Rajasir's Writings
With Love from Nepal A Collection of Short Stories
True Stories from Asia
Not far from the Church gate station in Bombay, at the corner where the boundary ended and an iron-fence along the railway track started, a row of tarpaulin-roofed makeshift huts of the vagrants started and stretched up to well over a kilometer. In front of them was a two-way road, nearly always teeming with honking and blowing vehicles. Rarely was there any other time besides 1.00 to 3.00 a.m. when the road would be empty.
Along the main road, there ran a stone-paved pavement on both sides of the road. Instead of proving a help to the pedestrians, the pavement would give a good place to street vendors and beggars. The pedestrians had to jostle against one another in the peak hours. The buses, overloaded with sweating and remonstrative passengers, would pass by the pavement, emitting clouds of block smoke, leaving soot on the faces of the people living on the pavement. They were the so-called pavement-dwellers, quite habitual to smoke and dust, accustomed to rain and heat, ever quiet in response to the reproaches by the angry passers-by, unbent while getting canes and slaps from the policemen who collected weekly rent from those ill-fated souls, at the clemencies of weather. Earlier, local musclemen used to take Rs.10 per week from an individual who wanted to have a place to sleep on the pavement, but the local policemen, perhaps, tired of waiting for promotion, or restless because of no other source of income in consequence of the govt.'s stern actions against corruption, had decided to exploit the people who had pavement as their only home.
On this very footpath, there lived a young girl, about eighteen, with her old humpback father. Parvati and her father Jaman Prasad, though mostly called Jamaiya, had accepted the fact that the pavement was their home. In the name of clothes, she had only one worn out sari, that too without a blouse, which, in spite of her best efforts to cover her body, revealed the portions of her breasts, with tiny black nipples protruding under that tightly wrapped sari. Though having biscuit complexion, Parvati's facial features and curves of the waist attracted the people who passed by that pavement hut. The office-goers, waiting for taxis or buses, could not resist themselves from stealing a tantalizing glimpse of her luring body.
Her father often told her about her mother and his home in Neer Garh village near Pune. His lines, "I had a small house. Your mother was a very beautiful woman. I used to work at construction sites. I was a mason. The earthquake destroyed everything. Your mother was killed. I could not live there. You were two years old at that time. We came to Bombay. I bought this cart (hand cart like a tumbrel). I work hard but not enough money to give you a good life. You are my darling, my Parvati. I will find a bride-groom for you. You will go to your husband's house. Your old father will die, here on this footpath. Never come here after your marriage....I...will..." had been heard hundreds of times by Parvati in the evenings when he would be drunk after the day's hard work. She would give her shy smile to her father, sitting inside that oil lamp lit hut. Their belongings- an old tin box, a stove, two old blankets, a faded sheet, two dinner plates and an old soiled picture of her mother simply presented their meek disapproval of what Jamaiya used to say about Parvati's marriage and a better life.
She knew that the day's hard labor, which resulted in seven or eight rupees, could never bring her all that her father often promised.
She had a few friends, mostly those children who shared the same footpath. They were the boys who shouted at one another and their salutation also included one or two abuses. Some of them worked for the local muscle men, and the rest did whatever came their way- transporting locally brewed liquor, posing as pimps to the prostitutes in the area, stealing from the departmental stores, gambling, and what not. Nighttime street fights and police-arrests were quite common. Black-marketing of cinema tickets was as if an acquired virtue for them. They were never deterred by the police-arrests. Going to jail and coming back to their huts was like visiting some places for pleasure and homecoming. Everything seemed normal after a few days' absence.
Parvati would often think whether lives of those people would change. Sometimes, she would fix her stare on the women, girls and neatly dressed ladies who would walk with their heads held high, with an air of superiority, chatting in their tingling restrained voices, unlike the voices of the down-trodden people on the pavement. She would imagine herself to be one among them, going to office, in a light green sari, with a shoulder-bag, etc. Suddenly, her reverie would be broken by a sharp horn from one of the passing cars.
"What do they do in those offices?"Asked Parvati one day.
Her neighbor Janakibai replied indifferently, "Who knows? May be Mohan can tell you. He has passed big exam." High-school test was what they referred to as big exam.
How much Parvati wished that she could peep into the lives of those dwelling in tall rich buildings. She wanted to see how the rich parents cared for their daughters, what they did at school, how they started their marriage life, what things they ate, what they talked about, what made them so rich, why they always looked neat and clean, how their daughters did their make up and how they succeeded to get rich boy friends, and so forth. She could give the whole world for this privilege of direct vision into the lifestyle of the middle-class and rich people.
For Parvati, a festival meant a special dish of goat-meat. When the children of the wealthy people walked by, with their jeans and clean shirts on, carrying packets of sweets, crackers, flowers, etc., on the occasion of Deepawali ( the festival of lights ), she would muse over her fate, nursing a sense of vain expectation that one day she would also be one of them. Day was not difficult to pass, but as the darkness descended, She experienced uneasiness, for her father would come back home, with a bottle of locally brewed liquor. He would drink till late into night and talk loudly with himself. Parvati would be long asleep before he, finally, collapsed, having licked even the last drop.
The rich drink to mark off an occasion, or to support, or rather strengthen their notions, but her father, like millions of poor , drank to get a momentary relief from his misery, which stayed away while pulling the cart but came back as the work stopped and evening drew near.
Once or twice a week, Parvati worked as a laborer at a construction site. The money, thirty rupees a week, she mostly spent on eating different things sold by the street vendors. Sometimes, with her neighbor, Jamunabai, she afforded the luxury of going to the tea shop at the corner of the street to eat cakes and sandwiches with tea served in cups. But more from the habit than to cool the tea, Parvati would pour the tea in the saucer and drink it with loud sips.
When she was well over eighteen, Jamunabai suggested to Parvati to buy an old blouse from the market where stolen goods were sold. She spent twenty rupees and bought the blouse of light green color, the color of her dreams.
