of such late night, yummy and mouth-watering exchange of text messages between the members of our kitty group on the emerging situation, dear husband came up with the same old request. I told him to wait. He sulked and went to sleep. When I joined him, after about a couple of hours, I saw he was having a restless sleep. I did not disturb him for I had far more important matters on my mind.

After a few days, the news came that she had gone back to her husband (oh, no) but my husband continued to be in a huff with me. Therefore, when I came to know that our club was organizing a qawwali programme, I decided to surprise him. He is very fond of Indian music and could not say no to my bait.

We reached the club in good time and met a few friends. The first half of the qawwali programme was disappointing – it was quite thanda. I love the masti and dhamaka in a qawwali programme especially the muqabbla, which generally takes place between the male and female qawwals. However, my husband enjoyed the session. He likes his qawwalis a little differently. He partakes the lutf from the allegorical references of the sufi renditions. But, being a Gujju, many a times he had to refer to me to understand the subtle connotations of the Urdu words. Other than that, he still maintained his distance from me at the programme.

But the qawwali troupe promised that the second half would be livelier. True to their word, the second half started a little differently. Each accompanying instrumentalist was given an opportunity to give a small solo performance before the main qawwali resumed. The final solo turn was of the tabla player. He started with the slower rhythm but soon went on to the faster beats. After a time, the beats started getting faster and faster and the tabla maestro’s fingers were flying as if in a blur. Mischievously, I got up from the seat next to my husband and moved one row back. I then started drumming on my husband’s back in unison with the tabla player. The ice was broken, as I could make out that hubby was enjoying the touch and the fast beat. The tabla play ended with a crescendo followed by a loud applause.  

As the orchestra was getting tuned for the next number, I saw a well dressed and an attractive middle-aged lady walk down with great poise on stilettos towards the row where my husband was sitting in sole splendour. She inquired of my husband, with her eyes, if the seats next to him were vacant. She then gestured to the man behind her, who looked like a henpecked husband, to follow her. To my amazement, he was extremely well dressed too. He was wearing a red shirt with snug fitting beige trousers. He looked dapper but what really made him stand out was the printed silk cravat that was tucked inside the shirt. I thought that he, obviously, was a vain person for even his thinning hair seemed to have been placed with great care to cover as much area as possible of the pate underneath.

When the qawwal started singing the turbo-charged Runa Laila number “Dama Dum, Mast Qalandar,” I too joined in and started swaying  to it. And when he came to the fiery “Dama dam mast kalandar, ali da pehla number,” I gave a hard thump on my husband’s back, which made him say a loud, “Ouch.” That made the gentleman in the red shirt turn around to have look at the person who made my husband say, “ouch,” and I could not help blushing at my impetuosity.

The gentleman turned out to be rather bold. With a smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eyes he said, “Young lady, has anyone told you before that you very much resemble Sonam Kapoor.” I was floored by his compliment but, also, rather amused by it. I started laughing on an  impulse  

After I recovered from my laughter, I told him, “I wish I could say, with a straight face, that you look like Shahid Kapur” and burst into more laughter.

He knew I was mocking at him but recovered quickly with a self- deprecating repartee, “Shahid Kapur toh raha dar kinare, these days people think I look more like Anna Hazare.”

Oh, ho that was too funny, I thought – Anna Hazare with a cravat.

Later my husband wanted to go out for some snacks, so I softly asked, “Anna ji, could I get you and your wife some coffee.”

Again, with the same smile and gleam in his eyes, he put on a husky voice and said, ““Sonam ji if you insist, how can I say no to you?”

Wow, that line had so many layers of meaning in it besides saying yes to the coffee. It also came wrapped in a suggestive proposition. In admiration, I patted him lightly on his shoulder and said, “Anna ji, you are just too much.” 

Later, whilst having coffee, I innocently told him, ““Anna ji, we must keep in touch.”

He immediately changed the meaning of my words by giving it a literal slant when he replied, “Sure. I always like to be in touch with good looking ladies. Closer the better.” And, there again was the evocative pass.

Once more, I could not suppress my laughter.

We parted after exchanging telephone numbers. Anna ji only has a landline telephone and does not carry a cell phone. He said he could not afford one.   

After returning home, I tantalizingly told my husband, “Tea, coffee” and before I could complete my sentence, he sealed my lips. Thereafter, everything became as it used to be. All waz well.

Next morning, I looked closely at myself in the mirror and did think Anna ji had a point. I did resemble Sonam in a few departments – like the eyes and the smile. I was also slim and tall like her. Hats off to Anna ji for his discerning eye. What my husband did not see in me in so many years of marriage, Anna ji saw it at the first glance.

