Zero Road

Belonging to the Densa community I steer clear of intellectual debates with women. But, when Galatea mentioned that Allahabad is not really on the Indian Time Meridian, I said, ‘Heh heh, Gotcha baby! This one I know for sure. Since ages Allahabad has been the centre of our country. It even has a Zero Road where exactly the 82.5E meridian passes. Why not go look’.

Though how going there would have proved anything I did not know, but it was an opportunity to test out my new car.

More about Allahabad in a bit. She wanted Gulab Jamuns on Saturday morning.

Gal was dressed to kill at 9 in the morning. A bright yellow, off-shoulder top with swan-white, tight, knee-length Capri and those six inch heels. Her wet-look, shoulder length hair were framing those sparkling, naughty eyes very well. I was still in my boxers trying to wake up, when she walked in like the winter morning sun peeping through a sheet of early fog and announced that we are going out to have Gulab Jamuns.

‘There must be some sweets in the fridge’
‘No. We are going out. Get dressed fast’. It was kind of final.

In fifteen minutes we were out in my car. She had even packed some sandwiches. I was intrigued by this Gulab Jamun expedition, but kept quiet.

‘Go towards Wave cinema and take the Delhi highway’
‘But where are we going?’
‘You’ll see’

The drive on NH24 was not bad. The traffic was not heavy and I enjoyed the drive in my new Civic AT. Deep mango groves on both sides soon gave way to raked empty fields like well combed, oiled, and neatly parted hair. After about an hour I realized that we must have come some 80-90 kilometers out and asked her where were we headed?

‘I think its another 50 odd kilometers. Better to stop and ask for Megalganj’
‘Megalganj? What’s that?’

I stopped us for a cup of tea and re-confirmed what she always knew. It was another half an hour away. We took off immediately and reached Megalganj cross-road at around 11.30. You couldn’t have missed it. Like all highway towns, this one too has typically about twenty odd eating places, some more shacks selling cigarettes and a few selling music cassettes and CDs. The stark difference however was that all the eating joints were Gulab Jamun shops.

Amazing! I had never seen such concentration of shops nor so many highway tourists focused on eating Gulab Jamuns.

There is one shop which claims to be making these GJs since 1940. I wondered what the place was like back then. Anyway we ate a hell of a lot of Gulab Jamuns. They are delicious and definitely worth the drive. You are supposed to drink some milk to wash it down.

I wanted to carry some back. Gal shook her head.

‘These can’t be carried back. Eat more if you want’

As we got back into the car, I asked, ‘What’s this about not carrying them back?’

‘These are special to Megalganj and are made out of potatoes. So they loose their texture and taste once they go cold’
‘It’s quite a long way to travel for Saturday morning potatoes’.

Next day we left early for Allahabad, our wager beckoned. It’s about a four hour drive from Lucknow. We stopped on the way at Rae Bareily for breakfast. The Naresh-Dinesh Restaurent is quite famous for the various people of Gandhi family who have stopped there over the past twenty years. Even though the best-selling stuff is Bread-Pakora, I just had a thick Lassi. Gal ordered a Gujarati Dhokla.

We reached Allahabad at around noon and went straight to Hotel Milan. It has a great chef for Indian food. After a brief siesta, we were off to Zero Road to complete our wager. There is indeed a street called Zero Road. It’s an old, narrow street made of concrete and crammed with rickshaws and bicycles.

‘See’ I stepped out of the car and raised my hand to point out the road sign that said, Zero Road. Before leaving the hotel we had asked some locals, they all believed that Zero road was the time meridian. It was as we were wading back through the traffic that Gal exclaimed,

‘It’s parallel to the Railway station!’
‘So?’
‘You see, if it is on a Meridian it must be North-South, but the railway track in Allahabad is definitely East-West. Zero Road is parallel to the Station. I win. Q.E.D’

I was flabbergasted.

My dejected mood was lifted much later when we hit the bar in our hotel. It has one of the best laid-out bars in the entire region. It has a long circular bar-counter, with a well-stocked bar, a small dance-floor with a DJ too. Even has flashing lights to set the ambience. More so, was playing The Doors, would you believe it. We had a good time. Gal went a bit far when she asked the bartender for a glass of Merlot.

As a community people of Allahabad used to have an attitude. It was like poor man’s Calcutta. Like the Bengalis, people here considered themselves cerebrally superior. In fact till about twenty years ago Indian Civil Services used to have a cadre-within-cadre of Allahabad University Alumni. Even today if you walk along the corridors of the University hostel you can see graffiti saying who all passed the IAS exam from which room. The attitude’s all gone now. It another small town of UP, though much more civilized.

Allahabad has another very unique distinction, the number of lawyers per head. There are Twenty thousand of them in a population of just over a million. Every eight household has an Advocate’s name board. Understandable, since Allahabad High Court has been one of our premier courts since nearly two centuries.

Next day morning we were off to the river. It is probably the most scenic sight that I’ll ever see. It’s a huge mass of water, of different hues. Yamuna is much deeper and is green, while the Ganges is relatively shallow and yellowish. We slowly rowed past the massive Akbar Fort. It’s an immaculate large structure well maintained because the Indian Army is using it.

As our flat bottom row-boat approached the Sangam there was so much energy flowing from the devotees that it was palpable. Boat loads of men and women mostly rural were chanting songs of the Ganges, the notes flowed like the river itself. Right at the point of Sangam about fifty boats were anchored the scene could have been out of Kevin Costner’s Waterworld. It was the Bhajans with Dholaks and Manjiras emanating from there that reminded us of how life has been along this holy river since ages.

Both of us were quiet on the drive back and almost missed the silvery, shimmering, spanking new suspension bridge which connects the main town to Naini. It is Allahabad’s Golden Gate. We stopped over at the ‘Gora Kabrastan’, White Cemetery. This smallish place has real history buried here. You just need to go over the epitaphs to be transported back to our first war of independence.

Then we drove past the Chandrashekhar Azad Park, where he was killed. The Brit police was not sure he was dead and shot him in the leg to check. We were hungry and landed up at El Chico. This place has the distinction of being visited by so many dignitaries that you will lose count. It actually claims fame for continental food but Chinese is edible. It makes good chicken sandwiches too.

Finally we were ready to bid adieu to Allahabad only after buying a few boxes of ‘Khatta Samosa’. Don't leave Allahabad without them.

Will you walk with me?

What the raiders did was the worst yet
my children's pain, I'll never forget
My fuel these memories will be.
Come walk with me.

Fear and blood, cries rising up to the Sun,
Swords of Babur, Nadir, Abdali nor Hodson
could the spring in my step cease.
Come walk with me.

They all made ramparts of stone
My head is high, conquered by none.
I belong my children to thee.
Here, hold my hand and walk with me.

Now I see the blue monsoon
I hear my children laughing.
Keep faith, keep holding my hand
I am with you, keep on walking

Just over that hill of apathy
round that bend of lenity
Is our rainbow sky, go ye
Walk now run to it, with me.