In her hut, she tried the blouse on. However she tried, the big rounded breasts could not be forced into the cup-shaped space in the blouse provided for accommodating the two heights in a woman's body. Somehow she squeezed them inside and hooked the blouse; still, some brown parts of the rounds could be seen from the curve of the neck and the gaps between two hooks in the front portion of the blouse.
The effect was instant. The green tinge had added to her beauty. To make everything look proper, she had neatly combed her hair and tied them in a knot, with the hairclip she had kept for a long time in her tin box. Some of the local boys began to flock around her. They realized that she had grown up to be in what they called business. Innocent Parvati never doubted the sincerity of the friendly invitations to movies, to teashops, or for a taxi ride. She would never go against the will of her father who often told her to stay away from those boys.
One evening, at about 8 o'clock, while Parvati was waiting for her father to return with his cart and the provisions for the night, a taxi stopped by the side of the curb. To her surprise, Jamaiya stepped out.
"Parvati! Parvati! Come, look the master has invited us to dinner," he shouted and pulled her hand. Parvati could smell the spirit in his breath. She sensed something fishy, but she kept quiet and got on the taxi, without any demur. Jamaiya kept a piece of tin-sheet in front of the opening of the hut, and it served as the door. He entered the taxi and locked the door. After a few moments, the taxi stopped in front of a building. Jamaiya paid the driver and led Parvati to an apartment on the third floor. The door was ajar, and without any hesitation, he pushed the door in and told Parvati to go inside. She knew Kanaiyalal, a local pimp, sitting on a sofa, in front of which there were two glasses with a bottle of English whiskey and some cashew nuts in a plate. He offered some to Parvati and she, before taking some, looked in the direction of her father. He nodded and smiled. Kanaiyalal motioned Parvati to sit near him on the sofa. He gave five hundred rupees to Jamaiya.
"Go into the bathroom and take a bath," Kanaiyalal said to Parvati. But she did not move. He got up and pulled her by her hand. It was a nice tiled bathroom with a shower. He handed Parvati a new sari to wear and told to come out soon. Parvati, as if hypnotized, could not go against his commands.
She didn't even know why she had been told to take a bath. She was too simple to understand the meaning of being a young woman. She was rather confused why Kanaiyalal had given money to her father. While standing under the shower and looking at her fully developed body in the wall mirror in the bathroom, she began to imagine how she would look in that new sari which was gifted to her. She applied soap vigorously all over her voluptuous body. She felt a tingling sensation when the cake of soap reached under her waist. For a moment, she believed that her father's promise of getting her married to a handsome bridegroom was going to be fulfilled.
When she stepped out of the bathroom, wearing the red sari, she looked an absolutely different Parvati. She entered the room where she had left her father with Kanaiyalal. But, she was shocked, for a while, not to find her father there.
"Where is my father?" she was very nervous.
"What work does he have here now? Come, sit by me. You are mine now. Sit with me,"Kanaiyalal spoke softly and directed her to the sofa.
"This is your house?" said Parvati hesitantly, looking at the wallpaper.
"Yes, my dear," laughed he, putting his right arm on her shoulder. Parvati was too innocent to mind that. He offered her a drink which she accepted rather timidly.
"It's bitter!" coughed Parvati, just having taken a sip of the whiskey.
"Drink it up quickly! It will taste better after a while," said Kanaiyalal, supporting her glass from the bottom and pushing it to her mouth.
The whiskey having entered her bloodstream, Parvati felt wonderful. Her eyes had developed a kind of glitter, and they looked dreamy. He looked handsome to her. His touch seemed to be very comforting. He made her drink again and gave her some snacks to eat.
After a while, she found herself in a large bed in the adjoining room. It was like a dream, in that soft velvety cushioned bed. Kanaiyalal was all over her body. He was kissing her very passionately. He began to remove her clothes very delicately. His lips enclosed her nipple of the right breast. She felt ecstasy unknown to her and she shrieked with pleasure. Parvati made no attempt to stop Kanaiyalal. The poor girl never realized that she had been sold to that beast for a few hundred rupees, and in the morning she would have to go back to the realistic world of the pavement.
Next morning, when she was walking towards her shabby tent-house beside the pavement, she could notice the stares of the neighboring boys. Some of them whistled and passed vulgar remarks. By now she was clever enough to know why they were staring at her. She had also become one of those Dhandewali (whore). She had heard about the girls selling their bodies and earning money. Now she had also become one of them.
Jamaiya was still asleep when she came inside. She stared at his face for a while, and suddenly got furious. She spat on his face with a loud vulgar shout," You bastard! You made your daughter a whore! You pimp! "Parvati did not notice that the boys of the area had gathered outside her hut. She came out and gave them a hard stare, and they begin to disappear one by one.
After that day, Parvati began to cash on her body. She had suddenly changed and she openly contacted the loc al pimps who arranged customers for her. She would go out with her customers at night and come back to her hut early in the morning. Within a few months she had saved enough money to buy a small apartment, with the help of a local pimp.
Meanwhile, Jamaiya's health began to deteriorate, for he had started drinking excessively with the money which was so easily available to him. He had to be hospitalized. In spite of the good medical care, he did not survive long. One night he vomited blood and fell unconscious. He never came to senses again. The father's death was only an incident for Parvati. After the cremation of the dead body, she entered her room and began to drink from the bottle which her father had left. Within no time she was drunk, and she began to throw his belongings out of the window. The vagrants in the street happily collected those things and ran away.
Parvati was a famous name among the pimps in the Bombay Central area. Sometimes she had to entertain one of the local police officers to get the favor and to avoid the harassment she faced when the raiding police parties troubled her. She was happy as she was. Life was easy, with all the money to spend on good food, clothes and ornaments.
