THE FLOATING DIARY (Supplements): DHOKLA SAMACHAR

Paritosh sat inside the conference room, along with four other journalists, while Mr. Baraskar blabbered, “Our news channel has gained significant popularity and boost through our aggressive reporting methods and well-crafted stories! Folks, we need to keep this momentum going on! Over the last couple of months, we have garnered a significant nationwide viewership and that has brought us under the limelight! I hope all of you understand what I had explained in the last forty minutes. You would now disperse across various parts of the country to cook up interesting stories so that we can telecast them for our hungry audience!”

As the short heighted, overfed and excessively dressed Vice-President, Mr. Baraskar finished his speech with an air of victory, Paritosh innocently raised his hand and asked, “Sir, can you explain to me what exactly needs to be done?”

Shekhar looked at Paritosh with a shock. “What is wrong with him!” thought the young journalist.

Mr. Baraskar sat down on his chair with a thump and an irritated expression on his face. He sighed, “Everyone other than Paritosh and Shekhar please leave. I hope the rest of you have understood my points!”

As the rest of the team moved out from the room, Mr. Baraskar pulled his chair closer to the table and said, “Paritosh, my boy, you are a fine young photographer who has been doing an excellent with our company! What is it that you are having difficulty in understanding?” 

Mr. Baraskar looked at Shekhar sternly and continued, “Shekhar, I hope you understood the work assigned to the two of you?”

Shekhar gulped down some water from a glass in front of him, nodded his head and remained silent. Mr. Baraskar was feared by most of the staff and the audacious question from Paritosh has tickled his anger!

Mr. Baraskar controlled his emotions and spoke in a calm yet stormy voice, “Both of you are supposed to go to the village of Savalipur. A leading political party has requested us to cover a story there. The representatives of the party have done some development work in that village, including the construction of an Open Air Amphitheatre! Ahead of the elections, they want us to cover this story and show how happy the villagers are!”

Mr. Baraskar looked at Paritosh for a while and then added, “Mr. Paritosh, you would capture fine photographs and videos of this story, including smiling faces of those wretched villagers and Mr. Shekhar would pen down an excellent speech that he would deliver in front of your video camera!”

Saying the above lines, Mr. Baraskar got up, followed by both Paritosh and Shekhar. Before leaving, the big boss finished in a somber voice, “Best of Luck! I hope everything is crystal clear!”

****

Two days later, Paritosh and Shekhar arrived at their destination, fully equipped with all their equipment to cover the much anticipated story. As the duo got down from the car, the first thing that caught Paritosh’s eyes was the ramshackle condition of the entire village of Savalipur. The dilapidated houses, the dirt strewn broken roads and dingy localities. The poor living conditions of the residents was a stark contrast to the so called development work done by the political parties. Acres of land being utilized for tobacco plantation was the primary source of occupation for most of the poor villagers. It was well past midday and the sheer backwardness of the village struck like a shining armor in the faces of these two journalists.

“This is our so called developed village that we would be covering as a leading story in our news channel!” exclaimed Paritosh. 

Shekhar laughed satirically and said, “Look around brother! Look at the community hall over there and the adjacent playground that has been newly decorated! Look at the Open Air Amphitheater for cultural activities!”

Presently, a few members of the political clan arrived and one among them said in a macho voice, “So you guys have arrived! As per the instructions of the party headquarters, we would assist you in completing your work. Tonight, you would be staying in a room we have arranged within the school building. We would take care about your food and other necessities! Now follow us…”

Paritosh and Shekhar passed a quick glance at each other and then followed instructions. For the rest of the day, a weird drama unfolded and the two of them participated in it like mute lieutenants. The villagers were like puppets and the political workers made them perform different acts of glee, with intermittent speeches of praise, in front of Paritosh and Shekhar. The spectacle reached its zenith when the villagers were provided hired clothes and were made to sit inside the Amphitheater and a performance was enacted by a group of entertainers! Shekhar and Paritosh captured everything in their report.

In the evening, as the duo retired within the school campus and sat down for a little refreshment, they heard a commotion. At a distance, within the campus, somebody was screaming at the top of his voice, “You hooligans! I will kill you all! You monsters, nobody would be able to save you from my wrath!”

Presently, the man appeared from behind a pillar and hurried away through the main gate. A group of boys, dressed in dirty school-uniforms ran behind him while screaming, “Long Live Kammo Ganjawala!”