I am the journey, I'm the end too
I am the child, and the parent too
I will walk till time and so must you.
I am Delhi and so are you.

Paro - Crumpled Note

It was two days since Paro-Miriyam was back and there was a buzz about James Ekka’s house. She was looking well dressed and well fed. All the children had gathered in her house to listen to the tales of big cities from her and she enthralled them all with tales of Fast cars, Buses, Air-conditioned trains, Big roads, Cinema halls, Electricity and Television. The one person she was dying to meet and share her experiences with was Sis Stella and she was away.

Sis Stella came back as soon as she heard of Miriyam. After having lunch at Miriyam’s house they walked back to the Church and she heard Miriyam’s story. Beginning with the train journey to Delhi and ending in another train trip back home. They sat under the big Neem tree as she also told her about her resolve to become a Paro carrier, make money and bring up her two children.

As the afternoon Sun became harsh they went in to Sis Stella’s room, sat on the cool floor and sipped tea from steel cups. During a lull in the conversation Miriyam asked,

“You have been such a great mentor for me but have never shared anything about yourself”
“There’s nothing to tell Miriyam. I am here as always”
“You seemed to know so much about everything. I want know where you are from, where did you grow up”.

She looked up at the ceiling wistfully, as if trying to make up her mind.

“My name is Seema and I was your Fakhru’s first deal”
“What, you were a Paro too?”
“It was over twenty years ago that I went, much like you, on a train journey to Rajasthan as a Paro”.

“I had reached Ashraf’s village in the morning. His family had been cold towards me in the beginning. I was his third wife. First one had died leaving behind a tiny girl and the second one had produced three girls in a row. They all had been disappointed that there was no boy to take the family forward even after six years of marriage.

“Tribal girls are quite strong and produce a lot of boys”
“My sister’s Devar also brought a Paro and she gave him two boys in two years”
“and what’s the harm? If it doesn’t work, sell her off”

Fortified with such statements, Ashraf had sought out Fakhru and both of them came to take me.

There was no sympathy from anyone in those initial months. I used to long for a word of appreciation or a hint of love and all I used to get was cold stares and more housework. Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. I did not get pregnant and the family became more and more oppressive.

I would be up before day-break and work like a slave all day till late in the night. Then at night Ashraf would try to produce a baby. One day his mother slapped me when she found a pebble in her Dal. This brought some sympathy from Ashraf and later that night I hugged him and cried my heart out. This catharsis must have done something because I conceived that week.

Within a month, my life changed. From a pariah slave I became the family’s savior. They took me to a Doctor, got all my check-ups done. I was advised rest and a healthy diet. After three months I was taken to Sikar town where an ultra-sound was conducted.

“Ladka hai. It’s a boy”

These two words spread like wildfire in the village and I suddenly became special. They wouldn’t let me do any work, I was fed on the bed. All sorts of sweets and meats were served up.

I can’t tell you the feeling when Mohd. Islam was born. He was very tiny but had my eyes and nose. Motherhood can only be experienced Miriyam, I can’t tell you my innate joy of those initial two-three months.

Things began to change after six months. I was back at doing my household chores and was working in the fields too. Islam would spend all day with my Mother-in-law. She would ensure that I was kept busy all day and would send Islam to me only after he had gone off to sleep at night. It was thick of winter and Islam was now nearly a year old. He was a strong lad and had started sitting up. He was so adorable when he laughed out loudly.

The men were sitting around and chatting one day when I overheard that I was to be sold off. That night I had a fight with Ashraf. I just could not understand why? I had been really good, worked really hard and had finally got them a son too. Why did they want to get rid of me? Apparently, I discovered much later, Ashraf’s other wife was from a rich family and was putting immense pressure on them to let her be the sole wife.

The deal got done and I was to leave them. When I began packing my things among tears, that lightening really struck.

“Ladka nahin jayega. The boy will remain here”

I was dumbstruck. I just could not comprehend how they could treat me like this. I wailed and screamed and pleaded. They were all stone faced. My mother-in-law was her nasty self,

“He is my grandson. How can we let you take him away.”
“But what about me? I bore him for nine months, he is a piece of my body. How can you take him away? Please have mercy”

For the rest of the night I hugged Islam and wept. They had locked my room to stop me from running away at night. In the morning a few guys from my new would-be family came to take me away. I was trapped and could really see no way out. Screaming and wailing I went with them. My eyes were swollen with crying but I felt helpless. I stayed at the new house for two days and decided to ditch them and run away.

I slipped away at night and came back to Ashraf’s house to see my Islam once again. It was after mid-night when I reached home and knocked on the window pane. Ashraf came out and hugged me tightly while I wept again.

“Look Seema, I am sorry for all this but I promise you, Islam will remain the apple of my eye. Let him grow up a bit and you can come back to see him once tempers cool down here a bit”
“How am I to live?”
“Why don’t you go back to your village? I will send you money regularly. We’ll see after four or five years”

Amidst un-consolable sobbing I asked to see him for the last time. Ashraf went in and brought sleeping Islam out. He also brought a pair of his clothes out for me to take as a souvenir. I hugged him and cried.

Sis Stella had silent tears streaming down her cheeks as she took Miriyam by the hand to an old trunk in her room. She sat on the floor, opened it and brought out a small blue Kurta-pyjama, a tiny pair of gloves, a red rattle, a black thread with a lucky charm and finally a much folded, crumpled and straightened piece of paper. On it was a tiny turmeric-stained hand-print.

Dayscotheque

"By the standards of Indian cities modern Kanpur has no history. It came into being mainly as a redoubt against the armies of Nawab of Awadh in late 1700s. When the British reached Cawnpore on the cross road of GT Road and Lucknow-Jhansi road, they realised its strategic importance. It became a district in 1803 and went on to become a major military cantonment only after 1857. "

"They brought textile and leather industry to the city. Govt. Harness and Saddler Factory and Cooper Allen & Co. were set up to supply leather stuff to the Army. They also established the Textile industry here. Elgin Mill and Muir Mill were to become internationally renowned and Cawnpore was to be known as the Manchester of India."

Who else but Galatea? She was holding forth as we drove on the Autobahn connecting Lucknow to Kanpur. It was early, the sky was overcast and I was driving with the windows down. Cool breeze, peppy Hindi music on FM and Gal's discourse. This Eighty kilometer stretch is probably the only dual-carriage road in all of eastern UP. But for an occasional pot-hole, a cow sauntering across the road and a tractor driving on the wrong side, the drive was a joy.

You enter Kanpur from a bridge across the Ganges at Jajmau. Its a smallish bridge today with sluggish, uncouth traffic meandering in both directions. When she read the blue reflective direction sign, Gal jumped, "Jajmau! This where British troops first defeated the Awadh Army." Its an average poor river-bridge, doesn't even remotely look military. We just drove over much of history and passed through the cantonment area to reach civil lines. I had come on work so went to my office while Gal went off on her history lesson.