One night, after about two years, she had a strange customer, a rich man's son, about 26 years of age. He had paid her Rs.6oo for one night. His name was Vijay Kumar. Unlike other customers, who would immediately undress her and fulfill their sexual demands, Vijay Kumar spent the whole night chatting with her. The questions were the same which she had heard hundreds of times from her other customers: why did you enter this business? Don't you have any family? And so on. The customers would ask such questions but having enjoyed her body, they never stopped to listen to the woes of the poor girl. But, this boy was different.
Vijay was from Pune. The boy was studying in Bombay, so he had told Parvati. After the first night, he began to visit her every Friday night. This continued for about six months, but during all this period he had never tried to get what he used to pay for. He informed Parvati that his father had passed away and his uncles had taken over the business of his father. Vijay seemed to be gloomy all the time. His mother had died when he was only ten years old.
"Parvati, now I don't want to go back to Pune. Will you marry me ?" asked he, so casually that Parvati was thrown off balance. She had no words in her mouth. Since she had become a prostitute , she had stopped thinking about a married life and family.
"Answer me. Will you? I love you. I don't know what you are , or how many men you have slept with, all I know is that I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life", he said all this in one breath. His tone suggested extreme sincerity.
Next morning, Parvati called a broker and sold her apartment for Rs.60,000 , with the provision that the possession would be given after one month after the payment, for Parvati and Vijay needed time to look for another place to live, away from that part of Bombay. Within a week they were declared husband and wife by a priest in a small temple in the remote part of Bombay, near Borivali.
With the money which she had saved and the money received from the sale of her own apartment, they bought a small house in a village in Northern Bombay, away from the people who recognized her as a prostitute. Vijay had his driving license, and he got a taxi on daily basis from a local dealer. The owner of the taxi was a generous man, and knowing that Vijay was a qualified person, he didn't hesitate in handing him the keys of a taxi, of course without any deposit or guarantee. He charged Vijay less than the other drivers. Vijay had to pay him Rs.100 per day to the owner.
Life was easy for the newly married couple. Vijay loved Parvati very much. He would teach her how to read and write. Parvati could expect nothing more. She had all that she had once dreamt of. That Parvati from the pavement near the Church gate station had a loving husband and a small house of her own to boot. After one year, she gave birth to a boy child. Their happiness knew no bounds. Parvati was thrilled. She wanted to give him all those things which she had seen in the hands of the rich children, while she would be sitting on the pavement. Vijay had never given any chance of complain in their married life. In this way, three years passed happily.
One night, Vijay complained of a headache. Parvati gave him aspirin. It was quite normal. They suspected nothing. But, the destiny had some other plans for poor Parvati. One day, at about noon time, she was informed by a taxi driver friend of Vijay that Vijay was in a hospital. Taking her son along, she rushed to the hospital.
Vijay was in the intensive care unit. The doctors told her to bring certain medicines which they had prescribed. Parvati spent about Rs.4, 000 on his treatment. He came home after two weeks. The words of the doctor were haunting Parvati," He has a brain-tumor! He has a brain-tumor!" They had told her that the operation would cost about sixty thousand rupees. The medicines and the accommodation in the hospital would be about twenty five thousand.
Parvati never told Vijay even a word about his illness. One month later, Vijay was hospitalized. Parvati had arranged money by pawning the house. She sold all her ornaments, but she was still short of about twenty thousand rupees. There was no way she could raise the remaining amount of money to treat Vijay. Operation was to take place on Sunday. There were five days in her hand. There was no other way but to go to her old acquaintances, the pimps. She left her son with a neighbor for five days and once again entered that mire from where she had come out so happily. The customers were not hard to find. She worked day and night. Right from Rs.100 to Rs.2000 per night, she entertained almost all the customers, sometimes ten in a day. She wanted to save Vijay at any cost. For all her attempts, she could not save him. He died two days after the operation. After his death, she realized that she would have to go back whence she had come.
There was no time for mourning, for had she tried to dress like a widow, carrying the memories of her loving husband, feeding the child and her own survival would have been impossible. She had already sold most of the household goods. Now she had only one aim-to give a better life to her son. She would never let it happen to her son. She determined to collect as much money as she could by selling herself to the so-called civilized men of the society, who kissed, licked and sucked every part of her body. She was fully back in her business, and the apartment, but this time she had taken the apartment on rent.
She had sent her son to a boarding school, away from that filthy place of her own. Once in a week, she would visit him. Hardly had she recovered from the loss of her husband when a new reality was in front of her. One morning, while bathing, she noticed a small pimple on her left thigh. She didn't mind it much. After a week, three more pimples appeared on the same thigh. There was a rash around her vagina. While passing urine, she felt a burning sensation. She visited a local doctor, and he gave her some tablets.
She had to be very careful lest any sign of the disease should appear on her face. The day it happened would be the last for her business. Finally, it did happen one day. A small pimple appeared on her nose. She noticed some dry patches under her lower lip. She applied some cream, but in a few days the dry patches turned red. The customers did not notice much in the darkness of the room. They used to be either drunk or too dazed by her beauty to notice that she had a dreaded disease.
One day a pimp noticed that and he demanded bigger share. He threatened to disclose her secret to the customers. Now, she began to get less and less amount of money for the services she provided to the lusty, blinded customers. The pimps would snatch away the major portion of her earnings.
However, it did not remain a secret for long. No customers would come to her. They began to shun her. In a few months, she was thrown out of her apartment. She had no place to go to. Finally, she decided to go back to her original home- the pavement near the Church gate station. The child was with her now.
One year later, on that pavement, a woman, a leper, was trying to avoid the flies that were trying to settle on her face to suck the liquid oozing out of her wounds. There was no nose on her face. She looked frightening. The child was playing nearby. A few passers by took pity and threw a few coins in front of her. Parvati was trying to smile but the grotesque face was too disgusting to produce any smile. Wasn't it like a dream? The ultimate destiny of a lovely woman was too cruel to be described as the God's act. The lines were ringing in her ears, " I will find a handsome bridegroom for my Parvati, my goddess."
Raja Sir.
Yes or No
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 I often find people with anxious, worried, dismayed faces and I smile because I see through them. What I see then is the struggle they are going through, both privileged and underprivileged.