Paritosh caught one of the boys, perhaps the one who was the most enthusiastic amid the crowd, and said, “Hey you, what is your name? And what is all this nonsense about?”

“Hello! I am Sachin, I live here in this village. That man is our only teacher in this school! He is supposed to teach us everything… from English to Sanskrit!” replied the boy with a grin.

“Then why are you guys teasing him?” added Shekhar wryly.

“Sir, his actual name is Kamlesh Paaniwala… However, the whole village knows about his fondness for smoking weed! He does it throughout the day, almost! This has won him the name of Kammo Ganjawala! We have a great time during school hours teasing him by his new name! He is mostly in a state of hallucination and cannot catch us!” replied the boy with an even bigger grin.

“Kammo Ganjawala! That’s innovative!” replied Shekhar with a loud laugh.

Paritosh didn’t feel like laughing and let the boy go away. He felt a remorse at the visible juxtaposition between the raw truth and the veiled reality they were capturing on news media.

Evening fell and a cool breeze started to blow. Shekhar and Paritosh sat on the roof of the school building to prepare their report. A while later, a group of boys, led by Sachin came around in the adjacent playground. It was perhaps time for their evening foolery. With nothing else to do in that rural setting, the boy engaged themselves in doing nonsense.

Sachin sat on a stool and screamed on top of his voice, “Welcome gentlemen! I welcome you to today’s episode of DHOKLA SAMACHAR! The source of energy in this episode originates from the delicious DHOKLA made by our very own Chulbul Kaka! Everyone must taste those fly ridden delicacies!”

Following the above announcement, he began screaming about different wild and imaginary jokes that were supposed to be pieces of juicy news snaps about the current lives of the villagers and their worsening conditions. A few boys enacted scenes while Sachin recited his speech. The other boys clapped, while some of the elders laughed sardonically on understanding the jokes about their own pitiable state. Soon, many ladies gathered around the playground and watched the peculiar performance of the young boys.

As the performance ended, Shekhar and Paritosh came down and went near the boys. Paritosh asked, “Why do you call this mockery as DHOKLA SAMACHAR!”

Sachin looked at him and replied, “Sir, when I grow up, I want to become a news reporter like you! I wanted to do this performance with the hope that the two of you would notice me and maybe, one day, you would ask me to come to your office!”

Paritosh felt pity but didn’t say anything. Sachin continued, “Have you seen a DHOKLA? It looks bizarre, tastes awesome and sounds dangerous! The entire concoction surrounding it has a contrasting sense and nobody can understand what it is, until one tastes it! Then again, the question remains… why do you have to call it DHOKLA… as if it is an ATOM BOMB! Such is my news reporting…”

Saying the above words, Sachin kept grinning and looking at Paritosh and Shekhar. Paritosh replied, “You are naughty but you are an intelligent boy! I am sure someday you would become what you want to be…”

As Sachin went away, Paritosh looked at Shekhar and said, “Brother, are we doing anything different from what this young guy was doing! We are covering a highly backward village with the camouflage of development so that it gets a taste of political achievement! It’s just like the DHOKLA!”

Paritosh became serious while speaking and continued, “We, as journalists have a responsibility towards the citizens of this country! However, what we are doing is simply a matured version of the foolery that these kids were doing! Yet, I don’t know how I can come out of this and become more responsible! Can I save my job and do my duty? Can I get a platform where the uncut truth ever be spoken out? Will the lives of the residents of this village ever improve? Will these kids ever get proper education and become free from the clutches of Kammo Ganjawala? This place needs a proper school, proper sanitation, proper employment and not a decorated Amphitheater!”

Shekhar was speechless but listened to everything that was being said. Paritosh sighed and added, “I guess, the shady world around us has taken away the soul of journalism! We don’t have the spines to say NO!”

He sat down on the broken portion of a wall adjacent to where they were standing and asked, “Anyways, what is the title that you are giving to our news report here in Savalipur!”

Paritosh stood up in surprise while Shekhar took his camera, deleted the videos and photographs and then tore away his own notes.

Shekhar looked at Paritosh and answered with a smile, “I named it… DHOKLA SAMACHAR!”

Paritosh exclaimed, “What?”

Shekhar took up his things and started to walk back towards the school building. He faintly replied, “There is always a point to start afresh! Let us make a beginning. From tonight, I quit! I know you would do the same! I know the two of us can do so. This evening was an eye opener for both of us! Even though our step might be insignificant, but I am sure our souls would remain true. Someday, more people would follow and an honest fraternity of journalism would bring out the truth and only truth in front of the masses! Till then, Goodbye… DHOKLA SAMACHAR!”