Among all the urban cities of UP, I think Kanpur is the most modern. The average young people are hep and trendy. With my office team I went for lunch to a cool, circular restaurant called Little Chef near my office. Highly recommended for Indian cuisine. Great food and surprisingly efficient service. It also has a 15 room hotel on the premises. It was lunch hour and I was expecting to see a lot of Executives in the restaurant but was surprised to see the place full of groups of young guys and girls. Soon the group on the next table got up and went off. Their food was still on the table. On enquiring, I learnt that in the well of this circular restaurant was a Discotheque.

I called up Gal.

"You know, Kanpur has a disc?"
"Yeah, I know. There are three of them here." Shit. She always figured out stuff before me.

"And you know the funny part? This one I am at, is jam packed at lunch."

"That's because parents won't allow their girls to go out at night" she was giggling.

I wound up work and she picked me up at four. We were keen to buy sweets from the famous Banarasi Sweet Shop, Birhana Road. Its Bundi laddoo are really worth the trip. 'Thugoo ke Laddoo' made famous by the movie 'Bunty aur Babli' is also in Kanpur but this one is the real thing. We went past Heer Palace on Mall Road. Now a spanking new multiplex was once a single screen theatre which had set a record when Sholay was released in the 1970's.

"Cawnpore saw the most violent of all battles during the 1857. Sati Chaura, where over five hundred Britishers under General Wheeler were killed on the Ghats due to an edgy confusion. Later at Bibi-ghar, nearly three hundred women and children were massacred. They took this as an excuse for open-season. Later when Gen. Niell took back the city, he went on a rampage and murdered thousands".

As we drove past the marble marvel JK Temple, the real essence of Kanpur being a modern city became apparent. Its iconic landmarks too are so very modern. This Singhania built temple attracts not just devotees. Kanpur citizens flock to its fountains on summer evenings. We wound up our trip with a slow drive past my first ever school, St. Joseph's Convent, JK Colony.

We drove back in complete silence. Our experience was of happiness to see a thriving-against-odds community. We realised that this fighting spirit must come from a collective sub-conscious of a history of bloody battles.

An afternoon in June

In Lucknow this lovely town,
An afternoon of mid-june

Thick and laden mango groves
Resonate with lovely koel’s croon.

Hand-fans flick the scalding lu, while
On the window-sill pigeons buzz their tune.

Unaffected chatter of running children
Clamoring for their favorite Ice-cone.

Paro

When Miriyam was born there wasn't much happiness in the village. She was the third daughter in a row of a much below poverty line parents James Ekka and Sujata. Sujata was a daily wage labourer in the rice fields while James was a daily wage worker in a rice mill about 20 Km away. Their village Bisrampuri a clutch of mud and pucca houses, is on the cusp of forest land in north-Chhattisgarh.

James’ family had always lived a subsistence life in harsh surroundings. His ancestors had been wandering jungle dwellers. About fifty years ago his grand-father had been liberated by Father James. Lord Jesus had always held their hand since then. But when Miriyam came he was deeply disappointed. A man should have at least one son to support him in his old-age and how was he going to get dowry for three daughters? Unlike James, Sujata Ekka was thankful and did not have any complaints of Jesus. She was also not worried about the girls. She knew well that girls were as good as boys. Boys were likely to fall in bad company and take to crime or booze.

Both of them felt indebted to the Church of Fr. James and his clan especially Sister Stella. Sis Stella was a tribal herself and after spending many years in far away north India, had found her way back to the Lord. As Miriyam grew up, Sis. Stella became extremely fond of her. She was happy keeping Miriyam in the Church and Sujata was happy leaving her there all day. While the older daughters had got sucked in to the fight against hunger and poverty, Miriryam was a lucky child. Sis. Stella began teaching her how to read and write when she got a little older.

Miriyam was thirteen when she noticed a visitor to their village. He was a tall, coarse man of nearly forty. Bimla, her next door friend told her that his name was Fakhrudin and he had come from Mewat to take a Paro! There was another man with him. The villagers were treating them politely. They were not deferential but Fakhru seemed well accepted. When Miriyam went to meet Sis Stella later in the evening she asked,

'What is a Paro?'.
'Why do you want to know? You are still too young'
'But what is it? There is a man in the village today come to take a Paro'.
'I will tell you later, but you stay away from him. In fact do not go home. I'll tell your mother that you will be with me for a couple of days'.Miriyam agreed, because she really enjoyed staying with Sis. Stella, but was thoroughly intrigued.

Next couple of days she stayed at the Church. She would go to the fields and return there. She had started earning Fifteen rupees daily in the sowing season. When she returned home, she went to her neighbours wanting to find out more of Fakhrudin. Her friend Bimla was not home. 'She must have gone to the well' she thought. She saw Bimla's mother returning from the grocer.

'Where's Bimla? Masi' she said taking one heavy bag from her.
'Bimla's gone. She got married yesterday and left'
'Married? When? Why didn't I come to know?'
'We had told Sujata. She did not want you around. Come I'll give you some sweets.'They had reached home by now.

It was dark now and Bimla's mother went about lighting all the lamps after keeping the groceries in a corner near the stove. Miriyam was intrigued and kept on asking questions, 'Who is the groom? Where has she gone? Will she come back for harvesting?'

She got no reply. Bimla's mother was tinkering inside and came out with a plateful of sweets. 'You know they gave us twenty-five thousand. Bimla's father has gone to the city to see her off and also put the money in the post-office. We are thinking of buying a TV, but there is no electricity in the village so maybe we’ll buy a motor-cycle. It will become easier to go to the city'.

Miriyam got no answers. She could not even figure out if Bimla's mother's delight was on getting a good groom for her daughter or getting this huge sum of money. Later at night she asked her mother, 'Who was that man Fakhrudin and who has Bimla got married to?' 'Bimla's husband's name is Arif and she will be living in Mewat. Now got to sleep'. There was a decisive edge to her mother’s voice, which stopped her from speaking further.

Inevitably Miriyam and her questions found their way to Sis Stella next day. She stood with arms akimbo, determined to get answers. Sis. Stella avoided for a while but a thirteen-year-old's determination cannot be easily brushed aside. She began, 'Arif and Fakhru came from a village near Nuh in Mewat. Fakhru has come here a few times in the past. He comes with some of his relatives every second or third year and marries him off to a girl from the village. Pays the parents handsomely and takes the girl away. Bimla is now a Paro.'

She was even more confused, 'Will she be happy? What will happen to her? Will she ever come back? What's a Paro?' Sis Stella patiently looked at her and replied, 'There is always a risk in such marriages but even our marriages are risky. Fakhru has been a nice guy. He got four of our girls married and all of them have been fine so far. Bimla should be fine too. Don't know of she will ever come back here, but you never know..'

'And there was a film called Devdas, Paro was his beloved. They have taken the name from there.'

