Salutations to her who is Unfettered

The waiter led them to a ‘family’ table right at the back of the restaurant where they were cut off from the crowd; the empty tables they trooped past were smaller, much more intimate, designed compassionately for couples seeking privacy. Shanti sagar was festively dressed up for Diwali, the festival of lights. Golden streamers were festooned along the walls and lamps were hung from the ceiling; the low voltage bulbs splashed patterned light over the tables. Multicolored lights strung along the glassed shop front danced merrily as though provoked into a frenzied state by the wet wind.
Accompanied by thunder and lightening, the rain meant business. Outside, the road wet with rain water, glistened in the dark, portentous of more rain. They settled down at the table semi-wet leaving an archipelago of water islands behind them, their wet clothes squelched water onto the dry sofa; their wet feet felt uncomfortable trapped in the shoes. The intrusive lights gave Vaishnavi a headache, she excused herself, treading carefully over the heavily padded floor, stepping away from the muddy footprints, glancing back every now and then till she was out of their line of sight, like a thief stealing away from the scene of crime. At the entrance, she stood listening for the patter of the obdurate rain, it was so easy to miss that sound in the shuffling of people coming in and going out of the restaurant and their idle chatter: ‘yaar, Shanti Sagar’s dosas are unbeatable!’ or ‘next time let’s try out the kashmiri pulao and methi tikkas’. But Vaishnavi listened; her heart was racing as though the rain was trying to pass on some cryptic messages to her, as though the silvery slanting arrows that fell from the sky were pointing at something, saying ‘here! Look here! Now!’ She stood there long enough to still her galloping heart, to drive out the obsessive dream, push it out into the relentless rain and say, ‘screw you! I am not weak. I am not a creature of whim. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter-in-law. Not a rider of horses.’ People stared at her flushed face as she stood at the entrance for no reason apparently, her fingers knotted up, her distracted gaze seeking some kind of sign. And then, just like a benediction from the heavens above, a loud whoop of joy rang through the crash and boom of the rain. People who were standing at the portico for the valet to get their cars and a few who were just getting in stopped in their tracks and turned. As though challenging the rain gods, a horse and its rider, blackened and obscured by the rain pelted across on the other side of the road. The rider, rendered shapeless in the dark and by the rain, appeared to be bent low over the horse like he was whispering something into its ear. The rider let out another loud whoop and the horse encouraged by these exultations thundered, its hooves merely sparking off the wet metallic road. The spectacle lasted only a minute but Vaishnavi saw each detail; she saw the sinewy flanks of the black horse ripple in the dark and saw its legs draw in and then leap- its entire beastly form in the air for just one breathless second-and land with the kind of nonchalant grace that was unique to horses; she saw its mane pushed back by the force of the wind and the rider’s wild hair thrash about as they kissed the rain and the wind together. People who too had witnessed the unusual sight smiled at one another indulgently, uncertainly as though what they had just seen had been the prank of a mischievous elf. Long after the duo of human and beast had disappeared, her heart continued to thump wildly. She stood there for a few minutes to collect herself.

When she got back her father-in-law was grumbling. ‘We should have stayed at home. I told you people. But no one listens to me.’ He wiped his face with the paper napkins stuck in a glass on the table, promptly there after removing his glasses from his shirt pocket and poring over the menu with deliberation, his eyes peering over the rim intently.

“You were gone a long while. We were waiting for you to order,’ Ravi remarked watching her closely in a manner that had always made her uncomfortable.

‘There was a long queue at the loos,’ she replied casually and widened her eyes at Kritika who was kicking Mallika under the table and making faces. The two of them although three years apart, nine and six, were dressed in identical clothes: a long brown and blue checked skirt and a blue sleeveless collared shirt. Both of them wore pigtails but of late the girls had been putting up a strenuous fight to cut their hair, with a special demand for fringes on the forehead. Ravi had been the wet blanket, resisting change. He sat next to his mother who was sitting next to Mallika.

‘It’s a special occasion nanna,' he said to his father and smiled smugly at Vaishnavi over the chrysanthemums-filled ceramic vase, 'how many times do we eat out otherwise?’

Vaishnavi smiled back tolerantly. Her severe large glasses and the pulled back plait exaggerated the intellectual air about her. The discomfort she felt in the broad bordered Gadwal was apparent in the way she kept pulling the pleats of her pallu over the bosom. She was a good looking woman if one saw the clear bright eyes caged behind the inexplicably odd glasses and the youthful body trapped in a garment that did no justice to it.

‘But nanna we wanted to have Chinese! Aparna went to Chinese Pavilion last Sunday. Their chopsuey is supposed to be the best in the city.’

‘You know tatayya doesn’t like Chinese. Learn to adjust,’ Ravi bent over the table and addressed his younger daughter.

Kritika chimed in, ‘no! Nanking is the best for Chinese. Ramya told me.’ Mallika pulled a tongue at her sister. Putting a finger to her lips, Vaishnavi motioned to her daughter to behave, widening her eyes for further effect which usually meant ‘no more of that or you are in trouble.’

‘What is the point of being old in years? One should be able to make adjustments for children. Senseless man. Pig-headed,’ Vaishnavi’s mother-in-law spoke up out of the blue, her rasping voice always drew attention. People invariably turned and stared at the slightly senile looking elderly lady with a funny voice. She resumed the harangue she had embarked upon in the house, persisted with all through the journey to the restaurant and had temporarily put aside in order to settle down.

‘Amma,’ Ravi raised his palm and that’s all he said in the masterful tone of voice that Vaishnavi had watched him cultivate in the ten years that they had been married. Exactly ten years to this day. That’s what they were celebrating. They were celebrating her large black rimmed glasses, her unseemly sari, his mother’s senility, his father’s obsession with food and his increasing, well increasing fatuousness. They were celebrating the crowding of their respective personal spaces and the resulting friction.

‘What will you have?’ he asked her pushing the menu card towards her.

‘You decide,’ she didn’t feel like going over the menu, the tedious list of mixed vegetable korma, palak paneer, navaratan korma, gobi special, baingan delight, bhindi do pyaaza, the same names, the same order. What was there to choose? It was only a meal.

An imperceptible twitch of a muscle in the right cheek told her that he was hurt. She had not been gay enough. He had wanted her to smile, touch his hand when no one was watching, brighten at the idea of eating out, and more than anything else make a fuss over his anniversary gift to her.

‘Where’s the phone?’

She pulled it out of her purse and held it up to show him. It was a swanky piece no doubt. Sony Ericsson P910i. Had cost him a fortune, so he couldn’t stop saying.

‘Do you remember the number?’

‘Not yet. It will take me time. I have written it down in my diary.’

He took it from her and looked it over admiringly, ‘I have saved my number in this. Keep the instruction manual safely.'

‘It is safe Ravi. Don’t worry.’ She called the waiter and asked him to clean the table. A few grease and curry stains remained from the previous occupants of the table.

‘But amma doesn't like cell phones!’

The waiter arrived for the order. Her father-in-law was the only one who had meticulously planned his order. Ravi placed the order for them after endless debating and pontificating with the children. He ordered a cake too. Vaishnavi wanted to protest but checked herself not wanting to dampen his spirits further. She settled back and waited for the evening to get over.

‘Amma wanted a new camera. No amma?’ Mallika turned to her mother, her pigtails grazing the empty plate.

Ravi winked at his daughter and turned to his wife, ‘amma likes her new phone. No amma?’

Amma smiled back, joylessly.

Once the food arrived, Vaishnavi's mother-in-law resumed the drone. She complained about the old man’s habits, his ‘obstinacy’, his ‘obsession’ with food, leaping back into a remote time in the past.

‘Once when Ravi was about two, he came home and threw the plate against the wall because the rice wasn’t hot enough, ’ she gulped and shook her hand at her husband across the table, ‘my sisters were so frightened of him….’ Again the rasping voice, the voice of a pained woman, drew curious stares to their table.

It wasn’t clear who she was talking to. It never was. Everyone in the house had learnt to discreetly look away when she launched on her lengthy tirades. Her husband, the villain in her life looked like a harmless food-obsessed old man, if anything. It was difficult to cast him in the role of a plate-throwing, teeth gnashing tyrant.

‘Amma,’ that cultivated masterful voice again. It worked only occasionally though. Most of the time she continued regardless, but being out in a public place intimidated her, so she sat back muffled, frowning deeply, her hands visibly shaking and the lips moving imperceptibly. She was a short woman of about sixty, who owing to her hunch back and the scanty hair looked shrunken. A severe tonsillitis problem long back had drained out the strength from her voice leaving it a mere squeal, every word uttered by her seeming to be choked out with effort, making it all the more painful therefore to listen to her never ending exhortations.

‘When is the next appointment with the neurologist?’ Her husband hissed at her over the chrysanthemums-filled vase.

‘Next week.’

‘You make sure she keeps doing those mental exercises the doctor had asked her to do.’

Vaishnavi nodded and was grateful when the children began to clamour to be taken to Chinese Pavilion on his birthday which was the next grand celebration awaiting the family. He turned his attention to them. Her own wandering glance fell on the couple sitting at a table beyond theirs. The girl was pink all over-her clothes, her cheeks, her lips-and she was sitting thigh to thigh with her husband. Vaishanvi could tell they were married by the flaming red streak above the girl’s forehead. The podgy man at the adjoining table laughed that annoying laugh again. She put her hand to her forehead where it hurt. If only she could get out of this restaurant and find a quiet corner somewhere. Where was the time rushing off to? Not the hours but the moments, ticking by, unseen, creeping away.

Ravi is talking to her and her mother-in-law is grumbling again, this time freely using invective. She can hear him say ‘amma!’ yet again. As if disembodied, she watches the family seated at the table, she sees them as the world sees them-noisy, ordinary and unremarkable. She watches the cake arrive. She cuts it along with Ravi, her lips stretched into a smile, and there is energetic clapping by the excited children and benign smiling by the father-in-law. Her mother-in-law claps looking a little perplexed as if unwillingly forced into the present happy occasion from an unpleasant time in the past. People at the nearby tables turn around, smile indulgently and clap too, caught in the motion of things. Timidly, but emboldened by all the radiance in the faces around him and the screaming lights above, Ravi gets up, she sees him coming to her, a narrowly built self-conscious man. He surprises her by forcing a piece of cake into her mouth, and then bashfully wiping away the blobs of cream from the corners of her mouth.