THE FLOATING DIARY (Supplements): GANGU DHOBI

Krrriiiinng!!! The doorbell rang sharply within apartment 12B of Sunny Housing Complex. 

It was 7:30 A.M. in the morning and the streets of Kolkata were buzzing with traffic and scorching in the glare of the great Indian summer right in the middle of July.

Arati, the overweight wife of Doctor Sameer Gupta, opened the door, looked and said, “Wait here Gangu, let me get the clothes and linen”. 

Arati went inside and returned a few moments later with a bag containing the day’s laundry, “here, please bring these back positively by tomorrow morning! Doctor Sahib would need his white coat before leaving for work… make sure you starch it well and please take extra care of my silk tunics, they are really expense!” 

The old man nodded in agreement, collected the bag of clothes and began walking towards his next customer’s home. 

The old man was Gangu Dhobi, the local washer-man. Though his surname was Rawat, people had been calling him Gangu Dhobi from time immemorial, courtesy his profession, Dhobi, the Hindi translation for washer-man. 

Gangu was nearly 62 years old and had already forgotten from when he had been in the profession of being a Dhobi. 

“I guess maybe from the time I was a young boy! I really don’t remember… I can only recall that all my forefathers had always been in this profession… and it doesn’t really matter, because I only know how to wash clothes for a living…” he would tell anybody who asked him.

Every morning Gangu collected the dirty linen and used clothes from his customer households, returned to his dwelling, the Dhobi Ghat (dedicated washing area for all men and women in the profession) at the Bhawanipur slums, washed, cleaned and starched them and then sun-dried them over long nylon ropes. 

At night he pressed the clothes with his charcoal heated iron. The next morning, he returned the fresh clothes back to his customers and collected his payments and further assemblage of unclean clothes and linen. 

This was a routine that Gangu had followed all his life.

****

Often while relaxing under the shade outside the Dhobi Ghat, while drying the clothes and linen, Gangu pondered over his own journey… 

Gangu remembered that he came to Kolkata, the capital of West Bengal, almost 55 years ago, perhaps, when he was about 6 or 7 years old. 

He knew that he was born in a village near Kharaghoda, a small town adjoining The Great Rann of Kutch, the seasonal salt marsh located in the Thar Desert in the Kutch District of Gujarat, India.

The only memories he had about his hometown were the stories his father used to tell him about the colossal desert of white sands and fables of the unexplained strange dancing lights, Chir Batti(ghost lights) that occur in the Rann. 

Gangu came to Kolkata with his father, who too was a washer-man and taught him the trick of the trade. Gangu never remembered his mother, as she passed away when he was only 3 years of age.

Gangu had lived in Kolkata ever since, with a dream in his eyes that one day he too would touch the magical white sands of The Great Rann of Kutch. 

Gangu’s father too didn’t live long. At the age of 25, his father had married off Gangu to a local girl named Malti… a girl who became the woman of Gangu’s life… a woman who he learned to love and admire… a woman who gave Gangu his beloved son, Vijay. 

However, she too passed away a few years after childbirth. She suffered from pneumonia and couldn’t recover from her ailment. 

On the night of her passing away, Gangu had held his 5-year-old son close to his bosom, clutching his only belonging, his only child, his only companion as close as he could and wept profusely for hours. 

He never wept again after that night. He was determined to be strong. He paid the school tuition fee for his son and ensured that he gave everything that the young boy required. 

However, Gangu had to be out of the household for earning his living and even though willing from within his heart, he could never dedicate his full time to his son.

As youth ushered upon Vijay, Gangu found that his own hair too had turned gray, as if in a flick of an eyelash. 

Time indeed flew by. The young blood in Vijay had distanced him from his father, who was old and was a mere Dhobi… a profession that Vijay despised. 

However, the father-son duo sat together at supper every night and spoke a few words. After all, Vijay was Gangu’s only companion in life.

****

That morning, Gangu’s head was whirring with the incident of the past night. He was unable to wipe away the thoughts, the way he wiped away the sweat from his forehead. His only companion, his son Vijay had left him forever. 

Gangu felt bitter, sad and angry… a cocktail of emotions that rocked his heart and body. 

Vijay, a 22-year-old lad, diligently followed a local conman, who had promised him great job opportunities in life! Gangu had tried in vain to convince Vijay against his master. 

