The green Pochampally

Vasudha slept on the wooden cot on the sunny hot afternoon.  It was somewhere during mid May and the heat and humidity made a perfect recipe for flies to party around the cot.  The single ceiling fan went on and on very slowly and the sound of the old rickety fan made Vasudha slip into a deep slumber.

After all she did not have much to do during the day.  He daughter-in-law, Minu sat in the cool interior of the prayer room and sewed something.  That was the place Minu preferred because it was cooler than rest of the house.

Vasudha and her husband lived with their son and daughter-in-law in a small town, in a smaller house.  Back in the village, they had a plush home with the airy windows.

But a cerebral stroke had made Vasudha totally bed-ridden.  Therefore, they had to stay back at the son’s place so that there were more people around to look after her needs.  She could not move by herself and for the entire day, Minu provided the nursing she needed.  During the night, it was her son, Sanjay who nursed her.

Vasudha would remain asleep for most of the day.  In between her naps, she would travel in time.  She would transport herself to her happier days.

“Vasu…..why don’t you eat the fish along with the rice, little girl?” her mother would affectionately ask her.

“Amma, I will have it at the end of my meal.”

Vasudha, as a little girl, loved the fish curries her mother made.  She would put away the fish pieces at one corner of the banana leaf plate and finish her meal, all the time admiring the pieces.  In fact, her brothers often joked that they could get anything done by just tying fish pieces in front of her nose.

The habit of delaying such pleasures was not limited to fish alone.  When she was a young bride and owned pretty zardosi sarees, she would all stack them away for some occasion, for when, she herself did not know.  In fact, her husband, mad at her habit, would put all the bitterness into his words, “If I am gone suddenly, you will repent not having worn them”.   

Vasudha owned a beaded purse in which she kept all her trinkets collected since childhood.  It had everything. Little anklets, flowery hair pins, even the colorful hair bands she had had a permanent place in the purse.  She also had few threads from her orange silk which she had worn the day she had first met her husband.  All her memories were bundled up in the tiny pouch and it lay beside her while she breathed in and out and time did not move forward or backward.

Vasudha was a keeper of memories, a guardian of moments.  Moments, frozen in time and neatly arranged in the pouch that was her life.

It was few months back that her husband bought a beautiful Pochampally for Minu.  The otherwise benevolent mother-in-law was suddenly very jealous of the young lady and one day, when Minu was out on her daily temple visit, Vasudha managed to shift the beautiful saree from Minu’s wardrobe to hers.  Minu was not unaware of this and although she was bitterly hurt, she did not dare reverse the action.  Ofcourse, the men in the family bore the brunt of the frustration of the young lady and wrath of the older one.

Vasudha did not wear the green Pochampally.  She dreamt, when she is back to her village, back to the plush bungalow, she would invite her friends and flaunt her beautiful saree.  She kept it away for the day.   She had it all planned.  They would return to the village, she would plant another jasmine plant, sell more coconuts and buy some lovely gold jeweleries to match the priceless saree.

One day, all of a sudden, all the plans were torn apart and Vasudha found herself confined to her own frame in the bed, dressed in comfortable knee length night dresses.

Times passed by, friends came and went and her family kept a vigil over her, seeing her breathe, day after day.  She still knew she would return to the greenery beckoning her in her green saree.

The day was unusually hot.  Minu, taking a break from the nursing duty, went to visit her cousins in the next town.  Vasudha’s husband and son were by her side.  They watched her drift away hour by hour and in the vigil of a dark warm night, Vasudha left all her dreams, memories, the trinket pouch and flew away.

Minu rushed back and so did all the other relatives.  To bid Vasudha good bye.  To shut the memories or to release them.

Dressed as a bride, Vasudha took her leave from the weeping family.  She was peaceful, she had enough and had given it all away.

On her last journey, Vasudha looked like a pretty, happy bride, in her green Pochampally.

Of little people, rolling stones and leaf huts

As I walked towards the little leaf hut, few kids ran before me to show me their house.  I entered the hut (Kumbha) and found that I could barely stand up straight.  My head almost touched the roof.  An earthen pot on a small wood fire was the only asset I found inside the hut. In the little time I got to rove around my eyes across the room, I remember, I did not find anything else.

I came out and went to the nearby brick building where some men and women had gathered for a meeting.