‘Happy wedding anniversary, Vaishu,’ he leaned over and whispered into her ear. She smelt his familiar, slightly rancid breath, and wished him back startled.

The next day she left the University early and went to Gayatri’s. While in the bus she fell asleep, her head drumming against the bars of the window. In a few moments she could sense a tug that pulled her body inwards, she tried to open her eyes but her dream sucked her in and her eyelids remained glued, she could feel something flutter away from her.

The same dream: She was riding a black horse in a green bikini. Her hair, long and wildly tousled, streamed behind her. This time she was tearing through a lush jungle. The splendorous flanks of the horse rippled. Both she and the horse were breathing hard, purposefully, straining to get somewhere, suddenly now galloping across a vast golden hued desert, an open terrain, barren and uninhabited, riding past a long caravan of camels and gypsies.

The sound of crackers going off somewhere woke her up.

She got off at Somajiguda Circle, her broad bordered sari hitched up; avoiding the soliciting autos, she walked past the Amrutha mall, past the mannequin crowded shop fronts. Soon, short of the TVS showroom, she got into a lane, turned a corner at Chang’s Beauty Salon and got into Sunshine Apartments. As she waited for Gayatri to open the door, she felt the pocket inside her handbag to check for her cellphone. There were two missed calls from Ravi. He had called her at work already to tell her that the electricity bill had to be paid and to remind her to buy his mother’s medicines.

Gayatri was in the kitchen, cooking, which was rare because she didn’t have the patience for it. But sometimes she cooked ‘for the fun of it'. Vaishnavi could hear the crackling of the curry leaves in the hot oil as she lay in her friend’s bedroom, glad to be left alone, to be away from home for once. For just a guilty second her thoughts wandered to her children, she imagined them back home from school, still in their navy blue uniform, eating lunch under the watchful but grudging supervision of her mother-in-law. Folding her arms behind her head, her head sinking into the pillow, she breathed the quiet gratefully, glad to be left alone. Lying there, her eyes traversed the room. It surprised her how much clutter her friend had accumulated over the years. Gayatri bought everything that caught her fancy. There were too many things in her house giving an impression of confusion. This room for instance, Vaishnavi thought, could do with a little room. If only Gayatri used the windows and the balcony to advantage and let in some air. The colossal Saharanpur bedstead blocked the door to the balcony and it was lost forever. Then there were those antique wooden cupboards said to belong to a rich merchant from Chettinad, devouring the windows. Wall hangings there were galore: Madhubani, Pochampalli, Kalamkari, Tanjore paintings. Terracotta figurines were randomly placed here and there. Her obsession with collecting had gotten worse after the divorce, Vaishnavi reflected. On the dressing table (another restored antique from Pondicherry) she spotted Gayatri’s wedding picture, both she and her ex-husband in pristine white, fresh from the wedding altar, eight years ago. She still kept that picture although she had disposed of all other traces of her married life. But that was typical of Gayatri: always a whiff of hurried logic in whatever she did.

When Vaishnavi joined her friend in the kitchen she was on the phone with a colleague from work. A mingled scent of hing, karpooram, sandalwood and coriander leaves pervaded the kitchen which doubled up as the puja room as well. Gayatri winked at her and continued to speak on the phone.

‘Have you approached all the hostels?’ She was saying, her voice beginning to lose its rounded politeness, ‘you know there is a hostel for every caste? Brahmin men’s hostel, Kamma hostel, Reddy hostel…Ya…there are at least twenty such hostels in the Dilsukhnagar area alone. These are the people we need to tap for the SpeakWell course.’

Gayatri was a marketing manager with GoGlobal, an overseas education consultancy that coached aspirants for tests like GRE, GMAT, TOEFL and also other sundry entrance exams. The Speakwell course had been recently introduced for fluency in English. It was a lucrative job and Gayatri had been associated with the organization for the last seven years. Vaishnavi seriously doubted the efficacy of these courses. She was quite convinced that agencies like GoGlobal hoodwinked earnest students by making lofty promises of assuring them cent per cent success rate in cracking the exams. The English speaking courses were even worse. Burqua clad women, inhibited small towners, Telugu medium educated students with native intelligence gleaming in their eyes, desperate in their need to be reckoned by the mainstream, mistakenly believed that glib speakers of the English language were a cut above, enrolled in the 25-day, 30-day courses, hoping to unleash their English tongues at the end of it. Very often they left disillusioned.

Gayatri finally hung up the phone with an explosive sigh, ‘these branch managers are so incompetent. Asking to be spoon-fed all the time,’ she put the cooker on the gas and turned to her friend, her eyebrows raised, ‘anniversary gift?’

Vaishnavi smirked as her friend took the high end Ericsson cell phone from her hand and examined it, ‘not bad. But you are violently opposed to cell phones aren’t you?’

‘My husband’s idea,’ she shrugged. The phone began to vibrate in Gayatri’s hand. Vaishnavi made a face as she took the call, moving towards the bedroom. She lowered her voice as she spoke.

‘Where are you?’

‘At the University.’

‘I called you twice.’

‘I was in class when you called.’

‘Did you buy amma’s medicines?’

‘Not yet.’

‘When?

‘I will buy them on the way back Ravi,’ she spoke patiently as if to a child.

‘When are you planning to start?’

‘I have to finish a paper for tomorrow’s seminar. Might take a while.’

There was a slight pause at the other end, she could imagine him rubbing his nose bridge, his glasses dislodged from their perch, ‘remember amma can't handle the children for too long on her own.’

Gayatri scooped out a little gongura pulusu with a ladle and dropped it into her friend’s palm.

‘It’s good. A little more jaggery though.’

‘You really need to get out of that madhouse more.’

‘Ravi just about tolerates my working at the university.’

Gayatri turned off the gas and put a lid on the simmering vessel. She shrugged, ‘Well, at least he is very fond of you.’

‘Sometimes, I feel…,’Vaishnavi paused, searching for an appropriate simile, ‘like a fly caught in a bowl of honey?’ she cocked up her eyebrow questioningly, wondering if her friend understood her.

Gayatri looked at her friend for a minute, ‘how do you handle that kind of subtle domination?’

‘I just don’t let it affect me.’

‘What do you do when he is talking to you?’

‘I don’t listen.’

Sometimes while pretending to listen to him, her eyes would wander to the table, to the bookend, to all the books she intended to read but just couldn’t find the time to. She would continue to nod her head as he talked: ‘It’s a typical small scale enterprise syndrome; industries here have a long way to go to catch up with the changing scenario worldwide. Unless they change this shopkeeper mentality there will be no real progress. But then do they really care about those things? These are all family run businesses run without a vision aimed at short-term profits.'

Ravi railed against the company he worked for, a transformer manufacturing company owned by a friend. He was the General Manager of its operations, working out of the factory which was located at an industrial area called Bowenpally. She had by now understood the pattern of his complaints. Ravi was a man who followed his habits studiously and loathed any variance in it. She often wondered why despite complaining so much about the job he had not made a single attempt to look for another break in the last seven years that he had been with the company. She realised in time that he grew only mildly restless sometimes and would sail over those moments by riling the system, the establishment, the indifference of the rich, the obduracy of the poor and in general the ‘abysmal’ state of affairs everywhere. But the next morning he would be off to work, breathing the imperturbable contentment that she almost envied.

‘I dreamt the same dream again. In the bus, on my way over here,’ Vaishnavi revealed, embarrassed, guilty even, as one would be about a secret adulterous affair.

Gayatri was hunting for her car keys in her dressing drawer. She looked up surprised, the dream admittedly was quite uncharacteristic of her staid friend. She grinned wickedly, ‘this means you have a wild side that you haven’t explored yet.’

They drove to Nampally in Gayatri’s car, to Unique book store. A grubby looking shop that was caught helplessly between an Irani café called Golden Corner and a crowded building complex that housed all kinds of outlets- a hosiery store, a novelties store, a chemist’s, and among other such shops, a homeopathy clinic that boastfully announced:

Homeopathy for your family!

Enrol your loved ones in.

Dr. Dayal’s Family Plus Programme.

Get 10-30% off on annual registration

 conditions apply

Vaishnavi shuddered every time she saw the board. Dr. Dayal’s approach to ailments was much too hearty. Gayatri drove past the stately Ravindra Bharathi and then the Legislative Assembly. As they shot past Ravindra Bharati, Vaishnavi read the board outside announcing a dance recital by a fourteen year old Kuchipudi dancer called Sneha Rao.

‘I believe they have renovated the place,’ Vaishnavi smiled, ‘the last time we came here was for Mandolin Srinivas’s recital. Remember? We got stuck in the rain and nanna came and picked us up from Lakdi-ka-pul.’

‘How long ago was that?’ Gayatri asked scratching her chin.

‘Nine years I think, before Kritika was born.’

Gayatri looked at her friend her eyes wide as if to say ‘that long’!

At the book shop, Asif bhai, the sixty odd year old proprietor of the shop greeted them familiarly. He sat on a cushioned stool behind a wooden desk, his sanguine mehendi stained hair crowned by the ultra white skullcap. He always greeted them with a wave of his hand which was a hesitant cross between a ‘hi’ and an ‘adaab’. Only a seventh standard drop out, Asif bhai was thoroughly acquainted with books and authors of all kinds ranging from the do-it-yourself variety to literature. Vaishnavi and Gayatri often wondered if he read any of these books himself, although sometimes while writing out the bill or dropping the books in a cover, he would nod at them with a hint of appreciation, ‘acche kitaab hai. Good books.’ Obscured from the teeming masses and the surrounding din outside, the seemingly small shop had a cleverly hidden spiral staircase to a mezzanine floor which housed its real treasure. Books, seconds mostly, from all over the world, every title, every author, sometimes even rare first editions were available and if one couldn’t find what one was looking for, Asif bhai sourced it for his customers.

In the hushed silence that was more a sort of shared awe, common to all bookstores, Gayatri and Vaishnavi (there were only three other people in the room) browsed through the books in companionable silence, intermittently hissing at each other excitedly when they chanced upon a good book. Gayatri focused her attentions on the coffee table books on interior designing, feng shui and cookery while Vaishnavi looked for books on Vedanta, astrology and photography. The rows and rows of closed books hinted at the unknown and even appeared to discreetly mock at the insular existence of the human race. Resting heavily on her left foot and leaning against the large table assigned for non-fiction, Vaishnavi was poring over a copy of ‘Kundalini’ when her phone began to ring. The other three browsers looked at her balefully.