Fakhru's next visit did not happen for another three years. Miriyam had grown up and could easily read and write now. The village was more or less the same as before. Miriyam had started taking interest in the development work that Sis. Stella was doing by educating village children. She was pretty! Tall and dusky. It was her eyes that were really special. Deep and dark, framed beautifully by arched brows. Long lashes flipped furtively. And she was confident! She would fearlessly speak out even to the Sarpanch. One summer morning when there wasn't much work in the fields, she saw Fakhru walk up to her house accompanied by her father.

She quickly ran into the kitchen and tried to hear what the men were saying. Within five minutes Sujata too came home and got busy preparing lemonade for the guest. Miriyam's heart beat ran faster with a strange mix of anxiety and fear, when she could not bear it she covered her head and ran out to the church. Sis. Stella was away to the next village. 'Why can't she be around when I need her?' thought Miriyam in frustration. She went home at sunset. She could see that her mother was standing in the doorway; her father was sitting on a cot outside their house and with him was Fr. James.

'Why can't he select my Sushila? She is well trained in all house work, works hard in the fields, she is strong and polite.’ her mother was referring to her eldest daughter. ‘Miriyam is still a child'.
'What can you do about that? You could still say no, if you wish.' said her father.

They fell silent as Miriyam approached. She stood awhile waiting for her mother to tell her something but she gestured her to get inside. Fr. James got up, blessed both of them and left. She could easily make out that both her parents were under immense stress as they sat down for dinner. They ate quietly and when James got up to wash his hands, she asked Sujata, 'What is it?'

'Fakhru has asked for you. For himself'.


*** ***


She did not know how to react. Should she be outraged? Should she feel happy? After all Fakhru was a respected man in the village and he had chosen her for himself. What did the future hold in store for her? And there was always this small matter of Fifty thousand rupees which could potentially transform the life of her parents. All these were still unanswered questions as she sat curled up near a window in a train screeching towards Delhi.

A queer mix of becoming a martyr for the family and taking on life as a challenge had tilted her decision to go for it. The next few days passed in a blur as she was engaged and then married in the Church. She looked like an angel in a silky white dress. Fakhru behaved like a gentleman gave her light peck on her forehead and exchanged rings. He had handed over the bag with fifty thousand rupees to James. Sujata had wailed when Miriyam came to say good bye.

Miriyam went to say bye to Sis Stella in her room and found her running her rosary with her eyes streaming with tears. Miriyam put her arms around her neck and began weeping herself. Stella took off her own cross and put it around her neck.

'Never, ever be scared of anything. I know you are really brave and intelligent. Never feel helpless, remember that all you have to do is board a train came back home. But go on and see the world. On your terms'

'Aloo Puri?' her reverie broke when Fakhru offered her a paper plate from her window on the platform. She took it and ate quietly.

After nearly two days in the train, they reached Delhi early morning. They got off at New Delhi station and checked in to a small hotel in Paharganj. After having breakfast, Fakhru let her sleep a while as he went out to buy some stuff. It was evening when Fakhru came back. He had brought some clothes for her and two tickets to Munnabhai at Regal. She changed into the Punjabi suit he had brought and went out. What amazing sights? She was spell bound. Bright street-lights; Billboards and cars. So many of them. And so many people?

She was still in a daze when they came back around mid-night, but was chirping happily and skipping along. She was beginning to like the simple warmth of Fakhru. He had a sense of humour, laughed easily and was kind to her. As they walked up to their hotel, she realised that they were holding hands. As they entered the rickety lift, her heartbeat ran faster and palms began sweating.

Fakhru opened the door to their room and switched on the lights. He locked the door and came and stood in front of her. He gently raised her chin and brushed his lips against her eyes. Her hair came loose and mouth was quivering as he ran his hands over her shoulders to take off her dupatta. He sat her on the bed and stretched to switch the lights off. Now there was only some diffused light from the street outside as he gently tugged at her shirt and took it off. Her tight smallish breasts pushed against her stiff chemise. He pulled that up and removed it. Her bronzed muscular body glistened in reflected light as she put her hands up to her face and lay back on the white bed-sheet. Fakhru ran light fingers from her hair down her arm over to her hip and pulled at her pyjama cord. It came loose and he slipped it off her legs. She squirmed and slipped under the blanket.

Fakhru took off his clothes and slipped under the blanket as well. He raised her face and gently kissed her on the mouth. She was shy but did not hold him back. His kisses moved from her mouth to her shoulders and she shuddered as he plucked at her hard nipples with his lips. First one then the other and then moved to her flat muscular belly as he lightly bit her in strangely pleasurable places. All the while his hands were gently moving on her thighs. Miriyam was on fire. She had not experienced anything like this before. She kept moving her legs against each other and was hugging Fakhru hard, taking deep audible breaths.

He was obviously an expert and understood that this was her first time. He did not hurry up at all. Let her rise to a frenzy, using his tongue in places she could never have dreamed of. When she thought she could not take any more, she called out to him. Fakhru then gently entered her. His control to gave way and he took her on a new journey. Miriyam had a silly smile on her face as she swayed to rocking of the bed. It was just like the train's rythm.

'Thank you' he said.
'Love you' she replied.

She woke up with the same smile. Her anxiety had all gone and she was now ready to take on life. They stayed most of the day indoors. Staying naked and unabashedly having sex over and over again. They got out in the evening and saw another movie in Connaught Place. Fakhru bought some gifts for his family from Janpath. Later they had dinner at a street cart and went up to their room.

As the bus pulled out from ISBT, her mind kept floating to Sis Stella and her village. Delhi's smooth roads and flyovers soon brought them to the mammoth glass and steel structures of Gurgaon. The glitz was missing in the morning but the grandeur was still awesome for a first timer. It took them nearly three hours to reach the small highway town of Nuh.

There a jeep was waiting to take them home.

Paro's Life

'Aye Paro, get up and cut this fodder for the buffalos'

It was day-break and her two day honey moon was over in a flash. She was under no illusion and was prepared for hard work.

There were celebrations at night and the entire village had turned up to see Fakhru's Paro. Fakhru lived in a large family. She could see that these people were much richer than her parents. There was electricity in every house. She also realized that his mother was the fulcrum of the family and ran everything.

'Aayee Ammee'

She was up and out with a smile on her face. It was almost noon when all the work got over and women sat down to eat. She sat together with the family and ate. Then packed food for the men and took the lunch boxes to the fields.

Five years passed doing just this, day in and day out. She remembered a few occasions when Fakhru took her out to Nuh to shop, but generally she was confined at home. She had thought of her parents, sisters and Stella many times but never got around to either writing to them nor asked Fakhru when he was going back there.

Then suddenly, Fakhru’s mother died. It seemed that the family’s bonding force had ebbed away. They lost the routine of doing the daily chores. She saw two of the brothers fighting over small issues. Fakhru went back to Chhattisgarh that year. He did not go to Bisrampuri but to another village in the south. Paro cried her heart out. She was desperate to get some news about her village. He came back after two weeks and told her that he did not get any girl. It meant that he did not get the money on this trip. She had earlier found out that he made nearly as much money from the groom as they gave to the bride’s family.