After a week, I called him on his landline number. I recognized his voice the moment he said, “Hullo.”

Coyly, I said, “May I speak to Anna Hazare ji?” 

Imitating an older person’s voice and with a slight tremble in his tone asked, “Aap kaun bhenji bol rahi ho?”

Brazenly, with a laugh, I said, “Tumhari Sonam,” hoping to throw him off balance.

But he turned out to be a poorana khiladi. Substituting “Sonam” for “Sanam,” he gave a totally new meaning to the lines, as he crooned softly in the receiver a la Sunil Dutt in Sujata.

                        “Aaajaa Sonam  …. madhur chandni mein,

Agar Hum Tum mile to wirane mein bhi aa jayegi bahaar.” 

That “wirane mein bhi aa jayegi bahaar” I thought was extremely hilarious. I went into an uncontrollable laugh imagining poor Anna ji’s plight as he portrayed it.

Between a few more laughs, we chatted for some further time before disconnecting.

Let us see what the future holds. But for the present, Kya Karoon haye, Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.

Tumhari Sonam

                                                          

 Qawwali is of the dhoom dhadaka variant in the pantheon of Indian music. Qawwalis are loud, to the point of being deafening, boisterous, to the point of being raucous but, it has to be granted, once the live qawwalis get going, they can lift you into the stratosphere. The asli mazaa in a mehfil-e-qawwali, is to let yourself go and participate uninhibitedly with the flow.

I, being of an unadventurous nature, therefore, do not fancy qawwalis too much. Hence, I was slightly reluctant to go to this programme of qawwali organized by our club recently. However, at the persuasion of my wife and friends, I agreed to give them the pleasure of my company.

My mind went back to the first qawalli programme I attended as a gangly fifteen year old in the company of a shaukeen uncle. My mother, after strictly warning my uncle to take good care of me, also decided that I should wear my new churidar along with the embroidered silk kurta to the function. After donning it, I preened myself in front of the mirror and, in a moment of fantasy, thought that I had a faint resemblance to Dev Anand of that time. Uncle and nephew started for the venue but not before receiving a few more last minute instructions from my mother.

The event was being held in a school hall and it was fairly packed, with an all male crowd, by the time we reached there. Everyone was sitting cross-legged on the mattresses placed on the floor and the last row had come almost close to the entrance but my uncle was determined to sit right up in the front row. So, we started navigating towards the front row by parting people who had arrived much before us and then stepping across the breach. When we were half-way in our mission, the lady qawwal started singing,

“Koi Rangeela, sapano main aake,

                                 Ek Nazar ka khel rachake,

Pyar ka jaadu hum pe chala ke…

                                 Yalla yalla dil legaya”

to the great delight of the listeners. I suppose on seeing me, she went on to improvise by crooning, 

                      “Koi rangeela,
                       Reshmi kurta, choost pajama pehney,
                       Pyar ka jaadu hum pe chala ke...
                       Yalla yalla dil legaya”

followed by an uproar from the audience. As I was wearing the attire she was referring to, I looked up and the lady qawwal did an aadab to me to another huge appreciation from the audience. I did not know what had hit me but I just stood transfixed. Luckily, my uncle patted me on the shoulder and I sat down with my eyes bonded to the floor.

The lady qawwal had struck a gold mine to work the crowd at my expense. She sang many stanzas from the song but the punch lines would always be: 

“Koi rangeela, reshmi kurta, choost pajama pehney,
Pyar ka jaadu hum pe chala ke (gesticulating that a dagger had pierced her heart)...
Yalla yalla dil legaya.”

I started enjoying the masti too but could not hold eye contact with her for long because she would keep on embarrassing me, either with a flying kiss or a coy, but sensuous, gesture of pulling down the diaphanous duppatta to cover her face. All the same, it was incredible how the audience would cheer her every time for this play-acting. It has to be admitted that this interactive atmosphere added to the pleasure of the programme. So, it was not surprising that at the interval, a lot of people came up to me and, in good humour, said, “Kya jadoo chalaee aapne Zeenat Bano pey.”    

Decades have passed since that experience and I did not believe that, wittingly or unwittingly, I could become a centre of attraction at the qawwali programme we were going to at the club. But fate had a surprise for me.

When our group reached the hall, it was nearly full. For a change, it was a mixed gender crowd comprising mostly of Gujaratis and Marwaris. The seating arrangement in the hall was of chairs, perhaps, in deference to the graying tribe of the members of the club, including me.