He wanted to know where she was. What she was doing. If she had finished writing the paper for the seminar. What time the seminar was. Then out of the blue he asked her what she was wearing.

When she came back into the room, Gayatri smiled at her sympathetically, she had already picked out her books. Vaishnavi settled on two- one on photography and the other on Vedic mathematics.

Outside the bookstore, the two of them stood near a chaat bandi with their saris hitched up to avoid the puddles. They giggled and gossiped like teenagers, their mouths full of panipuris. The lack of hygiene would have scared the daylights off Ravi, Vaishnavi reflected, and then a dreadful thought struck her: What if Ravi passed by that way and saw her? She shrugged her shoulders slightly, mentally dismissing the thought as unlikely.


‘Sometimes I feel I should have stuck it out with him. Maybe if I had given it some more time things would have fallen into place,’ Gayatri was saying of her ex-husband, ‘especially when I see others. I mean every marriage has problems….,’ but she noticed her friend was not paying attention, her eyes were moving distractedly towards the bustling road.

‘So is it always a horse?’

Vaishnavi turned her wandering gaze back at her friend, ‘what do you mean?’

‘In your dream, are you always riding a horse?’

Vaishnavi nodded; she smiled embarrassed, turning red in the face, ‘I know it’s silly but there is no one else I can talk about it with,’ she blushed deeply and adjusted her glasses, ‘at this age, do you think it is normal?’ she looked at her friend searchingly.

‘I want to show you something,’ Gayatri said, as she drove in the direction of the Necklace Road. The latter was a bourgeois recreational place. Families, large and small, descended upon this winding stretch of road to spend their evenings on the lawns flanking it and partaking of the modest amusements it had to offer. Push cart vendors of sugarcane juice and chaat lined one side of the road, discarded newspaper cones lay strewn about everywhere. Two khaki clad constables hovered about a Police patrol jeep, randomly stopping motorcyclists and checking them for license and other relevant documentation. A few disgruntled under aged teenagers had already been caught and made to stand aside. Along the lake’s shore were a string of more sophisticated eateries and a large exhibition ground owned by the State which attracted the lion’s share of the crowds. The latter was host to a range of events from horticultural shows to popular music concerts, practically everyday, adding to the traffic woes in the area. With some uncommon foresight, the Municipal Corporation of Hyderabad had provided parking space across the grounds, on the other side of the road.

‘So many people!’ Gayatri remarked, ‘have you noticed how people’s spending power has grown?’

Vaishnavi nodded not really listening to her friend’s banter. She sat with her feet up, clutching her knees, watching the faces recede away in the rear view mirror. Gayatri had switched on the radio, an old Hindi number was playing; she hummed along.

‘Why have we come here?’ She asked her friend. The people looked oddly familiar; their brave smiles and distracted searching glances saddened her. A few really loud crackers went off in the thick of the crowds near the exhibition grounds resulting in a melee as the traffic cops sprung into action and rounded up willy nilly two young boys who in their jeans and tight tee shirts seemed to be the possible mischief makers.


Gayatri parked the car next to a camel, which appeared completely oblivious of its towering presence amidst the cars and milling crowds. The gangling camel stood chewing cud and calmly appraising its surroundings even as it attracted a great deal of excited attention. Its owner, incongruously, was a middle aged man with a sullen expression that suggested he resented being in close proximity of such a stinking animal. He sat on a stone away from the camel, unconcerned, relying on the camel’s star power alone to bring in all the business.

‘Have you ever sat on one?’ Vaishnavi asked her friend, pointing to the ungainly animal.

‘No, but how about riding that?’ Gayatri pointed to a horse riding down the slope from the road to the parking lot. Vaishnavi took a closer look. A painfully thin young girl of about fourteen was riding the horse. She had brown stringy hair that was tied into a ponytail; her dress was a combination of pyjamas and what looked like an oversized borrowed shirt, the color of which was difficult to determine sullied as it was with use. Vaishnavi couldn’t take her eyes off the girl or the horse.

‘Are you serious?’ Vaishnavi looked at her friend surprised. The horse was black, like the color of night itself. Its thick black mane was slick and well nourished. The girl clip-clopped to a halt near the camel and greeted the man sitting on the stone who grunted back in reply.

‘How much for a ride?’ Gayatri enquired.

The girl contracted his fingers, ‘fifty,’ she looked at her doubtfully, ‘who wants to take the ride?’

Gayatri pointed at her friend.

The girl looked at Vaishnavi, her glasses and sari, with what Vaishnavi imagined contempt. The girl appeared to be in possession of something that made her at once remote and superior, ‘you'll have to hitch the sari up,’ she stated matter-of-factly and continued to feed the horse clumps of grass.

'No,’ Vaishnavi flushed deeply, ‘my friend was just joking.’ But she edged towards the horse all the same and stuck her hand out to stroke its snout. The horse moved its head away, and a few flies took flight from near its flaring nostrils.

‘I know this is not a distant mystical land but….’


‘What about you?’ Gayatri jerked her thumb in the direction of the exhibition and the crowds on the other side, ‘I need new curtains for the living room. I’ll go and check out the stalls there.’

The girl beckoned the camel-man to help Vaishnavi climb the horse. Looking unhappy as hell, the man obliged, joining his hands so she could step on his crossed palms and haul herself up on the horse. Vaishnavi sat astride the horse, pulling her sari down her calves, blushing deeply as she did so.

‘Who taught you how to ride a horse?’ Vaishnavi asked the girl who said her name was Mimdi, and that her uncle, the camel-man and she, belonged to a village in Rajasthan, near Bikaner.

‘I learned on my own,’ she replied and relapsed into silence. Every now and then she would reach and stroke the horse, whom she called Chetak. Vaishnavi stole glances at her. She walked tamely now in step with her horse.


‘Did you name your horse after Rana Pratap’s horse?’ Vaishnavi asked out of the blue, breaking the silence, feeling compelled to draw the girl into a conversation.

That Vaishnavi recognised the illustrious significance of her horse’s name thrilled her, ‘Yes! My uncle told me the story of Rana Pratap and Chetak. And when I got this horse, I called it Chetak right away.’


As if suddenly unbridled, her story spluttered out with only a little prodding from Vaishnavi. Her mother she said, died when she was very young. Until two years ago, they had been moderately well off, with fairly large tracts of red chilly farms and bajra which were taken care of by her father and two brothers. But for the last two years, around monsoon time, swarms of locust from out West had been attacking their crops and completely decimating them.


‘They say these bloody locusts come from some where near a big ocean in the west,’ she remarked, frowning fiercely, envisaging perhaps swarms of locusts nesting on the shores of some big blue ocean, ‘they are big and fat, and ugly,’ she showed with her fingers just how fat.

‘My father wanted to marry me off but I ran away with my uncle,’ she shrugged, pushing her hair back and smiling simply as if running away with one’s uncle was a natural solution to any crisis, ‘he owned twenty camels in Bikaner, which he used to peddle drugs across the border to Pakistan,’ she had a slight jagged edge to her voice, and the veins at her neck stood out as she spoke with the relish of a raconteur, ‘you know, they rip open the stomachs of the camels and stuff them with the drugs and then stitch them back?’

Vaishnavi couldn’t decide if the girl despised this part of the tale or relished it as much as the rest, because she paused and lovingly stroked the horse’s underside pensively before resuming her tale of adventure.

‘My uncle ran away from Bikaner because the Police were after him and I joined him. I promised him that I would work very hard and give him all the money I earned.’ Vaishnavi found herself trying to recreate the face of the camel man in her mind, who now going by Mimdi’s story was a fugitive on the run.

Her phone began to ring, ‘Here, can you hold this for me?’ She offered her phone to Mimdi who took the ringing phone skeptically, ‘Aren’t you going to answer it?’

‘No. It’s okay. I’ll call back later. I don’t like cell phones. They are such a nuisance,’ Vaishnavi suddenly felt chatty. The phone stopped ringing. Mimdi’s face lit up, the fancy gadget excited her interest, 'are you sure you want me to hold it?’ She asked still incredulous; she wiped both sides of her grimy hand against the pocket of her shirt with care and then lapsed into reverential silence, devoting her attention to the phone. Vaishnavi watched the girl as they walked alongside, she on the horse and the girl in step, only the steady clip clopping of the horse breaking the silence of the night.

‘Sometimes late in the night, after the day’s work is over, when my uncle permits me, Chetak and I take off on our own. We ride several miles. The city is so beautiful in the nights,’ MImdi began to talk, warming up to Vaishnavi, the kindly lady in glasses who looked like she understood her, ‘don’t you think so? Once I rode all the way from Necklace road to Chaarminar. In half and hour flat, both ways.’ She looked up at Vaishnavi triumphantly, her eyes sparkling.

‘Do you ride in the rain too?’

‘Especially when it rains,’ she replied with excitement lacing her voice, ‘Chetak loves the rain. So do I.’

'So where do you live?’ Vaishnavi tried to imagine this young free spirited girl and that sinister uncle of hers living in some hovel somewhere.

She chewed her lip and ran her finger in circles in an attempt to point the direction to her house, then gave up, ‘We live near the Chintal basti, not exactly chintal basti, because it is so congested there,’ she screwed up her face in disgust, ‘we can’t live there with our animals. We live in a two room portion of a big house near the basti, it is owned by this very kind rich man who has even provided a shed for Chetak and Raja.’

‘Raja?’

‘The camel.’

‘Do you earn enough through these rides?’ Vaishnavi was now openly curious, she wondered who this ‘kind rich’ man was. Maybe he was an equally sinister ally of her no good uncle. Anyway the girl didn’t seem to mind any of it. On the contrary she seemed unconcerned, radiantly happy with her circumstances, without a trace of regret at being estranged from her father and brothers.

For a brief second Vaishnavi felt that the girl’s guards went up again, she tipped her chin away, shrugged and took her time before replying, ‘sure! I make up to four hundred everyday, even thousand on occasions, and anyway we lend Chetak for weddings too. There we make a lot of money.’ She stressed the ‘lot’ part as if to tell Vaishnavi to stop being condescending and that anyway how she fared monetarily was none of her business.