A man can live life either as a No or as a Yes. If you live your life as a no, you become a warrior; you are constantly fighting. Then life is just a struggle, a war and you are fighting against everybody else. Of course it is a losing war, you are bound to lose. One can't win against the whole; the whole idea is stupid. But it appeals to the ego. The ego always wants to say no. No is nourishment for the ego. Yes is creative, yes is the way of the creator, the way of the lover. Yes means surrender. If no means war then yes means surrender; surrendering to the whole, trusting the whole as a friend and there is no need to fight, trusting life and existence. Learn to say yes, learn to be yes, and a total yes. Don't hold back anything and don't make any conditions on the yes. And you will be surprised: life starts growing in leaps and bounds, life starts becoming such a splendor, such a beauty, such a grace that one cannot even imagine it. Life can become an unending ecstasy. All that is needed on your part is to open your doors and windows. Say yes to the winds, to the sun, to the moon, to the rain, to the whole. You must be surprised to read these lines, and you should be because you are not at the moment in the plan of Yes and from your own vantage point you are watching this YES only as a mute spectator. Come, join the party of YES and be part of the whole, and you will see that the divine bliss which the poets boast of in their poesy will be in you, with you, around you, and as a result you will be a bliss, an inseparable part of the whole. I love you all God bless you Rajasir 3rd June 2008 |
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Author Notes
The story has been inspired by a real life incident
The Buddha in Me
The tick-tock of the wall clock, in the study, as if not ready to fall behind, kept a harmonious rhythm with John's heart-beat, during his walk to and fro. John Christopher did seem to be in a dilemma, as reflected on the contracted skin of his forehead. The ultimate step, emanating from the lingering duality, whether he could leave his wife and son, was being delayed, perhaps, due to the realization that he loved them more than anything else in the world.
John had read many times that Lord Buddha had renounced all the worldly pleasures. This belief had made him strong enough to come out of the situation in which the family ties endeavored to confine him."The Enlightenment! The Enlightenment!" The Buddha in him was about to burst forth. Moreover, what else remained there to be seen in life? Hadn't he had his share of life, with all that money, the girls, rich materialistic achievements?
It was about eight years before he had been to Nepal, the land of peace and beauty, teeming with splendors of Mother Nature. How delightful experience it had been to be away , for the first time , from all those familiar surroundings in New York and the American place of life, which in a country like Nepal had made him feel as if he had entered an entirely new world. For somebody else it would have been a trip to unthinkable backward place, but John felt that materialistic prosperity brings spiritual bankruptcy along. The attraction towards that scenic kingdom was irresistible.
The year was 1972, when he reached Lumbini, the birth place of Lord Buddha. It was a long exhausting bus journey from Kathmandu. John had no idea what he was going to do in Lumbini. It was like drifting into a remote past. The first night in a small but cozy lodge in Lumbini was a nightmare, full of hallucinations. Nevertheless, he seemed to be quite at peace with himself the next morning when the first rays of light brought the chanting of the Buddhist mantras along.
Born in a very wealthy family, John Christopher had spent his childhood with all the advantages of a luxurious life, under the care of his loving father, a tycoon in the American automobile industry. Motherless at the age of ten, John had the recollection of those painful agonizing days when his mother was on her deathbed, but, in spite of the best medical attention, she could not be saved, and was not able to see her son grow beyond the age of ten years.
After his mother's death, his father decided to send him to a boarding school in Washington. During the holidays, his father would visit him and they would go for outings. Though his father never let John feel that he was a neglected child, John, gradually, drifted away from his father on emotional level. When he was fifteen, his father gifted him a geared bike, and after his graduation, he was presented his first sports car. It was altogether a new world for young John. He turned out to be a typical American boy, who loved fast cars, giggly girls and drinks.
Having come back to New York, he insisted on having a separate apartment, away from his father's luxurious villa. But he decided to enter his father's business. John's father had many showrooms all over the country. It provided John many opportunities of traveling around. The father was not less pleased to have his son beside. The Jaguars, Ferraris, Datsuns, Toyotas, etc. had always enchanted John.
In the third year, John met a girl named Florence, a tall blonde, with dreamy blue eyes. She was a waitress in a nearby restaurant at Park Avenue. John often visited the place whenever he used to be in his New York office. It was a comfortable small restaurant near ABN bank. Born of an Italian mother and an American father, Florence was beautiful enough to turn many heads when she walked along the street.
Introduction to offering of a drink led to a date one evening, to be followed by many repetitions, to ultimately culminate in the bed, in John's apartment, which stood witness to the promises made between John and Florence, on the seventh occasion of the dating. His father, though having cherished a desire to see a pure American girl as his daughter-in-law, and not a common half American girl, perhaps subdued by the fact that the boy had spent most of his childhood without his mother, concealed his dislike and arranged a grand party on the occasion of their marriage. John was twenty three and Florence nineteen at the time of their marriage.
The happy married life lasted for two years, and in the second year, Florence gave birth to a boy. For John it was a very proud feeling to be a father. When their son, Jimmy, was about one year old, John convinced his father to establish a manufacturing unit of their own to produce automobile parts. So the plan was approved and a factory was set up in Detroit. Now, owing to the expansion of the business, John was obliged to spend fair amount of time away from home.
One morning, at the breakfast table, Florence said, "I think, your son needs you at this stage. He is almost one year old."
"I am well aware of all that, my sweetie," smiled John, munching the last piece of the toast.
"As you wish, Dad," said Florence and moved onto the adjacent room.
"I will be late tonight".
"Nothing surprising, dear," Florence gave a faint smile.
Her smile rather irritated him, for he was well aware of her sarcastic ways of putting forward her annoyance and anger, typical Italian.
"Bye, darling, "said he, and kissing her on her lips, quickly strode out of the room.