The programme began to the cacophony of an orchestra that could have awakened a comatose person. Thereafter, the first half was dedicated more to devotional songs and slow film numbers and as a fellow member pithily said, “Mehfil mein rang nahi aa raha hai.” Thus, at the intermission, almost two-thirds of the crowd melted away. However, the ones that remained were obviously hard-core lovers of qawwalli.

The second half started with a bang with the popular qawwalli number of Mughal-e-Azam, “Teri mehfil mein kismet azmakar hum bhi dekhenge” and the ladies in the audience spontaneously joined the chorus of the stylized rhythmic hand-clapping along with the swaying from side to side – qawwalli style. This was the trigger needed to charge the spectators.

We were sitting in a row where the aisle chair was occupied by a quiet young man and I was sitting next to him followed by my wife. As the music started for the next number, the listeners could identify that it was the evergreen super fast-paced, “Dama Dum, Mast Qalandar,” first popularized by Runa Laila, and when the lead qawwal opened with “Oh ho, oh ho ho” the crowd started singing along with him. The mood was almost delirious as the qawwali proceeded and when he recited the punch lines “Dama dam mast kalandar, ali da pehla number,” the audience went into a frenzy except that my young neighbour shouted ‘Ouch.’

It so happened that his wife, who was sitting behind him, was apparently drumming with her fingers on his back and when the qawwal sang the line “Dama dam mast kalandar, ali da pehla number,” with full josh, she thumped his back with equal vigour.    

I turned around to have a look at this percussionist and found her to be an extremely good looking woman and the flush of embarrassment on her face made her look even more attractive. She gave me a shy but broad smile and I could not refrain myself from complimenting her beauty and said with a smile, “Young lady, has anyone told you before that you very much resemble Sonam Kapoor.”

She was taken by surprise but as the impact of the comment hit her, she put her head down and started laughing softly and then slowly raised her head and tried to suppress her laugh by covering her mouth with one hand. Still laughing, she leaned towards me and said, “I wish I could say, with a straight face, that you look like Shahid Kapur” and burst into another round of laughter.

I conceded and said, “Shahid Kapur toh raha dar kinare, these days people think I look more like Anna Hazare.” Once again she thought it was a funny remark and laughed a little more loudly and that attracted the attention of the qawwal too. Looking at the age difference between the young lady and me, he started singing with great fervour,

“Khuda sawal karega agar qayamat mein,
To hum bhi kah denge hum lut gaye sharafat mein,
Hamen to loot liya mil ke husn walon ne,
Kaale kaale balon ne gore gore gaalon ne.”

The import of the song made me straighten back to my original position in a hurry. But the lines evoked great boisterousness – clapping, foot-tapping and pumping the air - in the crowd that could have matched any in a rock concert.

After a few minutes, the young man next to me got up to leave and I thought, with some sadness, that this was, perhaps, the last of Sonam that I would be seeing. Just then, I heard a soft conspiratorial whisper from the back saying, “Anna ji, could I get you and your wife some coffee.”

I smiled at her and, with the practice of some many years, said in a flirting tone, “Sonam ji if you insist, how can I say no to you?”

She gave a light pat on my shoulder and said, “Anna ji, you are incorrigible.” 

The only person not enjoying this was my wife. She hissed, “It doesn’t suit your age to say such dialogues to a young girl.”

But I was on a high and dismissed her concern with a flippant, “Ah ha, what you should actually admire is that even at this age, I can charm young ladies especially if they happen to be slim and trim.”

Coffee arrived and the young lady sat next to me in the chair vacated by her husband. She said, “Anna ji, we must keep in touch.”

“Sure. I always like to be in touch with good looking ladies. Closer the better.”

Again, the remark caught her off-guard and this time she had to put both her hands to her mouth to silence her laugh. We exchanged telephone numbers but with the condition that she would make the first call and not me.

The story would have normally ended here if there had been no follow-up.

But after a week, Sonam called me on my landline. Chirpily her opening lines were, “May I speak to Anna Hazare ji?” 

In a playful but serious tone I replied, “Aap kaun bhenji bol rahi ho?”

And she laughingly said, “Tumhari Sonam”

Seizing the opportunity, I broke into a song,

“Aaajaa Sonam  …. madhur chandni mein,
Agar Hum Tum mile to wirane mein bhi aa jayegi bahaar.”

And the “virane mein bhi aa jayegi bahar,” set her off again.

After ten minutes of such nok jhok, we disconnected.

Ab dekhein agay agay hota hai kya. But for the present, wife has gone on a crash diet.