As she watched the family crumbling away, she got another jolt. Fakhru had brought someone home. He was from Firozpur he said. While she went out to serve them tea she heard them talking about her and they fell quiet as she approached. She was dumb-struck for a while. The scene from five years ago flashed past her eyes, when her father and mother fell quiet as she had approached.

Her premonition was true. She was sold off for thirty thousand rupees. She got barely an hour to pack her stuff and ride with Mazhar. Mazhar took her to Firozpur the same evening. Fakhru’s mother would never have allowed such a thing. It was another matter to bring wives for friends and cousins from Bihar but treating them as tradable material would have been an anathema to her. Again she got into a bus for an hour’s journey, she was crying. Five years of living with the people and now no one to even speak to her as she was leaving. What kind of people were these?

Mazhar was over fifty and had lost his wife to Malaria some years ago. He got talking to her. He had four children; the youngest boy was nearly six while eldest girl was nearly twenty. They too were a prosperous family but had a much smaller piece of land to till. Most of it was let out on contract. So the family did not have much physical work to do. Paro quickly took over the household chores, milking buffaloes in the morning and evening, cooking, cleaning and washing.

Their next door neighbour was a large household. Their son, Amjad had just come back from Hissar after completing his BA and was beginning to get involved in the family farm. Amjad used to visit Mazhar's house very often. There was talk in the house about suitability of Mazhar's daughter for Amjad. He did not like her somehow and the match fell through. It was almost a year later when the eldest daughter got married and went off.

Soon afterwards Paro found herself lonely. The younger kids would go to school and Mazhar had taken to drinking even during the day. She was mostly by herself at home. One of those days when Mazhar was away drinking at someone's house, Amjad came over and sat chatting. She began to talk about her village and her parents and childhood friends. Without wanting to, she started crying inconsolably. How that moment led to Amjad holding her gently and how that led to her bed she never knew. They were quite ashamed of this and never mentioned it again.

Mazhar died suddenly. He just did not wake up one morning. Doctor said heart-failure but Paro knew that it was alcohol that killed him. Suddenly there were three young children to feed and the whole world to guard against. She felt overwhelmed. Even before the ceremonies were done vultures began hovering over Mazhar’s property. Mazhar had a brother who refused to go back home, even proposed to marry her. Many other cousins sprouted up from nowhere. Even the eldest daughter came to claim a share. And Paro fought.

She fought all of them but kept losing things one by one. The lands were divided amongst Mazhar's siblings without even her knowledge. The village elders did not even consider her a lawful wife.

‘Wasn't she a Paro? No question of leaving the land to her’.

The elder of the children a boy of fifteen chose to take cash against some of the land and went to stay with his sister. The youngest two children a boy of seven and a girl of ten surprisingly were defiant and chose to stay with her in the same house. The final solution was to leave the house and the buffaloes to the younger children and Paro was allowed to stay there to take care of them.

Now she had no earnings and no future but responsibility of two innocent children. She cried many nights and could not see a way through. She finally decided to send the children off to their sister and go back to Bisrampuri. She was sure Lord Jesus and Sis Stella would welcome her to the Church. She was even more distraught with this decision. It meant that she had failed her life. She had left her home and after seven odd years she would be going back penurious and dependant. She hated it.

There was a smile on her face as she sat leaning her head on the window of the train rapidly taking her back to her village. The strong breeze was blowing her hair away. There was an immense anticipation on getting to meet her parents again and see her village once again. More than everything else she was feeling happy at winning the battle of the world. She had finally been able to solve the dilemma of how to bring up the children and succeed.

She, Paro was going back to her village after seven years to look for a Paro for Amjad.

Amjad had come the next day. He was very kind and had offered to help set her up. They discussed till late in the night he suggested that she do what Fakhru had been doing. He was looking for a bride too and would not mind being her first customer. She was so happy at this way out that she had kissed him and they made love till early morning.

Bajra party

I must say that Galatea had warned me before hand. She is naturally wary about new adventures, I dive into them with gusto. So I admire her prescience and also enjoy my little discoveries.

There were about ten of us sitting cross-legged on white sheets spread over mattresses laid out on the top-deck of a boat. The only protection from getting thrown overboard was to stay seated. If five of us had stood up on one side, centre of gravity would have shifted and we could have capsized. There were some musicians too, a guy on the tabla, another on the harmonium, two more were ghazal singers while another managed the amplifiers etc. Soon a skinny boy dressed as a waiter in black trousers, a white shirt, and amazingly a bow-tie crawled up from the lower deck. He was carrying a tray of glasses with coloured fluids.

'Pehle boss ko do, What will you have boss?'
'Whatever. I am not fussy'
'Whiskey lao whiskey'

So I was handed a finger print stained glass of amber fluid with streaks of tiny bubbles promising to be whiskey-soda. It was about nine o'clock when we began drifting away from the shore. This barge was about twenty feet from bow to stern with two decks, both kind of half height. You can only crawl in and remain seated. We had to take our shoes off since the upper deck was fully carpeted. This vessel (an apt term) had nothing to move it forward, so they had tied a motored tug-boat to its starboard side.

Mild breeze blew across us as the band screeched some Ghazals and hindi film numbers. Soon there was some commotion and a very pretty woman, dressed in full royal nautch-girl regalia climbed up to the upper deck. She bent low and did a salaam to all of us and plonked herself on the floor. The musicians fussed about her and placed a mike in front of her. Then she sang. I was worried that the party should not de-generate into something which we all might regret later. I spoke to my local rep and asked him to ensure that all this was limited to singing.

This was my introduction to the holy city of Varanasi. So named since the land lies between river Varuna and Assi. The oldest continually inhabited city in the world. This seat of learning in ancient India has been referred to as 'Kashi - the Luminous' in Rig Veda. The holy city never sleeps and gets huge number of tourists from all over the world. All these bits of information were fed to me as the band played Ghulam Ali's 'Hungama'.

Soon we were drifting past holiest of all cremation grounds, Manikarnika Ghat. Myth has it that its the gateway to heaven. It burns all day and night liberating sinful humans from cycle of birth and re-birth. The fire for every pyre must come from the house of Dom Maharaj, the keeper of the Ghat since ages.

The music kept on and soon the group on the Bajra got involved in it and started singing themselves. All this while the boat kept drifting up and down the Ganges. I got to see a lot of history and mythology of India. Since it was night, it was easy to drift into time and imagine the fiery debates between Sankaracharya and the local pundits on these very Ghats that led to the revival of Hinduism. I could imagine long rows of saffron robed, tonsured monks getting off on these Ghats and proceeding to Sarnath for the first sermon of Buddha. I could hear the chanting of couplets by Tulsidas as he wrote the Ramacharitmanas on Tulsi Ghat. I could easily sense the panic stricken citizens of Benaras as they ran for their lives in small boats running away from the rampaging soldiers of Aurangzeb.