The woman inside Florence very patiently resisted the emotion of shouting at once. During last six months, John had spent many days out of station. She did try to convince and console herself about the loyalty of her husband, but the grudge against the unseen hypothetical female rival, which is often there in the mind of a wife whose husband spends nights away from his own nest, troubled her time and again.
Loneliness and a kind of neglect she did feel at home, for John was so busy that he hardly had time to revive the glorious moments of lovers of the past. This led to a unwanted habit of drinking. And sometimes, she would start drinking as early as 10 o'clock. The solitude, brought to her in John's absence was killing her. With the progression of time, her new pastime, drinks, transformed into a habit, and she didn't even realize that she had become an alcoholic. Jimmy, her son, used to be under the care of his baby-sitter, most of the time.
It was about a year and a half after the new unit had been started. One night, drunk and angry, she shouted at John. John, however he tried to convince her, could not make her realize that the new business demanded his presence at many places. He was compelled to visit different towns to promote the products of their company.
John decided to cancel all his business assignments for one week so that he could be with his wife and son. But no sooner had he resumed his work than the abuses began to be hurled at him by Florence in the evenings. This often happened when he returned from an out of station trip. But for the patience in John, their marriage would have ended in the fifth year. Up to the best of his endurance, he endeavored to keep himself dispassionate and, very patiently, he sustained the insulting remarks of his wife.
One night, the quarrel exceeded all limits and crossed the boundary of all the civility. He was in the living room, with a newspaper in his hand. Florence was in the bathroom. He had just come back from a long journey to Nevada. Suddenly, the bathroom door opened and belligerent voice of his wife was heard.
"Got fed up with all those whores you have been seeping with?" She was stone drunk.
"I have come back from a business trip," he remonstrated.
"Business! You call it a business, leaving your wife and son behind for weeks and months, without ever thinking that we are humans too!"She screamed, with her vibrant body trembling behind the pink nightgown she had on.
"That's enough, Florence!" shouted John, trying to control the pitch of his tone.
"Why do you come back? Go! Get out!" she was not herself, and before John could realize what was going to happen, she hurled the glass tumbler, which she had in her hand, at John. He had no chance to avoid that throw, and it struck him on his forehead. The glass dropped onto the floor and shattered. The hit was quite powerful enough to make a wide gaping cut on his forehead. Before long his shirt was drenched in his own blood.
Florence stood there, almost speechless, with her eyes wide open with amazement. She tried to take a step toward John, but, without looking at her, he began to pace toward the outer door leading to the passage. Once outside the house, he got in his car and accelerated it, leaving behind a loud screech and dark marks of the burnt rubber on the cemented porch. He was unable to consign his misery to anybody except his father. How much he yearned to revive that comely ambiance of the family life which had prevailed everywhere in his house before he had started the manufacturing unit.
Next morning, when he opened his eyes in his father's bedroom, in his father's house, he had a bandage around his head. He could feel the swollen portion on his forehead, under the medicated cotton pad. Florence had rung up several times but the maid, as instructed by John, didn't tell Florence anything about John. He stayed in his father's house for two days, and on the third morning, he was aboard an airbus flying to Kathmandu. He had realized that he needed a few days away from home and office. He had simply walked into the office of a travel agency and asked for a month long tour to any Asian country, beginning that week. He wanted peace and the surroundings which could, for a few days, keep him alien to the New York life.
The nearest tour was to Nepal. This is how he started his journey to the land of Gautama Buddha, the divine sage. Through the in-flight magazines, he gathered a little information about the mountainous country, Nepal.
John got lost in the relics of the past. In the evenings, he would sit with some Buddhist monks at a monastery and learn about the life of Lord Buddha. Everything around fascinated him It was altogether a divine experience to him. Whatever he learned from the monks made him susceptible as to the Catholic past of his life. Nothing but search for truth seemed to be there in Buddha's life-no mention of punishment, hell, fires, etc. His Americanism seemed to be endeavoring to be resilient, as if ashamed to demonstrate the real John.
He spent well over a month in Lumbini, trying to get every bit of insight into Gautama Buddha's life. He never worried about his wife and his son, for he knew that his father would tell her that John had gone on a business trip to Nepal.
Now, after eight years, he was recollecting all those events. Having come back to America, he found that he was a transformed man. All through those eight years, though being involved in business and the family life, trying to be patient with his wife, he had kept himself like a recluse who answered when he was spoken to. Florence had been nice to him, and her doubts had been resolved through inquiries about her husband's extra marital affairs came to nothing. He had come out as a divine figure to him. Her changed demeanor had convinced John that she was passing through a hellish period of repentance, full of guilt. However nice and good looking she tried to be, she failed to attract John to revive their physical relation.
On the other hand, John, after his return, began to concentrate less on his business. The manager had informed Senior Christopher that John was being dangerously gracious to their buyers. It was not in favor of their business. All the same, John would lock himself in his study and submerge himself in the study of the thick books which he had collected indiscriminately, at an amazing speed, after his return from Nepal.
He was like a drowning man clutching at every spar. John, as if, desired to reveal the Buddha in his existence. For hours at end, he would be squatting in a lotus position, with his eyes closed and palms turned upward on his knees. Though Florence had calmly accepted the change, she was more frightened than confused because she had presentiments which did not seem to be in favor of their family life.
John was practicing renunciation, and he wanted to alienate himself from the material world. Hadn't Lord Buddha gone through this stage in his life? Hadn't He done penance? Otherwise, how He could have got the supreme knowledge. Sometimes, John would stand in front of the mirror and make various promises to himself. He would repeat the oath to continue his penance for the enlightenment. Hadn't Emperor Asoka renounced his Empire and become a monk?
Now, the moment of the decision had come. He had been struggling with his conscience for so many days. He did want to follow the great masters, the great sages, the great teachers, the Gurus, who had spent the greater parts of their lives being wanderers in search of truth.
As John stepped out of the study, he heard his son's voice. He was playing with Florence. So what? Even Prince Siddhartha (Gautama Buddha) had left his wife and son behind. "I have to do it! I have to do it!" Whispered John.