There was an array of brick houses built from Indira Awaas Yojna, which lined the settlement. The houses looked quite empty.

“We got the houses from the BDO” informed one of them.

“So, why don’t you live there?” I was curious.

“We don’t like living inside a brick house.  We prefer our leaf-houses” I was told.

“So, what do you do with the brick houses made from the Yojna?”

“We tie our goats there!”

I was in a little hamlet inhabited by the Birhor tribe, in Chouparan block in Hazaribagh.  I was working with a Volunatry Organisation which was working with this community in thrift and agriculture. That is why I could visit the hamlet and peek into their amazing life, at times.

I would always find them outside their huts. They were mostly found sitting under warm sun, all of them together.  Apart from the little agriculture work, they were mostly engaged in rope making.  The kids lolling on the sand did not go to the school and were around the hamlet all day.

This hamlet had a women’s thrift group and had elected a smart, smiling lady as the President.  Although I do not recall her name, I still remember her pleasant disposition and her confident gait when she walked up to the cluster meeting, one day, with her accounts registers and small metallic cash box, to get the accounts of the group, ‘audited’. She had found a silver earring lying somewhere, on her way; she had picked it up and wore it in one ear, flaunting it.

There was another Birhor hamlet in the Barhi Block.  The group had a smart young guy, who had been to the Block Development Office and the Barhi market. So, he had seen enough of the world.  He also led the hamlet in most of the community construction activities and was very much a modern man.  I had accompanied him to his hamlet once for some work.  While the hamlet residents were busy in the construction work, I sat by a small stream with a young girl of the community.

On that particular day, I remember, I was quite down, emotionally.  I was missing home, the weather was bit gloomy and I sat quietly by the stream, reminiscing about mundane as well as serious things in life.  I had been picking some small stones which were rushing past, in the stream.  In few minutes, the stone would turn into small sand and wash away.  After sometime, it became a play and I enjoyed doing that; letting the sand gush out of my fingers along with the stream.  

The Birhor girl was talking to me about the forest.  About the birds, the countless herbs which grew,  which made all ills well and how they were losing the wisdom with each generation because no one wrote them down or documented anything what-so-ever.  When she saw me involved with the tiny stones, she said, “These are weaker stones which flow away with the water, as sands.  They are dead rocks.  Alive are the rocks which do not break down even if the flow is fast and the water hits them hard.” That day, in that gloomy late afternoon, sitting in the forest, the nameless Birhor girl rendered to me, life’s lesson which even she did not know, she did. Only I knew how much I needed the lessons on that particular day.

In the same hamlet, was an older man, by the name Rajkumar Birhor, who had been suffering from serious cough. Our colleague accompanied him to Barhi and decided to get the blood checked.  We all doubted tuberculosis and wanted to start the treatment early.  However, Rajkumar was furious at the idea and shouted, “Maine apne baap ko kabhi khoon nahi deeyaa…tumhare aspataal ko doongaa?” (“I have never spared a drop of blood for my father; do you think I shall donate it to your hospital?”).  Such was his fury that our colleague treated him to his favorite rasgullas to ease the tension.

The challenge was doubled, when the blood test reported everything okay.  Even as we sighed with relief, we were equally worried that Rajkumar, knowing that he had no TB, would be very angry that some of his precious blood was drained unnecessarily! 

Our organization had been trying to introduce Japanese method of rice cultivation, among the Birhors.  In our project site at Karma village, the activity took up speed and the project team consistently discouraged them from what they would otherwise do: begging door to door. We thought we had settled them into a decent livelihood, when suddenly one day our team member, found some of the residents begging at the office door. Worth mentioning is, when they realized that it was our office, they took to their heels and later totally denied having begged even once.

Such was the interesting life of the Birhors.  Life stood still at the hamlets while the world hustled and bustled on the Grand Trunk Road, barely 2 km away from them. Even when the glitters of a modern life slowly approached them, in the guise of Government Projects for settling them, our Birhor brothers and sisters found warmth around the hearth inside their little leaf Kumbhas.  

Chooha’s Diary

Please! My name is not Chooha. I belong to the chooha species and I don’t have a name.  Since I am not a member of Homo Sapiens or any of their pets’ species, they don’t care enough to give a name.  Only two mice in Disney’s imagination have received names till now.