I was in this reverie when two things happened. Gal called and the boat stopped with a thud. She was just checking me out before going off to sleep. I told her that we had just crash-landed on the moon. I could see a very high mud-bank almost in our face. This must be Mughal-sarai side, the twin town separated by the Ganges and North India's largest railway junction, I thought to myself. 'But what are we doing here?' I asked the fellow next to me. He gave a sheepish smile, raised his little finger and jumped off the boat himself. I turned and saw the surreal image of a mountain of mud in reflected light from the barge and guys facing the mount as if drawing money from an ATM. We started back in fifteen minutes and the boat seemed to be lighter.

I was up at five next morning and reached Kashi Vishwanath Temple well before six. True to form the narrow lanes were buzzing with activity. Shopkeepers looking fresh and bathed were selling garlands and other offerings. There were long queues of devotees from all parts of India for the darshan. I was surprised to see that a large majority were Tamilians. Even more suprised to hear the shopkeepers conversing with them in fluent Tamil. Compulsions of a tourism led economy I guess!

Other than this larger than life religion, history and mythology, common man's life in Varanasi is very tough. They get power only for twelve hours in a day; roads were last repaired it seemed by the British and the working conditions in the traditional Saree manufacturing industry are pathetic. And above all the holy river is dying.

As I headed back to Lucknow the remaining thoughts in my mind were of an awsome accumulation of time and faith in a single place. What history? One could spend a lifetime and not know it all. My mind also wandered to the colossal waste of opportunity. Opprtunity for Indians to discover their past, for foreigners to see a working acient civilization a human Jurassic park.

Having prayed at the holiest of all Hindu temples, I might make it on the salvation train, just about. Till then the citizens of this holy city will continue to suffer the callousness of modern day rulers.

PS: I was told that so many foriegn tourists visit Kashi because it finds a mention in the Bible. If any of you can confirm this, do let me know.

Hyderabad

'Aisle seat in front please' was what I asked for while checking in to Kingfisher Airline's morning flight to Hyderabad. Fortunately the flight was on time. I am always extremely edgy before boarding a flight but Galatea had the air of a seasoned traveler about her. She had a black cardigan hooked into her shoulder bag and Shantaram hugged under her arm. Scraggly hair hanging over her shoulders made her seem like she had just stepped out of a shower.

The deep red of the airline uniform attracts the eye but not as much as the shapely bodies it partially hides. I must compliment Mr. Mallaya on selecting the flamboyant look but I sensed a hint of careless superciliousness among the crew. I mention this to Gal as we file past the first class seats. 'Its just your middle class mentality' she said shuffling gracefully to fit into a pin cushion, 'I find them cute'. 'Cute? Fifty odd kilos of unadultrated sex appeal', I think to myself.

Normally I find the whole charade of in-flight safety procedure announcements and meal service extremely tedious, but not that day, not in Kingfisher. The eighteen inch long skirts were exactly at eye level. As the hostess bent down to pluck out a meal-tray she formed a deep-red, smooth, ridge-less question mark right in front of my nose. I was opening and closing my mouth to get extra air. I am sorry but I just could not figure out how it could be so smooth and checked out the other hostess. As in such situations, I turned my open-mouthed curiousity towards Gal.

Without lifting her eyes from Shantaram, she said sternly, 'It's called a G-string'.
'Part of their uniform?' my eye brows merging into my hair line,
'Shut up and eat', she whispered.

Suitably chastised by her prescient abilities I finally turned to the meal.

Amazing this Hyderabad Airport. You come out right into the thick of the city taffic. Its conveniently located right on the main road. Chandrababu Naidu had built a flyover to allow exit the airport quickly. This one however is so tiny that it gets backed up end-to-end everytime the traffic light opposite HPS turns red. It took us two hours to fly in from Delhi but an hour to cross over to Panjagutta.

I used to live in Bangalore and like most north-Indians what I craved for in food was a bit of spice. Karnataka food served in Bangalore is bland so our most popular meal-out used to be Andhra-thali. Nagarjuna, just off Brigade road used to be the place to go to. You could experience some spice and the amazingly quick customer turnaround. Then came Eden-park off Cubbon road. Still serves superb Chicken-65. So I expected to savour Andhra-thali in its truest form in Hyderabad. Nothing doing! Hyderabadis it seems, don't give a fig for Andhra-thali. No one I asked seemed to know of a decent place. Gal came to rescue again. She had found a fellow Punjoo among the Hotel staff.

We finally reached Abhiruchi. A first floor dark, thick place on S D Road, serves some of the best stuff I have ever had. The basic thali itself is quite good, with lots of Ghee poured over the rice. The real things however are called side-dishes. Chicken gongura, mutton ribs and fish fried are worth the effort. If you are a light eater, don't fill up your thali with rice and rasam, keep stomach space for these. The meal must be signed off with curds heaped with sugar crunching in your mouth. This experience cost me Rs.120 for two (Gal is a vegetarian). And by the way you do it with your fingers here.

Hyderabad Postal Dept. has a unique characteristic. The house-addresses are sure to confuse the best of snoop dogs, only the postmen can find your house by the address, . Abhruchi for example is at 1-1-274/4, SD Road, Secunderabad. Syndicate Bank's ATM is located at 5-9-246/1, Opp. Grammar School, Abid Road, Hyderabad. No one seems to know what the numbering logic is. Its just there. Then, in early nineties someone tried to clean these up and created a colonywise logical house numbering series. This created a virtual chaos because letters kept on coming from all over the world on old addresses. Now most residential colonies have two house numbers, one looking like the bowling analysis of Ajit Agarkar as above and on the same name plate a "new number".

I learnt, from Gal, that Hyderabad is the cleanest city in India of its size. Its the only city other than Surat and Chandigarh (which are much smaller) that clears up its entire garbage every day. You need to visit the old city area to realise what a great achievement this is. I didn't see a single open garbage dump, nor did I see emaciated cows and bulls ruminating on road dividers like in Delhi. Over the past six months, MCH has been running a city-wide civic awareness campaign. Loud messages saying that public toilets are clean and safe were inviting people to use them. They have placed bright, large trash-cans across the city. Kudos Hyderabad, you are setting new benchmarks in urban living in India. Cheers!

More on Gal!

Imagine the aviary flutter of waiting-room hearts,
By the tapping of a four inch heel.
Imagine the soar of desire from a lowered glance,
getting impaled on wit of shiny steel.

Think of a report scattering the gulls on a lake,
As she gracefully dives into a brawl.
Think of a coy sheath over a toughened blade,
And you’ll know a bit of Gal.

The Name Plate

Having lived in the North, I was quite amazed to see that in Ahmedabad there were no maid-servants for all the cleaning, washing jobs at home. Men did all these. My neighbours introduced me to Kanubhai. He was extremely efficient but extremely chatty too. He had a mild, pleasing personality and like all Gujaratis had that amazing urge to get richer.