Suddenly, he heard Seeger's voice on the recorder in his wife's bedroom-"We shall overcome......we shall ..... "His wife and son were also singing.
"What is to be overcome?" thought John. He entered his study once again and sprawled on the sofa.
"What do I want to achieve? What do I want to learn - love, truthfulness, peace, brotherhood, faith, patience, nonviolence, loyalty, or what?" said John to himself.
"Am I right in doing so? Leaving my family? All the great masters have said the same thing but made them great? It was the new knowledge disclosed by them to the majority of the ignorant people at that time. But now, even a school boy knows about all these things which were named divine revelations of the past. He seemed to be quite confused. He got to his feet and moved toward the book-shelves. He picked up "The Bhagvat Gita" and began to concentrate on the verses in front of his eyes. It was, by this time, a habit of his to begin to read Gita when he felt confused.
Suddenly, a verse attracted his attention:
(Chapter v: verse 24)
"He, who finds happiness within, his joy within, and likewise his light within, is the Yogi who becomes divine and attains to the beatitude of God (Brahma nirvana).
John read the line several times, and suddenly his face began to beam. He laughed aloud. "I have got it! I have got it!" He was jumping and shouting all over the house. The ecstasy of the moments was more than that felt by John during the happy time. It was like Archimedes shouting, "Eureka! Eureka!" after his discovery.
Florence and Jimmy stood in the hall, with their eyes wide open, but a tinge of joy and amusement could be seen on their faces. John came to Florence and embraced her tightly. He bent down and kissed his son on both of his cheeks. The house, as if, had come alive after all those years of silence. He picked up the telephone and dialed his personal secretary. Without waiting to accept her greetings, John said," Hello, Jeanie, we will be discussing the new project tomorrow. We have to finalize it tomorrow only because the day after tomorrow, I am leaving for Nepal, of course with family. It will be a month long trip". And before he could get any reply, he put the receiver down.
Raja Sir.
How to be a Good Story Writer!
Values are given words and words are shared with the readers who try to get nearer to the values conveyed by the writer. Though I have taught Literature for more than two decades, I had never given importance to the fact how much others can benefit from my experience. Then came a prophet, Mr. Walter L Jones, and everything changed for me.
A huge majority of the writers are often trapped by an illusion that structure is their ultimate goal while writing a story. Structure is a kind of God to them. Undoubtedly, structure is an inevitably important part of your story but it might as well destroy story if excessive attention is paid to it.
There is no dearth of hit movies and novels in the markets flooded with new releases. They seem to be fulfilling all the requirements of story but I feel that they seem to be contrived, uninspired and lifeless and one can feel that the writer has moved with a plan.
These kinds of writers are merely mechanics who assemble the different parts. Some linguists call them Story Mechanics. They plan the structure, syntax, length and so on and according to the prescriptive requirements contrive a story. It looks like a fancy paint job. Many of the Great Masters like D.H.Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, Stevenson, Dickens, Rudyard Kipling had perhaps never heard about the blueprints, plan, sentence arrangement because they were guided by the values they had in mind. They were the writers who could be called Story Weavers. Such writers begin with subjects or concepts they are passionate about and the structure draws its form from the material. Their characters are people before they become characters. In their stories events take place first and then they become a plot. They keep values before theme and a genre is secondary to a world they develop.
I will call these writers Storytellers or Story Weavers. Their stories have the power to captivate the mind and the fullness of human emotion. The spontaneity guides them through their story to make it involving, engrossing and mind arresting. They take you along in their world of values and emotions.
Shall we start now?
To my students I tell not to think about structure for the time being. Forget about characters, plot, theme, genre, etc. First of all try to draw an inspiration and then develop it. Next comes exposition and finally the act of storytelling.
Your inspiration can emanate from many sources: it can be an overheard conversation, a story written by somebody else, a newspaper article, a journey, a place, a real life character, an event, or an encounter, etc.
First of all a suitable environment is needed. Some writers prefer a secluded place and some write while listening to music. It is your personal choice and to suit your mood you should find or create the environment. The compromise with it may not be what you want. Tools may be chosen according to the availability or your preference. Keep one thing in mind that any creative art ought to be , by necessity, performed in seclusion, for many geniuses will come in between to comment upon the incomplete work and as a result depress the writer.
Developing the story is the second stage.
Now you try to populate the story with the people you want to keep in. Don't ever think about the end product. write a few lines about all the characters and what they are going to do in your story or what is going to happen to them in your story. Forget about style, diction, length, etc. because they will take care of themselves as you move along.
Generally, a good exposition can tell people what the story is about. It is the writer's choice whether he wants to give hints about the characters or expose them with the progression of his story. In some cases you will have to be careful about the exposition because the target group of readers may not be as well equipped in their reception as you might think. EXPOSITION if handled properly can add to the strength of the main story.
Storytelling should begin as casually as opening a packet of cigarettes or waving a hand to a passing friend. Start writing as if everything is happening in front of your eyes. Sometimes, it happens that a writer is spellbound by the grandeur of a sentence that he or she has written but immediately after that the pen stops moving because the power of the preceding sentence frightens the writer and he is trapped in the comparisons whether he or she should try to maintain the standard of the preceding sentence or write naturally. Don't ever fall into such traps because they will take you deeper into the structural maze and your story will be comprehensible only to you or a few cursed souls who might try to find out what you are trying to say. One or two amazing complex sentences can prove to be an icing on the cake but if you try to make the whole cake like that it might be nothing more than a big lump of sugar.
The final point is to reread and rewrite what you have written. In some cases editing by a better qualified person may be helpful but if you are sure that your words are deliberately arranged by you to convey a particular meaning or sense, then don't go for it. Spellings, spacing and other formalities can be performed by any editing software or by a learned person. In some cases your distorted grammar is the requirement of the story. My main objective in writing this paper is to convey a clear message to the writers or the aspiring writers to start writing with a deaf ear to reviewers or critics because I have concluded that "A critic or a reviewer is a creature who tells a writer what you have written." Though he or she as a critic or a reviewer might be miles away from the reality. Don't laugh! I also tell the writers what they have written.