But that is not the subject of my story.

I want to tell the world, that in last few days, I have learnt two life-lessons:

   1.                  Small is beautiful, small is strong.  I may be small but I am not helpless

       2.                    The humans are actually afraid of us, so they are after our life

See, I am not under-estimating them.  But they did. They initially ignored my presence. Later, when they found the droppings on the kitchen slab, the lady of the house was alarmed.  I know it is the sheer obsession with cleanliness, not that she will get a plague.

But then the bugles were blown and war was on.

They closed all doors and windows and holes and hollows, they knew.  What they did not know was that my magnificent presence was already there near the small gap in the pantry. For few days I had a lovely treat of flour, biscuits, wood.  See, we are not very finicky.  If not food, we will do with wood.

But then the humans were threatened again.  They care a lot too much about their life, almost believing that life will never end.

So, they chased me once.  I must agree, I ran for life but then I had fun too.  I like dangerous games.

Only trouble was that the lady saw my route.  She turned out to be smarter than I had thought.

The next evening, they put a sticky mat at the kitchen entrance, intending to catch me…dead or alive.  The smart humans did not know I was smart too.  I have seen one of my heartthrobs getting stuck at the malicious sticky mat and losing life; so I was careful. 

But then I had to bite the wooden doors with the belief that someday I will be able to make a hole to enter the kitchen.  I very carefully moved aside the mat.  I had to be extra careful with my long tail. I continued biting off the wooden door.

Next day, I can imagine, the lady could not have comprehended what was happening.  She put the mat once again, and again. Again and again I neatly moved the mat and did my job.

I tell you, humans are a threatened species.  They will do anything to claim their space over everything on Earth..and few years later, on Mars. Only, be sure, the initial experiments will be carried out on us.

Anyway, the fourth evening of war was on and they placed the mat vertically, obviously imagining that when I try to remove it, my whiskers or mouth will get stuck.  They imagine too much!

But then, I did my job again neatly, removing the sticky mat like a door being opened.  While doing that, I noticed that few small cockroaches and a small translucent baby lizard were caught and were dead. 

The family got a new mat then.  As it would have happened,  the naughty neighbourhood kid got caught in that when the kids were chasing each other.  The family members spent a day scrubbing the glue off the floor, the kid’s legs, off the wash room.…

But I am walking free even today.  They have now closed all the avenues but I visit there just for the fun of it and my sheer need for innovation.  Innovating new tricks to fool the endangered species.

The war is on.  I am not worried about life coming to an end.  They are afraid.  They live long and die very old and sick.  Not us.

Oh! The humans…

Till I die, I will enjoy them.

They moved my cheese

I will move them......

Homecoming

The blue-green bus made its way to the muddy village bus stop and Shaila alighted from the bus.  She took a deep breath to smell the wet air.  It had rained and it was still cloudy when Shaila reached the little hamlet strewn across the hill.

It had taken twelve hours in the rickety bus to reach this village.  The villagers had waited for her arrival.  Her mother, whom she lovingly called Mani, had left the mortal world the previous morning.  The neighbors had informed her and asked her if they should wait for her.

Shaila reached her home, which was about half a kilometre from the bus-stop.  She could feel sympathetic eyes following her.  “This girl’s mother has died”.  Everyone seemed to whisper.

There was a crowd near her house.  No, there was no wailing heard.  In about twenty hours, the initial shock had subsided and the women were sitting calmly.  Few men were standing outside, puffing on local cigars.

She could see all the arrangements made outside her home, to take her mother in the last journey.

Shaila did not feel one among them. They were not her people.  She did not belong to this remote, hilly village which not even a post office would be aware of.  She was from another land.  She was different.

As she entered an unusually quiet room, she could see her Mani lying peacefully, with her hands holding on to her sacred text. A sudden pang of anger took over Shaila. She was angry at her own disability to do anything, she was angry at her Mani’s stubborn decisions, she was angry at everything and she was helpless.  She felt helpless among the strangers around.

What followed was a series of rituals which left her no room to grieve in private.  The village priest arrived with élan and took over the rights to the rites. 

She could sense that the villagers were sorry for her.  Not sorry that she had lost her Mani, but sorry because she was too urban to know any ritual that is usually conducted in the village.