At night Vijay had packed his belongings in a tin suitcase, came to Gangu and said, “Father, I never wanted to be a Dhobi…. I am leaving for Bombay and there I would get good job and big money. Don’t stop me, let me make my own life… I will write to you when I can.”

Gangu didn’t protest any further, he didn’t have any more words. 

He said, “Stay safely and live honestly my son. Don’t worry about me, I will be fine.” 

He hid the tears of loneliness behind his own shadow, while sitting quietly outside his Chawl (temporary hut). The dim light of the street lamps threw long monstrous shadows from the adjoining huts and trees around the Bhawanipur slums where Gangu had lived his entire life. 

His own shadow hiding his tears, mixed in harmony of the larger shadows and played hide and seek with the street lights and the moonlight.

In the morning Gangu found himself all by himself in his empty Chawl. His world had suddenly become completely vacant. Unable to bear the loneliness he had started for work, heading for the households to collect the day’s laundry that he would wash. 

At 8:30 A.M in the morning, Gangu had exhausted his list of customer households and walked towards his all too familiar Dhobi Ghat. 

As he walked past the children’s park, at a corner, under a tree he saw a Sadhu (a soothsayer) sitting with folded legs. The man was dressed in an indigo colored robe and had grey long beard. He had an indigo colored sheet spread in front of him in which he had put on display an assortment of fake gemstones, bird feathers and wooden boxes to bless his prospective clients.

As if drawn by a remote power, Gangu went and sat beside this soothsayer, putting down his pack of unclean linen and clothes near his own feet. 

Though he never believed in such tricks, Gangu, driven by his grief moist heart spoke, “what will I do now? I don’t have anybody else in this world… I feel so lonely, I cannot understand it, nor am I able to overcome my grief…”

The Sadhu, rolled his eyes (and did a few more tricks with his hands and chanted a few gibberish) and then suddenly pulled out a broom of thin sticks and struck a blow on Gangu’s head.

Totally unprepared for this action, Gangu winced with surprise and stood up in a shock.

“Don’t worry son… this blow would open your eyes to see the greater sorrows, it will help you find a way… now sit down and let me give you a few gemstones to help you heal faster…” uttered the Sadhu.

Already regretting his decision to sit with this cheater, Gangu picked up his packet and ran! 

“I already have enough on my plate and don’t require gemstones from some fake soothsayer…” he shouted while running.

Back at the Dhobi Ghat, Gangu put down his packet, opened it and arranged the clothes and linen according to the household they belonged to. There were clothes from Doctor Gupta and tunics from his wife, school uniform of Mrs. Mehra’s son, shirts from Mr. Das who was a clerk at the government bank and sarees from Mrs. Banerjee who was a receptionist at a big hotel.

It was just past 10 A.M. and one by one Gangu watered the clothes and added the washing soap, trying to keep away the thoughts of his recent loss. The blow from the Sadhu’s broom was also fresh on his forehead, where it had left a small cut. 

Gangu, picked up the white coat of Doctor Gupta and banged it on the concrete slab (specially made for each washer-man at the Dhobi Ghat to beat all the dirt out) in front of him.

As the wet coat smashed on the concrete slab, splashing little drops of soap water everywhere, a flash of events went past Gangu’s eyes. As if in a blaze of bright light, Gangu saw Dr. Gupta rubbing his hands violently in his coat, trying to get rid of the unsuccessful attempts of being unable to cure a patient who was slowly dying. He saw that the Doctor was sobbing by hiding his face within this coat and trying get rid of his inability to cure the patient.

In a shock, Gangu threw away the coat… he was unable to grasp his visions! The other washer-men around him gave him awkward glances and then returned to their own chores. 

Grabbing his wits together, Gangu picked up the coat, put it beside his feet and grabbed the school shirt of Mrs. Mehra’s son.

As the wet shirt smashed again on the concrete slab, splashing little drops of soap water everywhere, a flash of new events went past Gangu’s eyes... In a flash of bright light, Gangu saw the little boy wiping his forehead on his sleeves while the other boys in school bullied him for not being able to play good soccer. The boy was terrified to confront his classmates, in shame, and hid behind a pillar and cried.

Gangu stopped his work… he was unable to understand his visions. He picked up some other cloth and as he washed it he saw a vision of the person who had worn it! Gangu, couldn’t fathom whether he was daydreaming or becoming crazy!