‘Aren’t you getting bored just sitting on the horse and walking like this?’ Mimdi stopped suddenly and looked up at Vaishnavi. She carefully slipped the phone into the pocket of her well worn shirt and buttoned its flap. And then as if making up her mind for the two of them, the girl lifted her leg and slipped it into the stirrup and in one swift movement heaved herself atop the horse, leaving Vaishnavi quite speechless. And before she could so much as utter a word, they were off, and all she could hear was the beating hooves of the horse and the girl making goading noises as she heeled its sides and worked the reins. It was not until the girl told her to sit back and dig her feet into the stirrups that Vaishnavi realized her back was feeling sore as a result of the bumpy ride. She did as she was told. They were like two fugitives in a Western making a desperate bid to escape. On the road, people stopped on their tracks and stared at the unusual spectacle. Vaishnavi’s sari kept riding up but she didn’t care. She could hear Mimdi’s hard breathing behind her as she held on to the bridle and felt the horse move under her.

‘Do you want to try?’ Mimdi shouted hoarsely into her ear as she reined in the horse and veered it around towards the parking ground. They had by now crossed the crowds and were on a secluded stretch of the Necklace Road, where the waters of the Hussain Sagar languidly snagged onto a grassy patch of land. Here, all the muck from the lake’s abused guts resurfaced and settled morbidly, emanating a stench of heedless consumption everywhere in the city.

But before she could say no, Mimdi had dismounted, ‘hold the reins tightly, lean back and dig your heels into the stirrups.’

Vaishnavi suddenly broke out in cold panic. She had never known the power of control over anything, she couldn’t even drive, let alone ride a horse, 'I can’t!’

‘What are you afraid of?’ Mimdi laughed, ‘Falling?’ She was running lightly to keep pace with the trotting horse. At an indiscernible signal-Vaishnavi thought she heard Mimdi whistle-from Mimdi, Chetak took off on a steady canter.

‘Hold the reins, and lean back,’ Mimdi shouted her standard instruction. She was running behind the horse, ‘and enjoy the ride!’

Vaishnavi marveled at the understanding between the animal and its mistress, the unquestioning faith on which it was founded. Chetak cantered with practised caution, responding to Mimdi’s authoritative commands, its unhurried pace putting her at ease. The road was empty and it was dark but for those few moments that she was alone on the horse she felt free like she never had, relieved of the regrets of the past and anxieties of an undetermined future. The act of riding a horse had always stood for an idyll of fierce self reliance; throughout history men had ridden horses either towards a revolution or away from servitude.

At first, Mimdi stoutly refused to accept the phone as payment for the horse ride. It took Vaishnavi some time and effort to explain that she really didn’t want the phone and that the ride on the horse was worth a lot more. Gayatri didn’t say anything, surprised though she was at her friend’s strange behaviour; the sullen camel-man, Mimdi’s uncle and the fugitive on the run watched the exchange with interest, prying his molars with the nail of his little finger.

‘Remember not to answer the phone. Get a new sim card,’ then stealing a glance at the camel man Vaishnavi whispered, ‘this is for you, don’t give it to your uncle.’ Mimdi looked at her incredulously; she had vivid light brown eyes that shone in the bright halogen lights of the parking lot. It was incomprehensible to her that someone could give her a whole cell phone for a mere horse ride.

‘He may look like that, but he is not so bad. He is like a father to me,’ she replied a little defensively, darting a quick look at her uncle, ‘You can come and ride the horse anytime,’ she added with alacrity, happy to imitate Vaishnavi’s magnanimous gesture. As they were driving away, Vaishnavi caught sight of the camel-man taking the cell phone from Mimdi and studying it with interest and a little while later, she saw Mimdi mount the horse and ride away.

Gayatri couldn’t stop chuckling, ‘What will you tell Ravi?’ They were in the car now, weaving in and out of the traffic.

‘I’ll think of something.’

'The horse ride seems to have had its effect on you,’ Gayatri laughed, ‘you should do it more often. That man didn’t seem like her uncle but the girl was fascinating,’ she added thoughtfully, reminded of her green eyes and wild hair.

‘She is free spirited,’ Vaishnavi murmured, ‘that Mimdi.’

Ravi was appalled, ‘how could you leave it in the bus? It was such an expensive piece.’ ‘I am sorry,’ she said looking away from him, fingering the leaves of her new books still hidden in her bag; the crisp fresh-off-the-shelves fragrance reached her, ‘anyway I bought your mother’s medicines.’

He nodded his head vaguely taking off his shoes, ‘Were you at Necklace Road today?’ he asked her out of the blue, his brows drawn close together. His manner had lost its usual confident familiarity, replaced instead by a suggestion of middle-aged befuddlement.

‘No, I was at Gayatri’s.’ He looked at her queerly as she handed him his mother’s medicines. Vaishnavi removed his rolled up socks and threw them in the laundry bag and placed the shoes carefully in the rack. He had seen her riding the horse, she knew; but it was dark and he probably dismissed what he saw as an optical illusion, yet it was plain to see that he was struggling inwardly with stubborn doubts. She felt a little sorry for him.

‘Did you have a good time?’

‘Yes,’ she turned and faced him for the first time in the day and smiled.

a piece of paper....

a paper...
call it a page...
from a diary...
would say a lot to you...
stories it has witnessed...
and stories it has missed...
reflecting whatever it faces...
like a mirror...

a page is a poem sometimes...
a story, a talk with self...
or sometimes just a contract...

a page, itself is an epic of love...
it just knows how to love what it has...
and hence stays forever with the page next to it...

Uma - meets her conscience in the Bathtub

Uma stared at the bathtub for a few minutes unsure and apprehensive. In all her nine years she had never encountered a contraption such as this. A bucket and mug mostly and when it rained, directly under the blessed showers, which she preferred. This, graying, cracking, threatening pit of rectangle had never crossed her naïve path. If it had she might have walked regally past. Who would want to ‘soak’ in water when one could gambol, romp, stomp, frolic with each drop and its trailing siblings. Soak is what Mrs Nanjappa had said, pointing to the aforementioned fancy of the Tea Gardens. The other words she had carefully collected from hither and thither, jotting down into her notebook whatever sounded good, tasted nice.

Words come in various tastes, didn’t you know? Eat a word and see for yourself! A romp is a gulp while a gambol is a gallop, the running away of the tongue with the taste. Uma was mouthing these in the mirror of her mind when Aunty, as Mrs Nanjappa was respectfully addressed despite being a divorcee, lovingly directed her towards the bathroom with a single word : SOAK. Soak - she commanded. That a command was couched in this sweet lipsticked pout was clear to even a nine year old. Ladies such as this, draped in chiffon and puffing away, borrowing a friend’s daughter for a Sunday while one’s own languishes in a boarding school can only know of a command. Of gentleness and motherliness they are bereft.

Not that Uma’s own mother was gentle! Not by any motherly standard! Oh no! she was a terror. It was all rules and regulations for Uma. What she could do when and how with whom for how long were precisely laid out. In all this Uma never sensed any command, any assumption of power in her mother. Her mother was a duty-bound humble woman of normal means and this came through in all dealings. Money and its encumbrances speak loudly despite the silence of its victims. This then was Aunty’s despair. Try as she might she could never make her daughter ‘like Uma’. And poor lady did not realize that the fault lay not in Munmun but in herself. A mother-in-absentia does not know how to raise children.

No doubt all the elders in the camp liked Uma since she was always polite, wished everyone, studied well and all that, which was very important for the adults but that was not it. ‘There is something more that I am unable to see’ and this is the mystery that detective Uma wanted to crack. Entering people’s minds and reading signs by examining conversations and analyzing responses was her new hobby and it was yielding good results. Except that there was no Watson to applaud and no fee that came her way. Also what surety did she have that her deductions were spot on?

Angushtamaatraha, the size of a thumb. Enough to glow in the dark, provide light in the tunnel and show her the way. This antaryaami proved to be a boon for the reticent Uma. Although she had never indulged in a direct one-to-one conversation with her formless twin she was happy to have discovered her soul mate so early in life. Henceforth it became difficult for Uma to make true friends. Everyone she met glazed over the surface, flitting on the waves of life as though a dolphin on show. Her style was more deep sea diving. With a flick of her eye she could capture the truth that lay in another’s heart without ever exchanging a word. ‘SOAK’ then was more than enough, four letters said with great emotion dripping with heavy meaning. Aunty had in fact meant that a middle class child like Uma ought to be pleased at this opportunity to immerse herself in the clean bath waters surrounded by fragrant bottles and white lace curtains shielding the harsh summer heat and that such a generous gesture ought to be thanked and indulged in appropriately. Aunty probably did not realize how transparent her needs were. She had expected Uma to squeal with delight, which Uma, despite her excessive politeness couldn’t force herself to.

Uma had grown up being bathed by her pinnis and baabais, they had all doted on her. In fact they gave her an oil massage every Sunday, whole body, mind. They would even pour the oil down her nose and ears ‘for lubrication’. Then one of them would apply a paste of turmeric mixed with Kasturi on her skin and let it dry. Then another would scrub it off for her, telling her stories set in Kishkinda or Dandakaranya. Some would be busy breaking kunkuDikaayas, soap nuts, for shampooing her hair. These would soak in water while she soaked the sun. Others would be plucking the mandara leaves and would be grinding them in the stone mortar and pestle, so her hair could shine. Then they left her to day dream, naked except for her oily towel, which she would wrap about self consciously. In an hour or so the women returned remembering their ward and spent the whole afternoon washing her hair, her body, singing to her, making her laugh, hugging her and pampering her. A heavenly experience which came weekly in the name of tallanTi. Uma’s quiet assuredness had stemmed from such spontaneous love and it was not going to be intimidated by a patronizing ‘SOAK’!