She could see that this time she was allowed to perform all the rites which were supposed to ease her Mani’s passage beyond this world.  She had severed the ties with the village when, after her Babu had died few years back, she was not allowed to perform any ritual since she was a girl.  A girl could not appease the ancestors and bring peace on a household where death had its devastating dance cruelly staged.

She knew very little of the rites performed by the village priest and his aids.  Mani and Babu had sent her to boarding school early in life,  from the hill life, for there was no proper school in the tiny hamlet they called home.  After Babu left, Mani had refused to leave the home although Shaila had time and again urged her ailing mother to join her, for a better health care. But Mani was insistent upon spending her last days at her own place.

Shaila had no regrets for her mother. Mani had a good life. She had been loved by her life partner, respected by the extended family, regarded by the entire village as a woman of great virtue.  She lived her life on her own terms and died in her own style, on the earth chosen by her.

The days that followed, saw Shaila in middle of a perplexed life situation.  By some queer rule, she had to cook her own rice on the wood fire, forego slippers, have bath before sunrise, and wear only the traditional rough cotton cloth. 

But in middle of all these, the neighbors would sometimes, walk in with cooked food, obviously feeling sorry for the urban girl who would have found it so difficult to manage the wood fire.  

At times, some of them would get some hot water for her in the wee hours of the morning, apparently to ease the pain of their village daughter.  

One day the village priest visited her, praised her parents and then advised her to move around the village, visit the people.  While leaving the house, he advised her to wear her slippers since it was the middle of a bad monsoon and she should not be very harsh with herself.

Shaila noticed, these people did so much but spoke so little, seldom did their emotion find words.

During the next few days, as she took few rounds in the village, she noticed that a school had been built in the village and little children walked all the way to the school, in the early morning rain, wearing big polythene sheets over the heads.  Some cycled up the gravelled path.  And the school bustled with laughter. There was life there.  There were new roads coming up and few cemented shops had popped up in the bazaar.  Shaila realized she knew the village so little.  She had left it so long ago.

During the wet evenings, the village women gathered around Shaila to listen to all the stories she brought from the far away town.  Of honking vehicles, pitch black streets, high buildings and rice which had to be bought from store.  The women gathered around a little fire and chatted about her mother, about their common sisterhood, of their own world and of skies they never saw, of paths they never treaded on. 

After few days, the mourning officially came to an end with a festive mood where the villagers invited themselves to Shaila’s house.  There was rice, spicy curries, fish and there was the locally brewed wine.  Shaila laughed to herself, watching them submerge in a festivity.  They submerged and then emerged a smiling lot, her own people.  She felt a sudden ache and a pleasure at the same time, wishing to reach up to them, to each of them. To these people, to her own people.  The mourning had ended.  Life had moved on.

Early next morning, the sun shone softly.  There was dew on the leaves and grass and the sunlight danced with myriad colours, like a child had cried all night and woken up smiling in the morning, after being pampered, loved and cuddled.

It was to be a grand farewell. She locked the house and handed over the key to the neighbor and asked her to use everything she wanted, in the house.  Everyone followed her to the bus stop.  Some gifted her pickles, some packed some raw rice for her so that she could avoid rice bought from the store.  The school children brought her lace-bordered handkerchiefs with her name stitched on them, one handkerchief for each day of the week. 

As the bus arrived, for the first time she heard these people break into a loud wail.  They said it felt as if Mani was leaving again, taking their soul away from them.  The loved her Mani.  Her beautiful Mani.

Shaila boarded the bus.  Few children followed the bus to some distance until the bus conductor shooed them away.

Shaila waved goodbye once again.

She would return.  Return to her own land, to her own people, to the land she belonged.

The Homecoming would happen....

The day of the SCORPION

I am sure, anyone my age and with an interest in the Bollywood, do remember the evergreen song from Madhumati, where the young, ravishing Vaijantimala dances around, with her beautiful smile, singing to the sweetest of tunes and complaining of a Scorpion Bite. Yes, it IS ‘Charh gayo paapi bichua’ from Madhumati.

I promise you, in real life, it would not be that fun dancing around when the scorpion poison makes a stride towards your one and only heart and you decide on what is the LAST WISH on earth.  ‘Saiyaan ko dekhke utar gayo bichhua?’ No, thanks. Not even Dilip Kumar can cajole the single-focussed Bichua ka zahar to make a U-turn.