The Sadhu’s words struck him suddenly… “Don’t worry son… this blow would open your eyes to see the greater sorrows, it will help you find a way…”

Unable to believe himself Gangu took the clothes and began washing them furiously, as if to thrash away all the sad visions that whizzed past his eyes each time he tried to work.

The next morning Gangu returned the starched and ironed clothes to his customers and collected his payments and also the laundry for the next day.

As he began his washing, Gangu’s visions reemerged, however this time they comprised of different stories. Gangu felt that as if he was re-living the sad and painful moments of the past day of the wearers of those clothes…and he furiously continued to thrash away all the sad visions that whizzed past his eyes.

The next morning something new happened. At Doctor Gupta’s house, as Gangu collected the clothes for the next day, he saw a group of people speaking with the Doctor… 

One of them said, “Doctor Sahib, you have brought back our patient from the deathbed…you are a god!”

“No sir, I am just a Doctor, but I must say yesterday there was a miracle and as I treated your patient, I felt a new zeal and his body too reacted so well to my treatment that within a day he has shown marvelous progress…”

“What are you listening to Gangu…” interrupted the Doctor’s wife… 

“Oh… they are a patient’s family who have come to thank him… actually, you know, he wore the white coat you washed so well and returned yesterday… I guess you deserve a share of this good luck too!” she smiled mischievously while giving Gangu his payment. 

After he had come out of the doctor’s house, Gangu wondered about her words and proceeded to his next customer’s home, the Mehra household. 

At this house, Mrs. Mehra’s son looked quite happy as he spoke with his father telling him how his friends had stopped bullying him after he won the chess championship at school and defeated all the senior students the last day.

Though nobody said anything, Gangu assumed that the boy had worn the same uniform that Gangu had washed.

Hence the incidents continued for the next couple of days… Gangu continued to get his visions of the sorrows of men, women and children who wore the clothes and Gangu thrashed them, shattered them and cleaned them out of their sadness for a fresh beginning.

****

Almost a month had passed since Gangu discovered his visions. However much he tried, his own pain, his own loneliness never left Gangu’s heart. Gangu, had nobody to even share his supper with. 

It was a Sunday, night and the city of Kolkata was preparing to go to sleep. The Dhobi Ghat was empty, as the washer-men and washer-women were enjoying their only day-off in a whole week.

At about 9 P.M. in the night, a few local kids were roaming around the Dhobi Ghat when they saw Gangu sitting in front of his washing slab and vehemently washing his own clothes. 

He was beating his shirts, pajamas and shawl with such fervent that he didn’t even notice when the boys asked him why he was cleaning at that odd hour of the night. 

Gangu’s eyes were focused on the froth that came out with the dirt and water as the clothes smashed against the concrete slab…

The kids only heard a faint murmur, “Go away… go away you dirty, you ugly…”

The kids didn’t pursue Gangu any further, and went away.

The next morning, neighbours found Gangu’s Chawl empty and its door wide open. Gangu was gone… nobody knew where he went. Nobody ever found out what he was doing or where he was.

Perhaps that night Gangu was washing away his old memories, his old sorrows and grief and his sad visions far away from his soul. 

Perhaps the soothsayer was a hoax, and Gangu’s visions were his mere imaginations… but they were real enough for him to come out of his shell. 

One might wonder that Gangu was finally able to visit his village and the colossal desert of white sands and fables of the unexplained strange dancing lights, Chir Batti (ghost lights) that occur in the Rann.

Perhaps the journey of Gangu Dhobi would never come to an end… perhaps, perhaps…

THE FLOATING DIARY (Supplements): MONKEY DANCE

Anirudha Bakshi sat on his favorite cane-wood sofa kept stylishly at a corner of the open veranda. He lived with his family in his plush bungalow within the serene setting of Kolkata’s coveted Lake Gardens locality. It was a lazy Sunday morning and Anirudha sat down to read the newspaper. In the month of January, the mild warmth of the fresh sunlight mingled with the cool breeze lent a cozy feel to the entire ambiance. His two children, ten-year-old Raju and seven-year-old Nina were playing in the backyard garden. Anita, Anirudha’s wife, was assisting his mother Shantibala in the kitchen for finishing the special Sunday lunch for the family.

“Bandar Ka Nach Dekho… Bandar Ka Nach Dekho!” a shrill voice pierced the tranquility of the atmosphere. [meaning: Watch the Monkey Dance… Watch the Monkey Dance]

Anirudha lifted his face and stared across at the street. His attention had been broken by this sudden interruption. However, a different inquisition engrossed him as he tried to locate the place from where the voice had come.