How was poor Aunty to know that Uma did not think that the cast iron construction that demanded that you lay in it, in your own yuck, was very hygienic. In fact for a girl who thought swimming pools were dirty, this was a step better that is all. You did not splash about in other people’s muck. How was poor Aunty to also know that Uma in fact pitied her loneliness, her lack of friends and her inability to stick to a marriage however difficult that might have been. Aunty was the first divorcee she had met and Uma was filled with scorn. She had seen her mother and her resilience and then she saw this! Did one go about as one pleased or did one fulfill one’s duty despite all odds? An adult at that! Did one’s duty consist of happiness of oneself or of the others too? Pondering day in and day out about this Uma had reached a sure shot conclusion that was much applauded by her twin. One ought to give, oneself of oneself and more. Thus decided smug Uma’s body language conveyed scornful vibes.

Mrs Nanjappa frequented her house whenever she had a breakdown. Amma was a perfect antidote to any trouble. She never gossiped, she did not intimidate, she listened and she cooked. She fed and she calmed. No one who came to her went away sad. She was simplicity personified. Sincerity oozed from her. Who could withstand such transparency without being transformed somehow for the good? Uma had Aunty’s story in bits and pieces: overheard her actually, she loved to eavesdrop, fancied herself a detective, didn’t she?

Born to a Punjabi General, married to a rich Coorgi planter, becoming a mother despite not wanting to, divorcing him after falling in love with another, that another who has a daughter of his own, having a second daughter Mahima who is sent away to a Boarding school because ‘how can we let her study in these small town schools’ and so on it went, confusing the very stable and simple world of Uma’s with unwarranted husbands and excessive children.

Hearing Aunty’s story and knowing where her own mother came from, to Uma it was as clear as the water in that chipped porcelain bathtub that these gestures that Mrs Nanjappa meted out were to fulfill her own needs. Hadn’t she often stepped out of their tiny bathroom with a wrinkled nose. She must have noticed the cracked walls and dying commode. The spluttering flush. The old plastic bucket next to the distorted mug. The lack of accoutrements in a room that was overcrowded with unwashed clothes. Aunty had even wondered aloud at Amma’s ability to live happily in two rooms - the only accommodation that was provided to them for these two years of their lives. Mrs Chiffon Nanjappa with her Happy Valley Tea Gardens’ Manager’s bungalow, servant’s quarters, cook house, outhouse, driveway, birdbaths, orchards, gardens, a pond, a badminton court and a swimming pool was confounded by Amma and her well behaved, well read children, who did not complain nor cry.

She wants to study me thought Uma. Wants to get to the bottom of the mystery of my being. How can I turn out this way while her own daughter….well how was her daughter? Uma had not yet gotten a chance to meet her. Each time she was coerced by Aunty to ‘come spend the night with me, Uncle is away and I am all alone in such a big house’, Ma would take pity and send Uma packing with hurriedly packed clothes and the homework that was to be completed. No one seemed to want to know what Uma thought of this arrangement. Children were not consulted on such trivial matters when Uma was nine. They got along with life the best they could. The next day Uma would arrive in a chauffer driven car at her school to the astonishment of all her classmates who had seen Uma jumping up into an Army vehicle, an hour after school, jostling among the potato and onion gunny sacks in an open three-tonner to be taken home, another hour away. She also got a few comics as presents and an ‘English’ lunch in her tiffin box (which she exchanged for being so bland) and Trifle Pudding as extra treat.

Nanjappa Aunty made sure that she had bribed Uma enough for next time. Little did she know that Uma was not asked about her stay either by her mother or her father and that such events did not ruffle the routine of her chaotic household. They pitied Aunty as much as Uma did or maybe Uma caught the scent from them…or else how was a young girl to know that divorce was bad or that making a choice as an adult woman was considered immoral. That her mother was so friendly towards Mrs Nanjappa in itself was shocking considering how pious and conservative she was but that Aunty N should like her Amma, this was the strangest thing. A sophisticated lady like her, rich and glamorous and vocal while Amma a simple housewife, unpretentious and almost unformed. But for the need. There is always the need.

Uma was a symbol. She projected all that was right with the future generation, a beacon, a shining example, look, they all said, be like her, children! And that made sure that she never had any more friends after that. Hence our nine year old lil miss perfect spent many a lonely night reading books belonging to another, sleeping in another’s bed and waiting to bathe in another’s bathtub. Nay, Soak. Aunty’s pet but did she have any one her age to play with? To saunter about? To stroll along the stream?

The first time Uma went to the Bungalow, so many men came out to assist with her puny night-bag that she was ashamed of how little she possessed. She felt she needed to be worthy of this treatment, of being their guest, not Aunty’s mind. Aunty knew. Uma wanted to be thought of as someone important by the servants. So the rest of her stay was spent not in free abandon but in constant watching of herself. Did she sit right? Was her dress too high? Had she crossed her legs at dinner? Had she thanked them adequately for the second helpings? Was the toilet seat wet? Had she wiped it? Did she fold her clothes, put away her books, rinse her glass and so it went for two days. This constant burden weighed on our poor girl so much that the visits were turning into a test instead of providing respite.

She wanted to ask so many questions. How was one to use that bath-tub. This was the first time she was seeing one. It was only now that she had sort of gotten used to a commode. That she could manage. Could she ask for pickle because the food was so inedible or was Aunty testing her? Was that a bird-bath she had read about in books! How wonderful, what types of birds came to drink from this fountain….and that surely is an Orchid! Weren’t orchids rarest of rare…..

Unfortunately Uma did not put her curiosity to tongue. She was told not to pester Aunty and she knew how irritating some children got. So very impolite, asking this and demanding that. She disliked such childish behaviour. She would indulge in none of that. The Answers would present themselves to her in their own time and meanwhile she will make do by gliding past them, the queen of these surroundings who deigns to walk amongst such common happenings. There was not a child’s bone in her frail and ungainly body. If you mistook her for a princess she would have reprimanded you for slighting a queen.

Though, unfortunately for her, no one thought Uma was royalty. To start with, Baby Chiffon who had just landed from a boarding in Bokaro was upset that her mother would choose to invite a strange unglamorous girl home the very day that her own friend whom she desperately wanted to impress was finally coming to visit her. Not to speak of whose daughter she was. Tina’s father was Manager of the Barak Valley Tea Gardens AND the Polo Club. It was so mortifying to find a silly South Indian who looked like a lizard in an overgrown gown sitting at the dining table with a glum face while she had wanted to project a Happy picture, after all they were the Managers of the Happy Valley Tea Gardens, no? Baby Chiffon aka Munmun aka Mahima did not let you forget that she by virtue of being her father’s daughter was in some way a Manager too. The least you could do was to treat her right. Since Uma has not yet behaved like a sycophant or at least like a normal girl, which meant a few giggles and a headshake to show off your curls, Uma has been relegated to the doghouse.

Thus mornings, afternoons and evenings were spent in Uma being chased by Mrs Chiffon to “go find the girls Uma, it’ll do them good to play with you” forcing Uma to leave the Famous Five in the middle of their adventure to chase the case of the disappearing girls! Tina and Munmun, names that Uma instantly abhorred, were like two Bulbuls set free on a Jamun tree, black in heart and black in tongue. Never a moment that did not include high pitched prattle, their discussing the misdeed of another, a misdemeanor that they chose to analyze in excruciating detail, never a time when Tina by word, deed and gesture let Munmun forget whose Daddy was bigger and never an instance when they looked back at the trailing Uma. Uma who was by now thirsty and tired but too proud to say so could only guffaw in her silent heart at the scene playing out before her not having the wherewithal to confront such ridiculous behaviour. If only her mother could see her now! Uma suddenly understood her own worth all too well in the company of these girls.

This was what was bothering Aunty then, how was it that Uma should be so sophisticated, at nine mind, given where she came from while her own daughter, all that money spent on that Catholic boarding had come to a naught. How was it that one kid knew what to do and how, what to say and when, without ever being taught while her own flesh and blood, her child born of love and choice, should come across so ill-mannered and uncouth.

It was easy to see that Munmun missed her mother, she had no one to guide her and boarding schools don’t give a child the love an extended family can. It was also clear to Uma that had Mrs Nanjappa not flitted from one man to another, her disgusting daughter might have learnt by example on how to put up with people who are different, difficult and dull. Right now all that Munmun craved was for drama. High Drama. After all she was her mother’s daughter. If one did not like a situation, move on was the clear message. While in her own house what Uma saw was the exact opposite. Stick to your word, your promise, your commitment, come what may. This is what she saw day in and day out. It makes for mettle of steel, maybe that is why Amma always shone. And she Uma had reflected her mother’s shine? Never to have talked for the heck of it, never to have let a vow be broken. What power such speech had. What power such people had. How was she to convey all this to a lady who dressed so perfectly, who spoke so effectively and carried herself with such care?

Tina wants to play Badminton but Munmun does not. Even so Munmun will play Badminton because Tina wants it. Tina also wants to win but Munmun’s competitive spirit is bigger than her social skill so she unfortunately defeats Tina which cannot be the way Universe functions in this part of the world, so Replay after temper tantrums and a few “My Daddy is better than your Daddy” dialogues! Tina wins Munmun loses, all is well. Munmun learns an important lesson. Barak Valley Manager is bigger than Happy Valley Manager whatever your talent levels with racquet and shuttlecock.

What was she to tell Aunty after she got back to the house? That her lack of love and caring had made her daughter a spiteful little girl who would grow up to be a disgrace to society, that Munmun should be brought home to study with the tea pickers’ children to learn some compassion and humility, that she ought to be spanked out of her arrogance. Despite Amma telling her many times to always speak the Truth and behave Dutifully with dignity: Satyam Vada Dharmam Chara, Uma was not really convinced about the greatness invested in Truth per se. Who knew what that was? Everyone had their own truth. As for telling IT! Ha! Only fools told the Truth, the wise told Stories.

Her aunts, uncles, grand-parents everyone around her told her stories. Those stories conveyed more truth than anyone expected them to. Over time she learnt to distinguish between a true voice and an insincere one. It was not too tough to do. Listening to mythologies of yore with their tangled and twisted flow, disparate characters all coming together in the end, reading about them in books, letting one’s imagination accompany her favourite characters, all this had helped her define her own Truth.

What she had inferred from this disastrous visit was that her Truth was radically different from Tinmun’s (her petname for the twin devils) but they had entertained her all the same. They were enacting scene after scene for her, she had learnt about inter-tea-garden rivalries, about boarding school politics and about this fascinating city called Bokaro where everything was better than this silly Silchar, so they said. She had learnt that South Indians were dark and ugly and also that they had never heard of her hometown Hyderabad. “You are from where Hy, Hi, Hai der BAD?” and they had laughed and laughed, orange marmalade sticking to their teeth while they opened and closed their mouths with each H.