How do I know it? Well, I, once was the Vaijanthimala of a real life drama, sans Dilip Kumar, ofcourse.

So, the story goes life this…and a REAL LIFE one, this is:

Once upon a time there lived a young rural development professional who was posted in a remote block in Hazaribagh.  Her name was Anindita. As a part of her gruelling induction process in her new organisation, she had to stay in a village, Mahuatanr, for about ten days, with a family.

So, I, that is Anindita was quite enjoying my stay with the family.  One fine morning, I had my usual bath at the well.  The day was busy.  It was the sowing season and the entire village was busy in rice plantation.  I had all my toiletries like cold cream, talcum powder, etc in a polythene bag, shoved away in one corner of the single living room, which the family had. 

I put my hand inside the bag, hurriedly, conscious of the time ticking away. Suddenly there was ONE BIG STING, my finger hurt badly and suddenly in a reflex action, my hand jerked itself away in one instant.  Only then I noticed the little devil, in a confident gait, slowly ramping its way out of my bag.

A red coloured small scorpion, after having done its job, walked away, where, I do not know.

I only knew that I had a tearing pain in the hand and it was fast spreading all over, to all my fingers, up to my elbow and then shoulders. The pain covered me and I had perspiration on my head.

My host had observed the last part of the drama, of the scorpion striding away.  She wasted no time and gathered the entire family in the compound.  News spread as fast as the spread of my pain and I calmly seated myself at the threshold of a room with number of visitors sitting on the compound, praying for me.  I tried to smile and look casual, to avoid any kind of worry for my host.

There was no medical practitioner in the remote village nor was any easy transport available. The villagers did whatever they could to ease my pain.

After a short while, a tall person draped interestingly, appeared, holding some peacock feathers.  The villagers made way for him.  He expertly put some herb-paste at the tip of the bitten finger and efficiently brushed the peacock feathers on my head and hand, chanting few lines.  This went on for a few minutes.  He then announced that the pain may take a day to subside and then took his leave. So, this was the only medical assistance I received.

The villagers dispersed in a while and then everybody proceeded with the paddy sowing work.

The pain did not subside but I tried to concentrate on the festivities and the community banquet till afternoon.

By late afternoon, there was yet another challenge to my tolerance.   My host announced that she wanted to visit the Tilaiya haat (weekly market) to buy the provisions which she needed for hosting lunch for the village, for the sowing day.  She suggested that I accompany her, which will make me feel good.

So, there I walked, 5 kms one way, climbing up and down the hilly path.  The first thing I did on reaching the Tilaiya Haat was call up my best friend and inform about the incident.  That was the first time I felt like breaking down and tears trickled down.  I did not inform my parents.

After spending few hours, we returned. It was an uphill walk and my host smartly walked up with a sack of 25 kg of potatoes on her head.  I was panting and gasping for breath.

As we reached Mahuatanr, the menfolk were busy plucking the transplanted saplings for next day’s sowing.  As the Sun God made its way down the sky, my pain also made its own descend, albeit very slowly.

The pain left me after 24 hrs but the memory did not leave.  God bless you scorpion, you gave Vaijantimala a super hit song and me, a reason to write this note. 

Where ever you are...

The sound of claps and applaud filled the auditorium as Misha walked up to receive the much coveted Swarna-Kalam award. In all the sound, cries and cheers, Misha’s mind was in total silence. After receiving the trophy, her mind transcended into a totally different plane. In the absolute silent world, Misha stood, lonely. Among the thousands of faces seated in the auditorium, she wished to see only one face, smiling proudly at her, at her achievement, which she totally dedicated to that long lost face.

Along with three other poets, Misha had received this award for her collection of Poetries.  Not that she had ever waited for this moment, but she had written, written like crazy, words flew like ocean and filled the leaves of her life; the words, the only friend she had.

And all the words, along with the trophy, she wanted to wrap in gratitude and offer to the person, for whom all the words were threaded like a flower garland.

Each of her poetries was part of her chronicle of a fairy tale, a tale where she alone staged herself. Mihir was never there, although Misha knew none but Mihir, loved none but Mihir. She penned the first words in her diary when Mihir entered her life and throughout the five long years when she had Mihir around, her diary was filled, each day, with a poetic saga of the yearning and love she went through, not even knowing if Mihir was walking the same path.