He and I hit off well. He enjoyed talking to me and I really liked his honest and straightforward approach to life. We must have been of similar ages, late twenties. While I was just setting off on my career, he seemed to have already lived a lifetime. His wife, Nima used to do some stitching for a factory, while he worked in a school during the day as a peon. They had a Ten-year-old son Nilesh.

He got Nima and Nilesh to come and meet me on a Sunday morning and I saw a proud poor family. I felt really good meeting them and saw in both their eyes a desire to make something of Nilesh. Nima told me about the difficulty with which Nilesh was born. How after they lost their first baby they fasted and prayed at Nathdwar to get him. The delivery was very difficult too. Nima had survived a two hour operation to bear him. They never tried to have another baby because the doctors had warned of a threat to Nima's life. They had put Nilesh in an English-medium school. They wanted him to become a Doctor. "Saheb can you imagine a name plate outside our house, 'Dr. Nilesh Patel'?" she said. Half their family income went as his fees.

I sensed that Kanu secretly wished that his son turned out like me. He would bring him along to my house during his vacations and on Sundays. I was also happy to chat up with him. He was skinny and looked anemic but was a bright kid. He would recite his rhymes and numbers to me, while I always had a chocolate for him in my fridge. They both went back happy.

It was on a Monday morning, when Kanu asked if I could accompany him to meet some foreigners. I was a bit surprised, but was in a hurry to go to office so did not ask any more questions and promised to help him later in the evening. I completely forgot about him and came back home after nine. He was waiting outside the society’s gate. Tension was writ large on his face. I turned my bike around and made him ride pillion. He took me across Nehru Bridge to Relief Road the old part of the town. There we turned in to one of the lanes Pol. After weaving through narrow lanes he made stop in front of a dingy looking old building. It had a board Samta Nursing Home.

As we walked in, a shrill voiced Gujarati woman took us deeper inside. There under the cold white light and in a plastic enameled room were seated a harassed looking Nordic couple. Introductions were quick; Therese and Karl Vogel had come from Sweden looking to hire a womb!

'What? Come again.'

Yes, they were unable to have a baby. New technology allowed their baby to be conceived in a test-tube and gestated in another woman. When they had read about Gujarati wombs-on-rent they had come running. I just sank into the sofa in a state of shock.

'Kanu, what non-sense is this? Are you forcing Nima to go through this? She might die'. Nima walked in just then. 'The doctors have forbidden you to bear a baby again. Why?'

Kanu burst out 'Saheb, I did not even know such things existed. She had registered her name with this clinic six months ago on her own.'

'For money? How much will you get? How can you stoop so low. Its just like selling your body'. I was still shocked and angry. At Kanu, at Nima, at the Europeans, at the world, for making farms out of human bodies.

'Five lacs and all expenses' said Nima. 'This will be enough to send Nilesh to Medical college. Please help us with the contract. You are the only one we can trust'. I could see in her eyes a determination like that of harsh afternoon Sun. She was pleading with me and at the same time ordering me to let destiny be.

'Who do you think I am? This is a crime and I refuse to be a party to it'. I walked off in a huff. Outside in cool air I lit a cigarette and paced up and down the street. I just let my adrenaline come down a bit and came back in. I spoke to Karl and asked him to meet me the next day at a coffee shop.

Next morning Kanu came home early and cried. 'I tried hard to stop Nima. She just won't give up. She keeps saying that this is our last chance to get money for Nilesh's education. That she would be too old soon to bear a child'. I was not talking to him and he kept looking at my face like a pup. I felt some pity on his condition but I was still in shock at the magnitude of the act. She could really die here. I asked Kanu to meet me at Havmor on CG Road at six when Karl would be there too.

We met that evening. I insisted that Nima be put under care of a big hospital. That would have been some Ten thousand Rupees extra on check-ups and another Twenty thousand for the surgery. I also asked for additional Two thousand Rupees per month for Nima's diet. IVF was also to be done at a good but discreet hospital in Anand, an hour's drive from Ahmedabad. To his credit Karl understood the compulsions of the poor couple and did not haggle at all. Just agreed to all I said. Then I asked the really tough question.

'What if she dies?'

Karl became serious and offered to pay for an Insurance policy. We agreed for a Twenty Lac life insurance for Nima with Nilesh as the beneficiary. Kanu began weeping openly. I just ignored him, wanting him to suffer. We then just went over the adoption papers and other legal stuff to the best of my ability.

Vogels went in for IVF the next day. Within three days the doctor pronounced the procedure successful. They opted for a day-5 transfer process. Nima got admitted on time for the embryo transfer. They all waited then for two weeks, during which Nima was given hormone injections to strengthen her uterus walls. With bated breath the entourage travelled to Anand, I had asked Kanu to call me and let me know. The call came late in the evening. The pregnancy was successful. Over the next six months I became the focal point of all their communication and one to allay their anxieties, as they went back to Sweden. Nima was extremely calm and solid in all this period. There was much happiness on discovering that there were going to be twin girls.

I used to visit them at their home in Shahibag. She had grown big and used to sit on a cot outside her house all day. She told me that the babies were very naughty and kept turning inside her. I could see the maternal bonding dripping from her eyes. She had even named the two girls Pankhuri and Kompal. One day she asked,'Shankar-bhai, the deal with them was for one baby. You think I can keep one of these girls'? I said,'Nima, forget it. These are not your babies'.

It was now thirty weeks into the term. Therese and Karl came and had taken up a furnished appartment on Sarkhej highway. I was only worried about Nima. Will she survive the delivery? They had kept a taxi at her disposal, Kanu also took leave from his school to care for her. The babies were growing well.

Then suddenly one day, the pains came when there was no one near. Kanu had gone to buy some stuff, Therese and Karl were away to see some friends in IPCL Baroda. Her neighbours called me. I called up the taxi, informed Karl on his mobile and ran to see her. I reached her house in half an hour. By then the taxi had reached, as had Kanu. We all rushed to the hospital. I had not seen such pain etched on anyone's face till then.

She went straight to the OT. Within minutes they came back to get a consent signed by Kanu. He looked at me with fear in his eyes and signed it with trembling hands. The Doctor came out after half and hour and said, 'She has been bleeding. We'll see'. Kanu began crying.

Two under-weight blond girls were born and put into the incubator. Nima was still in the OT. She had lost a lot of blood as her uterus had ruptured. Doctors were fighting for her life. We had already arranged for two units of blood. The Doctors finally emerged after nearly two hours. She was stable but still critical.

We sat there through the night as she fought for her life. I kept cursing myself for allowing this to happen. How could I? Kanu went home to take care of Nilesh for a while. It was next day afternoon nearly twenty-four hours after they had come to the hospital that she was termed out of danger. She was still in the ICU but haemorrhaging had stopped. I went home to change and get some sleep. I woke up to shrill rings of the phone. It was Kanu. Nima had woken up and smiled at him looking from the ICU window.