Uma could have taken great offence but all she felt was pity.

She remembered her own encounter with the soul in the Bathtub.

After Aunty had commanded her to “Soak!” Uma , who could not disobey the one woman who was a source for all her Enid Blytons, went in with trepidation. This bathroom was ten times bigger than the two room accommodation that was her house for the past year.

It had to happen one day so it happened today, now. Uma finally came face to face with her conscience. For the first time she sensed that there was someone else besides herself who existed in her, resided in her. This happened on the very day that she stood facing the porcelain pot. Having gotten away without asking questions for the most part, here she was confounded with her nemesis! Where did the water come from, where did it go? Should the tub be left wet or was there some knob to dry it? Was she supposed to lie down or sit or stand? Uma found in front of her five different taps, gilded. To prevent anyone from spying on her foolishness, she first made sure that the white lace curtains opening into the garden were drawn close. Then she locked herself inside despite warnings from Aunty ‘don’t lock yourself in now! That bolt is rusty’. Though Aunty had provided her with a wonderful white Turkish towel and a fresh Lavender soap,making her feel very rich, in that instant standing naked in the streaming morning sunlight Amma’s warning about misusing hospitality pricked her conscience. In her not-so-big overnite bag was a thin white and green striped cotton Bapatla made tunDuguDa , she took it out hurriedly and placed it quietly on the hook, behind the door. Afraid that someone would laugh at her belongings she hid everything from public view by carrying her bag with her. Even into the bathroom. Her soap was a moth-eaten blob of pink, streaked with dirt lines and mishapen. This her mother had wrapped carefully in newspaper since there was only one soap box in her house and that was definitely not assigned for overnite visits. She then placed the soap carefully on the washbasin, reaching out with the her hand and measuring the distance from the bath tub to the basin, to ensure that she could soap herself and wash herself without wetting and dirtying the whole bathroom floor. It was practically impossible to achieve this simple act of washing. Mainly because the bathroom was a house in itself! On the tub or around it she found no place where she could place the soap without fear of it slipping or her slipping or….this bathroom was proving very inconvenient for Uma. More like a drawing room, she thought. With all its paraphernalia. It was not functional just aesthetically appealing that’s all. Already she could hear Aunty whispering “everything okay in there dear?” and she responded before further investigation in a hurried YES! Much too loud a response, if only Aunty could sense nuance! Minutes ticked by, Uma was feeling dirty. She could not eat or drink before she bathed, a habit that her traditional relatives had imbibed in her, what to do now?

Soon enough using her thin ragtag of a towel she was wiping the tub just enough with water to make it seem that she had bathed, wetting her soap, her face, just right. A swob here, a splash there. Quickly but dexterously she recreates a scene for those who might come in to check on the post-bath state of the bathroom. If that is how things are done in such houses, else what did all these numerous servants actually do?

Afraid to flood the bathroom, Uma had taken an alternate way out, to prevent embarrassment, to prevent revealing her ignorance, what pride for one so young! This then was her meeting with her conscience. She saw how vain she was, how incapable of taking advice or help. How full of her own importance and wanting desperately to be treated right. Her show of strength was all a façade, her regal bearing just a mask to hide her weak desperation. A young girl with delusions too grand for her age. For any age. This struck her in bits and pieces. In a language she understood. That she was no better than Munmun or Aunty or anyone else, that everyone was just acting out what they thought was their true self. It was only when we removed all the layers, these garments of vanity, these clothes and garbs of wordly honours that one can truly see. Now she could, shivering with the wet towel in her hand trying to prove to an unseen audience that she knew what a bathtub was and how one bathed in it.

The Uma that came out that day was not the Uma that went in. She saw everyone in a different light. She superimposed her deficiencies on them and realized how human everyone was. These were no longer people to be despised but people to be accepted, as they were. No wonder Amma always treated Aunty with such respect and love. Or anyone else. What else can one do? When one sees oneself in others?

When Aunty saw that Uma could not be provoked into a confession against the giggly girls, she ordered all three of them to ‘go clean your rooms for the evening party’.

Parties at this plantation were sought after by everyone in the Cachar District. She was a wonderful hostess Aunty was. She knew the art of keeping everyone entertained and well fed. She could make anyone feel wanted even for that one evening. Men of every age hung on to her gentle orders, fulfilling her instructions with a chivalry that was rare to see even in her father's Air Force camp. Women vied to chat with her, to tell her their sob stories or to impress her with their garments, hairstyles, handbags. Children never cried in her presence, they dare not! They gaped at her in wonder, mesmerized. What magic she wove on those nights, she seemed to be everywhere, talking to everyone, dancing away the hidden pain in her heart, while the stars shone on a clear Summer sky in far away Assam, where no ill, evil or sin intruded this grand spectacle. Uma waited breathlessly for such evenings. She was sure that when she grew up, she would be like Aunty. The centre of it all.

Her distaste for divorced women was decreasing day by day and she slowly came to see no harm in it. She saw how good Aunty was despite her man-hopping. If a woman could carry off a party with three hundred hard-to-please hard-nosed planters, bureaucrats and defence officers successfully, she must possess some inherent merit after all. It was now Uma’s turn to look at Mrs Chiffon intently, without her sari. It was now Uma’s turn to look at Mrs Chiffon intently. Without her trademark sari, always Chiffon and see through, which was never in place and kept dropping into her cigaretted elbow, Aunty became just another normal woman. In fact she took the form of a human with human wants and emotions. Human failings and successes. Human like you me and Amma thought Uma. After all it was Aunty who saw to it that all the children got to eat what they liked while the parents were busy drinking and hobnobbing, too distracted to bother about such trivialities. Aunty seemed to be always hovering around them. ‘Beta this Beta that’ she would perpetually cluck like Mother Goose.

Before you knew it you could hear her discussing politics animatedly and heatedly with some young ‘un who was recently posted in these badlands and was too drunk to know when to stop arguing with his gracious hostess. This part always got the maximum claps, there was no one yet including her father who had defeated her in debate. She knew, Mrs Nanjappa did. Then suddenly her lilting voice could be heard crooning to the piano or to the strum of a guitar. Soon she would sway to a melodious rhythm and all the children would race to the top floor balcony to hide and watch the adults living it up through the wrought iron balustrades. Mrs Nanjappa was like Krishna. Dancing with the Gopis in the moonlight. Each Gopi thought she was his favourite! How does one achieve that? To make people feel so treasured.

Oh! how I wish to be like her when I grow up thought Uma wistfully letting admiration replace disdain. Even though she is a divorcee. Even though she does not know her own daughter.......

Uma wants to meet a ghost

Uma desperately wants to meet a ghost.

It was with much confidence that Uma strode into the library and demanded for the paperback edition of the “Exorcist”. The library uncle by now quite used to having this ten year old read such thick English books was not as perturbed as he should have been. If he only knew of the contents! He was just another employee of the Indian Air Force doing this dreadfully boring chore of lending reading material to its Officers and sometimes to their families, who did not like to miss their James Hardley Chases even in far flung Kumbigram. He was not well versed in the colonial tongue nor did he pretend otherwise. Uma had time and again given him a list in her neat handwriting, urging him to improve his and his wards’ intellect.

“Recommendations for the Officer’s Mess Library, Kumbigram”, comprised of names of books which she thought were more appropriate for adults. They seemed to be doing much harm to their own intelligence by reading such…such…she had no word to describe her disgusted feelings, yet. Having recently learned to write official letters she put it to good use, with date and place on the right side and her name and address on the left, with appropriate commas, punctuation and other such relevant information, as and when necessary. Such as the opening which said - “to whomsoever it may concern” – which to Uma seemed a little remote but if this is what might get someone’s (whomsoever’s) attention, so be it!

“But beta thirty books is a lot no?” Uncle seemed sincere in wanting to pass on this note to ‘whomsoever’ but was worried about the bloating budget. “kuch kam karo, make it ten books, haan?”

“fifteen” Uma is firm but disappointed. Men with no interest in reading ought not to be in charge of others’ reading. She also likes to bargain hard, a skill she has learnt from her shopping savvy mother who has had to stretch her husband’s measly monthly salary from the government of India, to put up a glamorous front in the officer’s camp. With two daughters it is getting tougher but better. Meanwhile the daughters acquire some of her skill.

“dekho beta, ten is a small and simple number, we should not get greedy” Uncle is perspiring in the humid aftermath of a thunderstorm. The sky is darkening, it is only four in the afternoon but the birds are returning to roost and the cries of the jackals and civet cats receding. For Uma this is her favourite hour when the crimson purple hues of the horizon spell a future of fortune. Her desires are few but intense. Fulfilling them would never pose a problem. Alpasantoshi her mother calls her. Someone who is happy with little.

“theek hai Uncleji, when will ‘whomsoever’ reply?” Being happy with little meant that all your energies are highly concentrated on that little bit!

“pata nahin beta, let us see” This beta business irked Uma. Why couldn’t he just say beti? He knew she was a girl didn’t he? Though her mother had warned her time and again “not to behave like a boy”. It was the same in English books. “mankind” they said. As though only men ever existed or mattered.

Would he call MoMo, beti? or Venkat, beti ? Imagine saying “pata nahin beti Darrell …” to a boy, would the boy take it? Why was she expected to accept being addressed as beta instead of a rightful beti. Oof! These problems took away from the small pleasures in life that she was always aiming at.

“I want to borrow Exorcist” she said wearily to him, by this time Uncleji was only too glad to get rid of this pest of a girl who was as somber as she was young. He could never ruffle her hair or pinch her cheeks like he wished to, lacking daughters of his own. She had an air of adult solemnity that scared him and kept him on guard whenever she was around him. He quickly looked for the book she wanted while she hungrily browsed all the magazines, he only wished that she leave him in peace to enjoy his afternoon nap.