 

Years passed and today, as Misha stood there on the stage, she did not have the slightest clue about Mihir. She had lost him decades back; only that she herself had remained there and decades after, she was still there. And one day, when she had nothing new to write, she made her chronicle be read by the world and this award was a compliment to that.

Only if, along with the others present today, Mihir had the slightest notion, how a saga of the love someone had nurtured for him, had won the endorsement of the world and was felicitated, was celebrated.

Mere hisse mein koi jam na aayaa na sahi

Teeeri mehfil mein mere naam koi shaam toh hai

Tu kahin bhi rahein

Sar par tere ilzaam toh hai

Half the globe away, Namita, with a tray of medicines and syringe, entered the well lit room in the Mariana Nursing home for Neuropathy. Today, she also had the morning newspaper in her hand and a special smile on her face. She placed Mihir comfortably on the reclining bed and before starting with the daily medicine schedule, she placed a loving hand on Mihir’s forehead. She then placed the newspaper on is frail hands and gave him the wonderful news to light up his life a bit, “Look at this news today, Mihir. Something which you have forever waited for, all your life. Here is Misha, accepting the Swarna Kalam award. She recievd it yesterday, Mihir..”

Photograph: from Internet

'Shayari' verses: From Ghazal written by Sabir Jalalabadi

THE STRANGER.......

Ridhdhi was too excited to contain it; it was all about her forthcoming trip to the Blue Mountains.  And why wouldn't she be!  She hardly visited new places like her hostel mates did, every summer.

Uma’s heart filled with joy when she witnessed the mad mad gleam in Ridhdhi’ s eyes.  And why wouldn't she be!  In many years, this time she could find out some opportunity to take her teenager to a vacation.  

Ridhdhi’s vacation was usually spent at her hometown Bhopal, while Mum worked hard.  A busy corporate officer, Uma found little time for her child who visited her during her summer vacations.

She, in the first place, always felt guilty about packing her off to a boarding school, since she had a transferable job and a job which demanded a lot of travel across the globe.

This time Mum and Child duo were escaping to the Blue Mountains, away from the city smoke and noise.  Being a meticulous person that she was, Uma had taken care of all the details, including the lodge, the places to be visited, doctors’ numbers, pills, first aid, different types of shoes..everything.  She was ready for the travel.  Nothing, however could have prepared her for the surprise she was to receive at the Blue Mountains!

Uphill, Uma’s energy could not match  that of Ridhdhi’s.  She often missed the sunrise and the morning tea whereas Ridhdhi helped herself to the Sunrise Point and jogged back to her waiting mother, who was often found snuggling inside the quilt, reading Business India.  Ridhdhi would soon snatch away the newspaper, push her mother to the dressing room and pull her out to the beautiful whispering hills.  “Age..” Uma thought.  “Age…” Ridhdhi thought, too.

It was one such evening when Uma decided to stay in, finding a warm place in the library of the lodge,  Ridhdhi took off on her own, on the hired bi-cycle. 

(Since past five years, Ridhdhi had been staying in a boarding school and managing quite well, on her own; that was reason enough that her Mum allowed her to move on her own even in an unknown area.  After all, she was all of 15 now!)

Ridhdhi reached her favourite spot, the Echo Valley and sat there, admiring the hills, the chill, the flowers, the far off stream and everything in general.  There were not many people around, except for a few couples with children and a person who seemed to be working on his canvas.  Ridhdhi’s interest grew.  She approached the man, who was lost in the painting.  She could see an amazing play of colours on the canvas.  The man was distracted but not annoyed. He smiled at her and continued his work.

Ridhdhi gathered enough courage to go closer and examine the work.  It was a beautiful oil-paint, almost done.  The beauty of the surrounding hills was magically translated into the painting.

“Very very beautiful, Sir.” Rihdhi said.

“Thanks that you liked it.”

“You are from this place?”

“Yes my child, what about you?”

The conservation warmed up and now the stranger had pushed aside his paint brush to listen to Ridhdhi.  Where she came from, why her Mum is not with her, how she manager to move about on her own.  Uma’s advises about not be-friending strangers never was effective enough with this vivacious teenager.  It was clear that the stranger totally enjoyed the conversation.