By Rajasir 6th June 2008
Is this Love?
The small village was still asleep. The chilly dark African nights had innumerable mysteries in their womb. Near the northern part of the village, there was an open space which was used by the local children as their playground. Rebecca was in the habit of visiting that ground every night to sit there for hours and vacantly stare at the stars. She could hardly remember the night when she had slept more than three hours. Mostly the nights were disturbed by the gunfire sound, either produced by the Yoruba militants' guns, or by the retaliating armed forces of the President Mosaka.
Since she had come to realize her own existence in the world, she had found herself surrounded by miseries. The mother was killed in an ambush near their village, the elder brother had joined the armed forces, and the younger brother was an active member of a guerilla group, the father she had never seen in sober condition, always drunk. The locally brewed palm wine was as if the prime objective of the local men. This they talked about, traded, brewed, sold to the people in the city, and even went drunk to sleep thinking of it.
Today, she is very lonely, for her father is not in their thatched hut. He had gone to the city for just one day but it is the fifth day today. He had promised her that he would bring a nice dress for her. She had seen an American movie once when she had visited the city with her father. She was surprised to see the color of the women in the movie. In her hut she had a broken triangular piece of mirror which she had befriended because she could talk to it and ask it why her color was so dark. Suddenly, she hears the sounds approaching the ground. Rebecca hides herself behind a tree surrounding the ground. She was almost sixteen and the women in the village often reminded her of her growing age. At first she used to ignore them but now she understands what they meant.
"She should be somewhere around," said a voice.
"Are you sure, she is here?" said another voice.
"Yes, she comes here every night," he insisted.
Rebecca got a dark vision of the boy with the gun. She recognized him. He was Robin, a handsome boy from the village to the south of their own.
They were classmates when she used to go to the missionary school in the church. He was very nice to her. He often bought her sweets, pencils and story books. She did not know where he got money from. One day he suddenly disappeared in the jungle and never came back. After three years, he was before her, looking for her in the darkness. Has he come to meet her? She did want to come out of hiding to greet him but the gun in his hand frightened her.
"Go, find her anyhow. I must meet her!" he was shouting at his comrade.
"I can't see anything in the darkness," protested his companion.
"We must go back tonight, otherwise the commander will be angry," said the first.
"Why don't you go to her house?" said his comrade.
"The army goons are all over the village and I don't want to take any risk," said the known voice.
Rebecca's heart was palpitating, and she felt sweat trickling down her throat. Her voice wanted to escape the confines of her throat but she composed herself.
Hardly had she realized her situation when the gunfire broke out. The ground was flooded with the lights of the army vehicles. She heard two cries and the rattle of the gunfire. After about three minutes, everything was silenced.
Next morning, the villagers were thronging to see the dead bodies of the boys killed in the darkness of the night. The dead bodies were lying on the ground and flies were feasting on the thick blood over the bullet wounds. At some distance, Rebecca was standing, staring constantly at the dead body of her friend. Her eyes were moist. Then she rushed towards her hut and pulled the broken mirror out of the sack. She looked in the mirror, and her wet eyes were asking, "Is this love?"
By Raja sir 3rd March 2008
Learn English my Way!
Raman Nath had come to England many years before India gained independence from England. I can say that the soul of this English language had entered his body and it did not come out until this episode occurred in his life.
Mrs. Raman Nath was generally annoyed with the way he used his language.
"Would you like to have a cup of tea?" would be answered very casually by something like this, "The physical aspects of my existence disregard the generous offer extended to me but the mental ingenuity vicariously compels me to acquiesce to it."
The servant Champak Lal was also highly afflicted with this contagion of Mr. Raman Nath.
"Sir, the illumination resources in this living space are not performing as required of them."
"It becomes necessary to send for the human who has the expertise of curing this functional disability of these illumination resources, so your departure from this house to look for that particular individual is inevitable," would be the reply from Mr. Raman Nath.
One day, when he was about to write something, he found that there was no ink left in his fountain pen. The summons to Champak Lal had to be imminent. He started in this way, "The instrument which is designed to record the currents or pulses emanating from the seat of my consciousness is devoid of the colored liquid that is used to give visible form to the aforementioned currents or pulses."
Champak Lal brought the ink pot very obediently.
That day ended the Anglicism of Mr. Raman Nath when he had to pay a very heavy price for his, call it, Ramanism.
His wife needed certain pills for a certain disease to restore normal breathing. There were no pills at home and she had told her husband to send them immediately, buying on his way to his office. Unfortunately, he forgot to send them immediately.
After about four hours, Champak Lal entered his office. He was panting and sweating.
"Sir, the better half of my master, due to non-availability of the small rounded white objects, which are swollen to restore the normal cycle of inhaling and exhaling of the air through which oxygen is absorbed by the internal metabolism of her body, is almost on the verge of her final departure from the world in which we exist........."
"Bloody fool......go......save...her...!"
You can imagine what would have happened next.
By Raja sir 1st January 2006
Author Notes
I hope you enjoyed reading this madness of mine.
Rajasir
Be Homeless!
One day a very thoughtful student said to me, "Sir, why didn't Jesus, Buddha, Nanak and many like them have any home?"
I was caught unawares and I remained silent for quite some time. Then I began , as is my habit, in a didactic manner:
A long time ago there was a great sage, you may call him Christ, Buddha, Nanak, or whatever you like. He would wander from village to village, preaching to people and fulfilling their spiritual requirements. The sage had been traveling for many years and he did not stay at one place for long.
One day the sage and his disciple, let's name him Ananda, reached a village near the bank of the holy Ganges. Though the villagers were very religious, they were not ready to listen to the sage who was speaking against superstitions, dogmas, orthodoxy and evil practices prevalent in the area. They started pelting stones and some of them tore the sage's clothes. The dogs were let loose on the sage and his disciple. A stone hit the sage on his forehead and made a big cut. The sage was smiling. He said, "Be happy and live happily! God bless you and your village!"