No one in this camp read much, except this silly girl. She should be playing or studying or helping her mother in the kitchen. These officers, they did not know how to bring up their daughters. Who would marry them tomorrow? Head filled with unwanted stuff and would they respect any man who knew less than them? Broken marriages. He could see it right before his eyes. Such an earnest girl, if only her mother taught her to go out less and spend more time in the house cleaning, taking care of her younger sister, cooking….and the clothes she wears!! Ten year old girls are not that young. He has noticed other men look at Uma strangely. He feels protective. He wishes he could tell her to be careful. Tell her that books and demanding letters will not bring her happiness in the future. Plus she keeps disappearing into the jungle all by herself. What about the animals? So much danger in the world and this little ten year old…

Uncleji does not do any of the above of course. He is not in the same league as the officers and his concern would be misconstrued as insubordination. Well, anyway, the least he can do is pass on her list of recommended books to the Commanding Officer. The kid could have given the list to her father but she is clever he concedes. Her father would never dream of passing on such a cheeky list by his daughter to his senior!

Uma is already on her way to the jungle. She is so thankful that they live right next to it, in fact right on the ancient elephant route. The wild haathis go on a rampage once in a while, when they discover that their highway has been usurped by some strange creatures, who don’t know their viper from their cobra. Like that night when the elephants' angry cries and destructive dances had made everyone run out of their bashas and take refuge in the mess precincts. It was so exciting! They had unfortunately squished a few snails while running in the dark but she had enjoyed every minute of it. The inky darkness, the thunderstorm, the mad elephants, the crackling snail shells, the worried mothers, the harried fathers. She wishes now that she could have somehow captured those pleasurable moments. Of anxiety and fear, of a thrilling heartbeat which has just managed to escape danger.

That Uma loves the jungle is an understatement. If only there were libraries in the jungle, she would never return to civilization. Today she has the Exorcist in her hand and she cannot wait to go to her favourite spot to read. Any tree that called to her with its shade and promise of a thick trunk sitting right next to a gurgling stream would do. Apparently a few men had died of heart attack when the horror film was screened in Hyderabad, her aunt Vimala who was the bravest in her family had managed to catch a night show, she had also managed to live through it, thereby acquiring quite a solid reputation! She would willingly regale to anyone who asked the story of that fated night but Uma wanted to first read the book for herself and see what the fuss was about.

Uma hopes to attract ghosts by reading about them. Uma as we know by now wants to meet a ghost.

Bhoot, the word in Samskrutam meant a being with no body, it is also the word most commonly used to denote a ghost. A ghost therefore was someone you might have known before, who had died and left the body behind, which was a baggage and a burden anyway. This much was clear. What was not clear was the nature of the ghost. Some could be naughty like Casper, some could be demanding like Betal and would some be so evil as to cause harm to a ten year old in search of the hereafter? Of that she had no prior information nor had had the opportunity to ask.

Her Thaathayya, her guide to all things spiritual and esoteric, had died recently and there was no one who would entertain such unseemly questions without treating her like a baby. Maybe….just maybe his ghost was waiting for her in the jungle? They can surely travel quickly having given up the earth for the skies?? Though from Hyderabad to Silchar might take a while. Even for ghosts. Thaathayya was seventy two when he died you see. Suppose….just suppose she happened to run into his body-less embodiment what would she converse about?

“ela unnavu thaathayya?” no no that would not do, asking ‘how are you’ so soon after a person has died did not seem right. Hmmm maybe a more adult question like

“thaathayya cheDDa bhoothaalu kooDa unTaayaa??” no no that would be too abrupt! Asking if evil ghosts exist too, the first thing after you meet a recently dead man who has been your favourite among all living beings, you asking this, his favourite grandchild…chee chee.

“ neeku akkaDa ela undi?” yes yes this is how she would greet him ‘how is it there for you?’, a very mature question, a curious question, an enquiring question that conveyed her love for him as also broached the broader issue of this world and the Other. He would no doubt take the cue and supply her with more relevant information.

Now the only problem was how was she going to communicate all this? Did ghosts read? Could she write him a letter? Or if they heard human voices should she just speak aloud like an idiot (thank god Venkat or MoMo would not be around to poke fun at her just in case the ghost was silent) Plus he was not extra-terrestrial, he was disembodied, how would she spot him? She fervently wishes that her Thaathayya has turned into ET and not a ghost. It would make everything simple and also put the boys in place. Imagine the news “Did you hear? Uma’s grandfather is now an ET” and how that would affect her sagging popularity. Off late the boys took to staring at her for no reason and talking among themselves, ghus-phussing. She always knew she couldn’t trust these fellows. Friends they called themselves. Traitors.

Along with this increasing dislike for the male gender Uma was beginning to loathe her school and its curriculum more and more. How come they did not teach the basic etiquettes of conversing with paranormal beings? Surely in a land full of myths and mythologies one was bound to come across such ethereal beings in one’s lifetime. Shouldn’t the schools prepare the children for such a momentous event? After all what better knowledge can there be had than interacting with those who have made it to another sphere, another dimension. If the Convents were to be blamed with their emphasis on brotherly love and Jesus then the Kendriya Vidyalayas fared no better with innumerable national integration songs being taught to tone deaf couldn’t-care-less children at the cost of some real time education.

Pancha Bhootas as her Thaathayya had told her, Earth, Water, Fire, Air and Ether were but manifestations of Shakti. She was the feminine energy of the male Purusha, who like all men was lazy and left the workings of the world to the women, so he rested in the Hiranyagarbha while she slogged to make the world an interesting place to be. All that we saw around us, all the living creatures, especially the tiniest to tiny ones were effulgent beings suffused with the light of the Paramatma: angushTamaatrah. The ultimate energy existed in all of us, the size of a thumb he had said. Closed and Cold. Till we enabled it, opened the door to let the warmth within and without. Once that was done, there would be no you nor me, he had said.

Well now he was gone and his thumb sized soul had gone with him or had it? Uma pondered about the residue of a human body after cremation. What remained and what did not? If his soul had remained eternal then of course he was free to traverse the land, in this case the air, as he pleased. By virtue of having opened his heart with warmth, he was like a saint they all said, his soul would undoubtedly recognize his own manavaraalu wouldn’t it? She might not need to speak after all. Though if a soul was now universal would it care if she was once his dead body’s granddaughter?

Simple facts can be perplexing if we have no one to guide us. It was like Mathematics. How she ran away from numbers. They chased her in her dreams, fraction us! divide us! subtract us! they shouted raucously at her. She ran and ran till she found succour in words. Words gave her protection, a safe haven from numbers. They created a wall between her and other worlds ensuring her safety as well her superiority. It was lonely in this castle sometimes but thankfully numbers were kept at bay. Off late though she had begun to befriend numbers gingerly after being coaxed by her numbers loving Nanna and she was beginning to kind of appreciate them, a little.

Similarly, she thinks, I can get to understand a ghost better if I am introduced to it properly. Now who in this world would be most qualified for it? Other ghosts of course!! Who are the other dead people you know apart from your Grandfather Uma? Quick! Nandi uncle. Walia uncle. Bas. Bas? Three dead people in the span of a year and you are not yet ten Uma. This is the experience of a lifetime. Many children might just grow up without Death ever touching them. How limiting for a life so ill spent. A life devoid of human pain and sadness. How were such creatures expected to appreciate better the well of human happiness without the necessary grounding in Life’s lessons?

Thus she walked our Uma, thinking, pondering, debating within herself the ills of the education system she had so far encountered to the incomprehensibility of male behaviour evident visibly in her erstwhile pals. She entered the muddy path fearlessly having done this many a time before but never with an Exorcist in hand. Would the ‘beings’ mark her as an easy target now, now that she carried a desire to confront them?

Leeches she could manage. There was salt in her pockets. A bit yucky to look at when they had had their fill of your blood but they dropped off as quickly with a pinch of salt. Never pull them, her Amma had warned her as did all mothers to their brats, who sometimes did and sometimes didn’t. Vipers, Uma should look out for, the other day one flew right past her mother and had almost got her in the eye but for Sawant uncle’s presence of mind. These ones lived on rooftops and trees. Sleek, green and poisonous. It was months past the Haathi time, they didn’t move about much in monsoon and it was too much day light for Leopards to be prowling. That left the Tigers if there were any left in these parts, after all the shikaar and hunting that the Rajahs, Englishmen and their imitators indulged in. Every Officer’s Mess in this valley, every Tea Gardens Club boasted a few prized heads, skins, trophies and triumphant photographs.

Tigers she would have to deal with. She had no doubt that if faced with one she would try and be like Brother Francis or Rishi Kanva whom every wild creature loved because they meant no harm and oozed peace from every pore. The key was not to be scared since animals can smell it even before the human can exude it! The trouble was in keeping fear away. Already she was trembling at the very thought of facing a tiger…eesh! Such a coward with such lofty ideals. Reading books by Jim Corbett hardly prepared anyone to walk into a jungle alone, unarmed. She only hoped that the Tiger she might meet was not female, pregnant or with cubs, they would be the most difficult to deal with. With male Tigers she might yet be able to use her feminine charms. A sweet smile maybe to return a roar? Unless the Tiger was a man-eater. Should she hold him to task and say “Shera keep away you are not a woman-eater are you?” ? All that worked in Amar Chitra Kathas where animals spoke and humans conversed with them.

She had walked this path before but not so deep into the jungle and not with a hardcovered heavy Exorcist under her arm. Uma began to panic. There were ghosts to be dealt with too. And men. Amma had warned of strange men. Oh! God! Why wasn’t she at home doing percentages. Every tree, its branches and whooshing leaves seemed to be looming large over her, entrapping her. The ferns some dried some wet with rain seemed to entangle her every step. The bird song insistent until now was quietened by an eerie jungle silence which gave way to insects of unknown origins cackling at her helplessness. Running in any direction would give away her weak soul. She had some pride left, still. She dragged her feet heavy with fear and trepidation to a rock so she could sit down even if for a minute to show the ghosts, tigers, trees, insects, strange men who seemed to be all interested in her that she would not be retreating. Her pounding heart might announce her raw fear but she would not voice it come what may. Not Uma whose father was a bomb disposal expert. Is this how her Nanna felt whenever he diffused a ticking bomb?

Once she had forced herself to sit down deliberately on the hard rock coolness descended on her like a cotton coverlet on a hot summer afternoon. She dare not look behind her, someone could be standing there, making faces, mocking her, wanting to throttle her. Looking up could be dangerous too, a hanging monkey could be a ghost in disguise. It was best to act normal and look into her book till the time it was safe to leave the spot. Meanwhile she would breathe slowly, softly for the fear of disturbing the forest while it took a nap. Uma realized that the biggest mistake she had made today was bringing this book to the forest with her. The first line nor the blurbs at the back were helping her regain faith in the goodness of the world.