I first went to meet Karl. They had been waiting for this to end happily and thanked me profusely. I went to see Nima with flowers and a name plate 'Dr. Nilesh Patel MBBS'. Their smiles were like sunshine.

Shafi Manzil

An unseen hand kept pulling me along that Sunday morning. Walking along the endless spread of old books and weaving through traffic and blaring horns I did not realize when I reached the foot over-bridge at the end of Daryaganj. I turned left to take me towards Gate no.1 of Delhi's Jama Masjid. It was as if I had stepped in to sepia.

On my left were stalls of bacchanalian smells and tastes. Meat clinged to spikes hanging from the ceiling while hungry tongues of flames darted out to lick at them from ovens below. It was the first time I had been invited to the terrace of Shafi Haveli. A narrow street went left from under a large neem tree taking me away from the Mosque’s steps and the throbbing din of Mina Bazar. I patted Sakina's epistle in my pocket and walked a bit faster murmuring a prayer.

It was nowhere near it’s past glory but was well lit with candles and oil lamps hanging outside. A small boy sat there and pointed to the stairs going up. The entire terrace had been carpeted and comfortable cushions were placed all around. Lamps lit up the place well. Perfumed sticks were lit to give it an ambience of luxury. I just took a Murrah, imbibed the atmosphere and sat in a corner rehearsing my poems, hoping to get a glimpse of Sakina.

As the evening hit its last quarter the mehfil had warmed up. People spoke of the glorious days when the terrace of Shafi Haveli had become the most sought after place in literary circle of Delhi. Even Mirza Ghalib used to come here every other week. The old man Sheikh Shafi, whose house it was, read out a letter from him. He had written from Calcutta that he missed the summer nights atop Shafi Haveli. He had said the terrace should now be called a Manzil, since being there was his last wish. Zauk, I heard never stooped to recite on Delhi’s terraces. He was after all the court poet. Now there was no court and no King. Hali came.

As was the routine the rookies went first, most recited homages to Meer, Sauda, Nazeer Akbarabadi and then would read out own compositions. Some spoke of the poet-King who had been exiled to Burma, but most seemed scared and avoided politics. On my turn I spoke of the brave warriors of independence; I raised the cruelty of the white army, compared it with Nadir Shah and sang of the treachery of Indians. I spoke of the cold-blooded murders of the two princes at Khooni Darwaza.

The blood was all wasted in the street,
Now there’s just water in my veins.
Poets are all busy wiping the walls,
Who will wait for the rains?

All this raised frantic eyebrows and got mild applause of relief when I ended.

Sakina, with her head covered with a dupatta, kept coming and going. She was ensuring that the poets didn’t go hungry. Her anklets provided the light-tinkling accompaniment to ghazals and nazms. Her shimmering pastel blue-green Sharara set her like a firefly darting over the subdued lights of a city reflected on a still lake. I took out my love note and placed it near my foot. As she passed me by, she gave me a shy smile and dropped an empty glass to pick up the letter. The warmth of her presence blended with the atar of roses was like being carried on gossamer through a garden of heavenly sensations.

My reward came some bit after mid-night, when Shafi saheb introduced Sakina, her daughter as a novice poet to the group. She walked up diffidently with a small piece of paper in her hand, thanked everyone present and started her recitation. It was brilliant! I was privy to some of her writings but this one was superb. She sang in a melodious voice about two lovers caught in the massacres and killing in Delhi streets. She had crafted a superb sonnet and indicted the gutless Delhiites who could not protect the couple from the ravages of the British.

That was that for the night. All hell broke loose. The scared poets desperate to protect their court stipends would not criticise the British. Four or five of them began shouting at Shafi saheb. All he could do was to look helplessly towards Sakina. As I stepped forward to defend them, someone took to me and said,

'It must be this uncouth fellow's influence'.

'Did you listen to his blasphemous verses?'

'I think we should give them up to the police and take the reward'.

There was a public reward of Rs.21 on turning in revolutionaries. One fellow craned over the railing on to the street and asked his valet to run to the nearest police post.

I and Sakina were backed up gainst the wall while the entire set of Delhi's litterati were ranged against us. Within a few more minutes some policemen reached there. They had come on horses and had guns. Shafi saheb broke down and begged them to let his daughter be. I too stepped forward to protect her. The guests would have nothing of it and accusations began flying again. The Inspector shoved me around and asked Safina to accompany him to the police station. As we were crowded down the stairs, I heard some vague slogans, 'Long live the Queen'.

I was cuffed and both of us were marched through the dark streets. The dominant emotion in my mind was anger and fear. I feared for Sakina's future, I feared for her old parents since Delhi was a highly conservative community and she was their only child, I feared for the poets gathered on the terrace for their writings could only be conceited henceforth, I feared for the citizens of Delhi for their conscience was dying everyday, and I feared for my country for the nation which was now a disparate British colony. I was angry at the whole fear psychosis, at how it had made eunuchs out of men, I was angry at all the people who had killed thousands and were still being more loyal than the Queen.

As we came up to the last bend in the street before reaching Jama masjid, I could sense a tension in Sakina walking next to me. She whispered, 'We will meet again' and within a second she broke free and ran. I was in a shock, before I could stop her she was off. All I managed was, 'No Saki..No..they have guns' but she had bolted. The inspector was rushing towards her and ordering his men to bring her back dead or alive. I put my arms up to stop them from chasing her. I never saw the rifle butt till it crashed into my face. Then there were boots all over me. Someone took a lathi and smashed it on my head and I passed out. My last sensation was some salty liquid in my mouth and Shafi saheb's long painful wail.

I was barely able to move my swollen eyes but could sense that it was still dark. My throat was parched and clothes were caked with blood. I had a searing pain in my ribs and arms. I could not even move my hands to wave away the thick swarm of flies around my head. I moved my eyes around to see where I was. I was lying on the floor at a police station. Crisp unformed shorts and curt footfalls were busily walking about. My first thoughts were about Saki. There was an optimism in my mind as I replayed the previous night. It was quite dark and the serpentine streets of Delhi could hide and entire army and Saki knew them well. I was sure she could out-smart the policemen.

And she did say, 'We will meet again'.

The delirium was broken when I heard that dreadful wail again. There was a shuffle of boots as policemen marched into the station. They were carrying something and dumped it next to me. Atar of roses! It was not possible, she had promised! I felt all my pain go away. I was so light-headed that I did not even hear Shafi saheb's wail, 'Why? Why did you have to fire? I would have brought her back'.

There was a darkness around me and suddenly I broke through the sepia. The narrow congested streets during the day looked similar, except that now there was a row of shops displaying stolen car parts and many many beggars. I took some aimless turns and saw a white-washed two story structure coming up. Some kids were playing in the street outside. A few old men were sitting and smoking.

I asked, ‘Whose house is this?’,
‘Don't know but these people emigrated from Meerut during the riots’
‘Big family?’
‘No not any more. Just the old man and his grand-daughter’
‘What are their names?’
‘I think the old man is Sheikh Shafi and calls the child Sakina!’