Ananda, the disciple, was quite confused but he did not say anything.
Next day they reached another village. The villagers were more than generous; they touched his feet and took his blessings; they offered the sage their delicacies to eat; they washed his feet with milk and warm water; they provided him the softest bed available.
The sage spent two days in that village. When it was the time of departure, the whole village gathered at one place to get his blessings. The sage said, "Be homeless! Scatter all over the world!"
The villagers were intelligent and they understood what the sage meant but the disciple was more confused this time.
Finally he said," My Guru, you blessed bad people and cursed these good people. I don't understand anything."
The sage smiled and said," I told the people to be happy in their own village because they have nothing to offer to the world and they will contaminate the places they go to. They had better remain in their own village."
"You told these good people to be homeless?"
"Yes, my son. These good people should go to different places. Wherever they go they will carry their goodness with them. They will spread their fragrance in all directions. If they remain confined to their homes, the world will be deprived of many virtuous souls."
The disciple got the message and he knelt before the sage.
When I finished the story, I could see a very satisfying emotion on the faces of my students and I could feel that they had got their answer.
" Sir, I am not going to concentrate on the material from now on."
"See,only those races have prospered who have traveled and spread the message of love."
I had a faith that many modern Columbuses, Gamas and Marcopolos were in the making in my classroom.
By Rajasir 5th May 2001
Are We All Going to Die?
In our life time we have heard many predictions that the end of the world is near. The Holy Scriptures through the ages have heard the gong for the last round. First it was Nostradamus and then came many more to predict.
The Pueblo-Indians, the Zulu and the Maya have mentioned the year 2012 as the year of the last round. The Maya made their predictions about the moment when the end would come on the basis of the calculations they had made hundreds of years ago and the calculations still hold nowadays.Now once again there is a renewed fervor among the scientific and religious communities all over the world.
The Maya had their own accurate calenders.They calculated in periods of 26000 years and larger. These periods evolved from their own calculation of time which seems to be superior in accuracy, also to our own calendar. In the documentary 'The Year Zero' during a speech, a Maya cleverly points out one of the mistakes of our Western calendar to the audience. He says that if we would have calculated correctly according to the insight of the Maya, we would not have made mistakes in our own calendar count. The month of October (Oct=8) would now have been the eighth month, November (Nov=9) the ninth and December (Dec=10) the tenth. Here and there there's a plea to adopt the natural calendar of the Maya.The speaker was certain that the modern scientists would pay attention to his points.It did happen and the astronomers, astrologers, scientists and other groups of intellectuals have started a new debate.
Is the world going to end in 2012?
Many predictions were made in the past and many are being made now giving various reasons. The Maya were very accurate in their calculations and as a consequence could make very accurate predictions. They even were so specific that in this enormous cycle of 26000 years they could pinpoint the exact day: December 21, 2012. This date marks the end of the large calendar and of the cycle of thirteen so-called baktuns after which the earth starts the 'period of the fifth sun'. According to their calculations, which still are astronomically correct, our solar system will be in one line with the center of the Milky Way, the place the Maya call the Mother Womb. Maya expert Peter Toonen writes in the beginning of this year in magazine Frontier: 'At that time our Earth and the sun are in one line to each other in the center of the Milky Way. Technically you can then get a sort of zero situation in the revolutions of the electromagnetic fields of our solar system.
According to the traditions of the Hopi Indians, this will take three days; three days of emptiness and darkness. After that the magnetic poles can reverse. What will happen is uncertain? Imagine the earth reversing the poles? Whatever happens, the Maya calendar then will start over with the year zero. The Maya do not have a linear time calculation, but see time as overlapping circles. Whatever happens, something big is going to happen.
The Mayans have given five periods:
December 21, 2012 will be the beginning of a large new period of 26000 years and a smaller period of 5200 years. The Guatemalan 'Mayan Elder of the Eagle Clan' write: 'This is a cycle of wisdom, harmony, peace, love, of consciousness and the return of the natural order. It is not the end of the world as many from outside of the Mayan tradition have misinterpreted it to be. The first cycle (sun) was a feminine energy and its element was fire. The second cycle (sun) was of masculine energy, and its element was earth. The third cycle (sun) was a feminine energy and its element was air. The fourth cycle (sun) is a masculine energy and its element is water. The fifth cycle (sun) will be a fusion of both feminine and masculine energies. It will be a transition where there won't be any more confrontations between the polarities. It will bring balance and there won't be hierarchy of one over the other. Both energies will support each other. The Hindu scriptures had said the same thing about 4500 years ago. The five elements were predominant. That is why this period is called the period of harmony and its element will be the ether. There will not be any dividing forces in the world who will divide the races in the name of religion, caste, color or creed.
Some people misinterpret the Holy Scriptures and start spreading wrong messages. The end of time does not mean that the earth explodes and disappears into a black hole. Only a new period will be started. The only bad thing is that the transformation will be painful and the improvement will be large. It will be like a caterpillar becoming a butterfly or a seed sprouting into a plant. The Holy Bible calls this turbulent period 'labor pains'. When the Satan is chained, a new era of a thousand years will begin. The Satan refers to the forces which are responsible for the disharmony in the present world. After that there will be a long lasting period of peace, love, harmony and brotherhood. This period will bring forth the spiritual advancement.
I took this topic because I felt like telling people that there is always a limit to the deeds which go against the elemental forces. I know that we meant well but something has gone wrong.
For about two thousand years we have been recording the major history of wars. There have been wonderful scientific achievements but at the same time we have become better at killing each other. Even if the Maya prove wrong, I am sure we have the dubious honor of having so much power that we can destroy the earth in a few seconds.
When will the day come when the newspapers and broadcasting stations will have no news of death, destruction, and evil?
By Rajasir 6th December 2007