She wanted to mouth some shlokas to attract the good beings but here she got stuck. Which god should she invoke? Being a Hindu was so troublesome, here at the time of need she was dilly-dallying about who to pray to! If she were not so scared she would be laughing. Rama she was not too fond of but all the invocations for help seemed to be written in his name. Krishna her favourite probably could not be depended upon considering he had so many women to please. On the other hand had he not helped Draupadi aka Krishnaa, his namesake from dishonour in the court of the Kurus? What was it that Panchali had chanted? Was it just plain faith? Shiva everyone agreed was the easiest to call upon despite his ascetic and angry demeanour while Durga and Kali could most definitely take on the ghosts, tigers, snakes and strange men singlehandedly. The goddesses were always stronger than the gods.

raamaskandam hanumantam vainatehim vrukodaram

shayaneyah smarennityam dusvapnam tashya nashyati

Stupid, you said this before sleeping.

Sri raama raama raameti rame raame manorame

Sahasra naama tattulyam raama naama varaanane

Try to remember is this the Rama raksha mantramu? Also she felt like a cheat, asking for help from someone she was not very fond of. Her throat was parched already and she could hear nothing but her heart beat getting louder and louder. She was not sure if Rama could hear her. Would he really care for a young girl who preferred his other not-so-perfect avatara? Although if you are a god you ought not to be partial, no? The definition of god meant that if you are god, you helped those who came to you seeking refuge, seeking strength. It must be tough having to help those who mocked you, didn’t care much when things were going good and suddenly eulogizing you because they needed to face their ghosts! Humans would most certainly exact revenge at this stage. Gods cannot. Do not. Uma was not sure if she wanted to be a god herself.

Uma likes the idea of revenge.

Uma enjoys being a human being.

ayi girinandini nanditamedini viSvavinodini nandinute
girivaravindhya shirodhinivasini vishnuvilasini jiSnunute
bhagavati he shitikanThakuTumbini bhoorikuTumbini bhoorikrute
jaya jaya he mahishasuramardhini ramyakapardini shailasute

That felt much better! a paen to Durga, mothers were always compassionate and though she might prefer Kaanha and his antics it was unthinkable that a mother would not come to aid her child in need. Uma took a few deep breaths and dared to steal hurried glances around her. The late afternoon light seeping through the thicket, forcing its way in, as though to touch her, aroused the latent woman in her. She faced the dying light with renewed urgency. How I love you, she thought. The land, the trees, the water, this breeze. Who can harm me when the Pancha Bhootas are with me! How foolish Uma, you were afraid? Of what? Hail Mary Mother of God! Pray of us sinners.

She did not mind this once to think that she had sinned. To be afraid was to sin.

Even so such lofty thoughts aside, if she stayed any longer she might tempt the Pretas and Daens too much. They would want to suck her blood or sacrifice her to some unknown deities. Young virgin girls her age were the most sought after. They were probably eyeing her from a safe distance, now that she had the combined protective armour of Rama and Durga. She has been briefed by bhaiyyas and didis who spent many a evening playing the Ouija board that wearing a kada or a taaweez on such occasions helps. The evil spirit meets its match in iron, black and sacred chants. At this stage all evidence pointed to the singular advantage of having a single god, a single deity and a single figure to pray to, to call upon. Thirty three thousand gods or was it thirty three crores and not one whom she could firmly depend upon!

Knowing that she is safe in the hands of Devi, Uma wholeheartedly wishes that she can meet some goblins or gnomes or even elves, now that she is in the jungle, alone and worried and vulnerable to such encounters. Shouldn’t they come a-looking? Elves were known to be the friendliest of the forest creatures and they even cleaned up houses, polished shoes and showed you the way out of trouble. Like this one she was currently caught in. “don’t come up on me suddenly, just make your presence felt gradually” she tells them mentally. What she was most worried about was if such a creature were to appear she would faint with surprise! Half believing and half disbelieving, Uma’s world was caught in a mythical landscape that bordered on reality. A few windows were always kept open for the netherworld.

Quiet! Quiet! Uma commands her head which is whirling with myriad details of non-humans.

Her long walk back is quick, short and humble. She realizes that she is not yet as brave as she would like to be. She has been unable to read beyond the first paragraph without worrying about ghosts, tigers and unknown men. Her pre-occupation with fear has made what was to be an adventure into a foolish undertaking. She is retreating battle like a wounded soldier. How shameful! Worse still, the battle did not wound her as much as her own thoughts did. She has weakened herself.

“Where were you didi? We looked everywhere for you” Tulasi’s part accusatory part warning voice pierces the stillness of the purple evening. “We sent Venkat and MoMo to the library but they said you were not there” she continues, oblivious to the fact that Uma is making faces at the mere mention of their names. “We also went to Darrell’s house to check” at the mouthing of his name Tulasi pointedly looks at Uma, acting as though that the name should mean something special to her. Darrell’s affections for Uma are well known but what Uma feels for him is not very obvious and hence the sly pointers by the busybody maid servant, herself not yet thirteen. “hay bhogobaan, ki korbo!!” the child-maid prattles on, happy for any chance to talk and not work. “burnt to death!! a man of Walia saab’s height and weight to catch fire from a kerosene stove!….they are saying he was saving his wife..... she has no injuries, seeming very strange, no? bachcha log are very strong baba ray, Darrell, he is behaving so mature…everyone is saying his mother…. kil.. is planning all this for money” Tulasi carries on uninterrupted, she has no other source of entertainment you see. In her world this is the closest she will get to a scandal which involves ‘high-class people’. “there are rumours didi, Walia saab’s ghost cries every nite on the jhoola” she concludes in obvious guilt filled glee.

Tulasi knows that carrying sensitive information and sometimes false tales from one to the other in this close knit camp is the only way to survive competition. She has to make sure that the children like her, the mothers like her and yes, the officers like her. She is eager to please so that she can earn enough to feed her siblings at home, a day's journey away. Meanwhile she lives in the camp working in three-four households, doing their bidding, listening, watching and learning. It is not too bad. They feed her, clothe her, teach her to read and write and most of all if it invloves minding someone like Uma, she is free for a few hours since Uma sends her off with a "leave me alone!". Today though she was caught!! Where was Uma? Everyone was so worried. Tulasi better be careful or you'll lose your job. Get Uma on your side, tell her what she wants to hear.

What? Uma is immediately interested. "Who saw his ghost?"

“Tulasi, let’s go play on the jhoola, come” she commands the hapless servant, a girl three years her senior, a girl who calls her didi and does her bidding only because she is being paid for it. Tulasi has been working in this camp area for five years now. When she first started scrubbing vessels she was only eight years old. maybe less maybe more, who can tell? In her village one did not keep track of such meaningless dates. For a girl especially only three dates were of any value. The day she became a woman, the day she got married and the day she became a mother. Rest of a girl's life was nothing but drudgery, a preparation for these three days, to be awaited and dreamt, if they came at all.

"Na na didi, ami jabo na" Tulasi is an easy manipulator but a coward when it comes to ghosts, crying ghosts on squeaking swings even if they be of her own making. "Please take bath and do your homework" she pleads to a stubborn Uma
"Amma is very angry with you..." Tulasi hopes to instill some discipline and co-opts the power in the household
"Where is everyone?" Uma is irritated at being told what to do by a mere minion and the fact that her mother should be angry at her. Why is anyone angry with her at all? She, the most accommodating of kids. Isn't freedom her birthright?
"They have all gone for a party, you have to sleep by 7 pm today....." Tulasi mumbles sensing the growing resentment in Uma and not wanting to challenge her only ally. For all her faults Uma has never treated her badly. She has always shared everything and acted as though Tulasi was another sister to be dominated. That was the worst part. Uma was very rough with her own family.

After a quick cold bath, gulping two puris that are forced on her by a vigilant Tulasi, Uma arranges her bag for tomorrow's school and puts out lights before retreating under her covers with a torch.Here having hid the Exorcist behind the pillow, she proceeds to read it under torchlight in the safety of her home and Tulasi's mature presence.It is a difficult read. So many words she does not understand. Maybe tomorrow she can bring a dictionary to bed. Its time for her parents to return and she has no intention of staying awake and being probed on her forest forays.

"Didi, do you want to go to the jhoola?" Tulasi is a curious child too after all. "Lets go quickly before the party is over" she adds impatiently. The party is being held in the Mess and the Mess is a few bashas away. They can hear music, laughter and gaiety in the dark monsoon night. "Please don't tell anyone" a last minute plea to an already gone Uma. Running after her, house unlocked, beds unmade, Tulasi reaches the jhoola where Uma is already seated, waiting. Both the girls are scared, both afraid to admit so. They sit still, not breathing, not daring to speak.
"Do you think he will come?" Uma asks not daring to look at her friend-cum-maid after a few un-ghostful minutes.
Tulasi's fear is that her lie will come true!
"Ghosts appear only after midnight and definitely on full moon nights" she prattles on adding spice to her story.
"Today is Amavasya, no chance. No moon, no chance" Uma is disappointed. "Lets go!" she barks orders to Tulasi.
The swings creak as they get off, rusted joints claiming rest at least at night. The girls scream in unison and run all the way home.


The much partied aunties and uncles are returning home shouting Good Nites to one another, the air is filled with voices and its all bright and safe again with adults back in-charge of households and maids.
"Did she eat? Finished her homework? Where was she all evening? Make sure next time you don't let her out of your sight......" Amma is quietly reprimanding Tulasi. Uma is smiling under the blankets. While they were sitting still on the swing, Walia uncle had sat between them looking happy. He did not look like he had just been murdered by his wife, he did not talk to Uma at all but his presence was conveying so much to her, in fact he did not even look like Walia uncle, there was no pagDi, no daaDi, nothing, just a mass of white.She could only feel that he was Darrell's father.
She was special, she could see him, sense him, he said. Keep it that way Uma, keep it that way. Don't let your secret out.Ghosts are of only one kind, bodyless but humans are of two types,those who can see ghosts and those who cannot.