They found a place to sit near the fence, overlooking the beautiful misty valley.   He told her about himself, his love for painting, that he did painting for earning a living too and about this little town embraced by the mesmerizing hills.  It was clear that this man was in total love with this place.

And then, suddenly, without much warning, the clouds gathered fast and sharp, icy rain drops came down.  Ridhdhi hurried towards her bi cycle but before that she thought of helping the stranger in gathering his things, lest the painting is spoiled by the water.  They successfully put them inside his car.  “I must rush now.” Ridhdhi said.

“No, wait, you will be drenched fully.  Come to my place and wait for sometimes.  Once the rain stops, you can go back.

“What about my bi-cycle?”

“Nandu will take care of it”.  While saying this, he took the bicycle to the nearby tea and snacks stall and asked the owner to guard it till they come back.  Ridhdhi could see that this person and Nandu knew each other well.

Nandu agreed and so Ridhdhi jumped into the car.  “Have a cup of hot chocolate in my place.” He said.  “I am not a baby anymore. Can you make some coffee?”

The stranger smiled at her.  He wondered, whether he should drop her to the lodge where she was staying, but then what about the bi-cycle? And moreover, some precious time over coffee, celebrating the new friendship was not a bad idea.

In 5 minutes, they reached his place.  It was a small little cozy cottage with lots of flowers and a small fountain.  Ridhdhi liked it immediately.  They rushed in to avoid getting drenched further and once they were quite settled, Ridhdhi took out her mobile to inform her mum.

“I must call Mum.  Her Highness, Uma Singh will be, otherwise fretting and walking up and down.”

“Uma Singh? From Bhopal?”  The stranger’s eyes broadened to reflect some familiarity.

“Yeah, my mum.”  Ridhdhi answered and walked towards the large window, while dialing her mum’s no.

From a distance, he could see that Mum and daughter were having a long and somewhat frantic talk over the phone.  Obviously, thought the stranger; her Mum should be worried about her little one spending time with a stranger.

“Mums are like that you know.”  Ridhdhi explained as she came near him.

“She wants to have a word with you.” Ridhdhi handed over the mobile to him.

His hands were already shaking as he took the mobile.  Uma Singh’s mention had sent known thrills and unexplained doubts throughout his mind.

“Hello…” he somehow managed to speak.

“Listen gentleman.  I request you to drop my child to the lodge NOW.  Her bi cycle, we will pick up later.  I want her back in 15 min or else…you know what..”  Uma switched off then.  The emergency was now strongly felt between the strangers.  Both hurried towards the gate.

“Uma…from Bhopal.  By any chance, is she from Academy of fine Arts?

“She is…” Ridhdhi said; not yet recovered from the reprimand she just received from her mum.

He knew Uma was from the Academy of Fine Arts.  Her voice had not changed through the years. She was the same Uma.  He just wanted to be reassured, by Ridhdhi.

Angry Uma.  Super Confident Uma.  Uma, who did not give this man a second chance when he was in doubt about walking into matrimony.  Uma walked off, instead and was lost in time.  He never could find her.

But what about Ridhdhi?  “What you said, was your dad’s name?”

“I said I never HAD a dad.” Ridhdhi was evidently very disturbed.

The stranger’s thoughts took a trajectory straight towards what he feared it would take him to.  He shivered now and almost lost the control of the car.

“Watch out..sir.”  Ridhdhi cried.

He looked at Ridhdhi.  So, this the THE child.  She never HAD a dad, she said.

 

He looked at her searching for his own reflection in her.  But this child was completely an image of the same Uma.  He felt a fierce pang somewhere near his stomach which moved up and up to almost choke him.

And he was now about to meet her!  He could feel his limbs going totally numb as they approached the pathway leading to the lodge reception.  There he knew, would be Uma, ready to shower her rage on him.  He wanted to turn back and leave but then there was this little one who had to be safely placed back into her mum’s lap.  After all, that is how she had brought her up.

What would be Uma's reaction when he saw him? Clouds of doubt gathered inside his mind.

Once they reached, Ridhdhi rushed towards their room.  Thankfully Uma was not waiting at the reception.  This was a God sent moment for the stranger to regain some of his senses. 

He was still in a complete dilemma, confusion and haze in the mind as Ridhdhi went forward and pushed the door bell…………………………………………