Another equally piercing voice joined the auditory setting. It was that of Anirudha’s father, the septuagenarian Mr. Shankarlal Bakshi. “BABU, do you remember? When you were small and we used to live in Giridih, every weekend I used to take you to see your favorite Bandar Nach [Monkey Dance]. You always used to enjoy the performances thoroughly! Call Raju and Nina, they must watch it today. These people don’t show up nowadays!”

Anirudha uttered a brief, “Hmm…” His eyes had spotted the monkeys and the Madaari, their master, on the footpath across the street, beside Mr. Chakraborty’s mansion.

The Madaari was a man in tattered clothes. He held a ragged leash to which two equally dirty and undernourished monkeys were tethered. On his left hand, he held a wooden Damru, the fabled musical instrument of Lord Shiva, with which it is said that he produced spiritual sounds while the whole universe was created.

Anirudha sat on the sofa, stared at the Madaari and like a flash of lightning, fragments of memories whizzed past his eyes! His poetic heart established a bridge with his analytical mind and a concoction of strange signals raised the rush of adrenaline in his blood, within half a minute! However, in those thirty seconds, he saw something that his conscience had sublimed within his subconscious self-imposed ignorance…

--- FLASHBACK BEGINS ---

When he was seven years old, Anirudha lived with his parents in Giridih. Mr. Shankarlal Bakshi was a government employee and was posted there. Even in that short span of life, since his birth, Anirudha understood one thing clearly. RULES were RULES and he needed to follow RULES! The RULES were defined by his parents (an indirect societal pressure that Anirudha didn’t understand then). He was a Bengali boy who was supposed to be a bookworm and was supposed to learn singing Rabindrasangeet. He was supposed to love football and was always supposed to worship his elders like GODS! There was a strict routine in everything. The weekdays had their own routine and the weekend had their own. Anirudha was supposed to visit the same relatives, every time they visited anyone, and do the same things and eat the same food as was prescribed in the RULES. His father would show him Bandar Nach[Monkey Dance] every Sunday and he was supposed to hug his father with glee! Anirudha was thankful that the RULES didn’t prescribe hugging and kissing the monkeys! Everywhere, there was an invisible LEASH from which there was no escape!

As years passed, the RULES became more stringent. As a Bengali boy, he was supposed to study Engineering. His hobby of becoming an author was meant to be trampled forever. In college he had to abide by the RULES set across by the seniors and follow the political adherence injected into his character through influence. Being a Bengali, he had to become a self-declared Political Analyst and needed to participate in every possible discussion regarding Indian Politics. There was no escape! The invisible LEASH tethered him again!

He was given the liberty of marrying his college sweetheart, only after the couple pleaded in front of their respective families for almost two years and didn’t leave behind a single temple to offer their prayers! Such were the power of the RULES. The LEASH continued its stronghold!

Even now at the age of forty-years, Anirudha was following the unseen forces of the RULES in office. The only difference was that these RULES were now governed by his boss, instead of his elders! Even now, the invisible LEASH bound him. 

At this age, his restrictions on food, his routine of life, his discretion on choices, everything was bound by an invisible LEASH imposed by the society!

--- FLASHBACK ENDS --- 

Anirudha’s déjà vu ended abruptly by the sound of the Damru. The Madaariwas now standing right in front of their gates. Anirudha stared in that direction as his mind’s eyes saw his father’s face in place of the Madaari and his own in place of the Monkey!

He laughed on his own and said to himself, “We are all monkeys, doing the MONKEY DANCE! Bandar Ka Nach!”

“How much for a performance?” shouted Anirudha. Raju and Nina had come out to the balcony already along with Anita, Shantibala and Shankarlal.

“Fifty rupees!” replied the Madaari.

“This is exorbitant!” protested Shankarlal.

Anirudha calmed down his father with a logic of the growing inflation in the country and said to the Madaari, “Alright, please begin.”

The Madaari played his Damru, uttered some weird poetry and made the monkeys perform to his strange music. Raju and Nina clapped in ecstasy while the others stood and watched.

Anirudha brushed away his melancholy, looked at his children and said, “Guys, welcome to the World of MONKEY DACE! Bandar Ka Nach!”

Deep within he promised himself, “Its time now. The LEASH must dissolve! I will not become a Madaari and they would not live yet another life of MONKEY DANCE!”

****