THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 15): THE NAMELESS SOLDIER

As my amnesia is taking control of my memory and slowly erasing it, I have started to feel a strange agony within myself. I cannot explain the feeling in words, I cannot write the symptoms down on paper, I can only say that a weird sentiment slowly grasping my existence.

The thoughts about Baba, Maa, Aunt Padma, Kannika, my flower pot, Billu, Mr. Sinhala, My Sweet Papaya… everything that is so very special to me, would gradually vanish! This thought has started to bring in a melancholy within me that was making me sad. The knowledge that I am slowly becoming a nameless creature, is something that I was unable to digest.

In order to get over from this agony, I decided to take a leave from office and go out on a vacation. A destination that is always close to my heart is the Himalayas and I chose to visit Mussoorie. As I embarked on the journey, the beauty of the Himalayan flora and fauna refreshed my mind. Mussoorie is picturesque with its concoction of natural beauty and commotion of tourists amid crowding township. I especially love the time when a gust of wind blows in an abundance of cold mist and floods surroundings with a velvetiness of a white wintry mix and impairs all visibility!

I checked into a small bed-and-breakfast single-storied bungalow. It was owned by Mr. James Wilson and Mrs. Elma Wilson, an old resident couple of Mussoorie. The hospitable hosts made my stay cozy and comfortable and within two days I began to feel much better. I had taken a leave for seven days and planned to maximize my getaway holiday.

The bungalow of the Wilson’s was in the outskirts of Mussoorie and I made it a routine to take a quiet stroll around the hill trails every morning and explore the beauty of the hills. In the afternoon, I visited the busy streets of “Mall Road” and enjoyed the commotion and high octane energy that buzzed at every corner.

The town of Mussoorie became popular as multitudes of British and Indians built their homes here to live a leisurely life and beat the heat of the plains. One morning, as I walked down the Camel’s Back Road, I discovered a very old cemetery. A light mist had settled down amid the wilderness and the emptiness of the surrounding reflected a peace within my heart. I entered the cemetery and walked around slowly, carelessly reading the names and on the tombstones of the resting souls.

Presently, I walked past the center and reached a corner near the boundary of the cemetery, overlooking the cliff. Below an old pine tree, I saw something! It was an old grave with a dilapidated gravestone, far away from the main burial area. The secluded site of the grave was perhaps intentional, but I felt a strange attraction towards it. I bent down to read the engraving, but was surprised to see that the gravestone was absolutely unmarked! I looked around for some sign of identity, but could not find any. Finally, I returned back to the bungalow.

That night, during dinner, I asked Mr. Wilson about the unnamed grave and told him about my exploit that morning. Mr. Wilson replied, “Pravin, that is the grave of the unnamed soldier! Nobody knows who he was or what his name was. He is a forgotten soul, but is often remembered by people for this stark weirdness of his tombstone. Local folklore says that he was a soldier during the British Raj and was laid to rest here, away from the other graves. It is said that when he reached Mussoorie, he was injured and had only faint memories about himself. He died within two days and was laid to rest here. It is such a contrast that even in his afterlife, he rests in a lonely sleep forever!”

That night, I could not sleep till late. The words of Mr. Wilson reverberated around the corners of my mind and soul. I asked myself, “Why do you feel lonely? You have so many people and so many memories to cherish. Your diary is a companion that would remain with you forever! The unnamed soldier rests alone in his solitary grave and remains lonesome till eternity. Be grateful to the almighty, that you have so much to be happy about!”

The night was clear and the stars twinkled at me in support of whatever I just told myself. I noted down this journal entry right away, before the experience slipped away from my mind. It was a strange yet wonderful emotion that I was experiencing and I wanted to capture it forever!

This incidence might be insignificant, but the gravity of the sensation very precious. The unnamed soldier taught me that life is so precious and we are never lonely, until we make ourselves so. The world is full of happiness and I must value it. I hope, in heaven, the unnamed soldier, too, finds his way back home!

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 14): THE RICE BOWL

I began writing this journal to note down aspects about me that only I can express to myself, so that when my amnesia engulfs my memory, I would be able to discover myself once again! However, it is quite funny that many of such intricacies about me are somehow related to my culinary notions! Thus, today again, I would note down something that tickles out the gastronomic personality within me.

On the ground floor of my office building is a small shop called “Ramu’s Kitchen”. The shop is famous for one item it sells the most… “The Rice Bowl”. Ramu is the owner of the shop and the chef behind the classic recipe of the Rice Bowl. Served in conical shaped melamine bowls, the recipe comprises of two large scoops of scented rice, a ladleful of “Dal” and a vegetarian or non-vegetarian side. The customers receive this wholesome meal, served hot during the busy lunch hours, at a price that suits the pocket of almost every officegoer. However, the patronage is not restricted to middle-class folks, even senior executives make a beeline for grabbing a share of the popular “Rice Bowl” prepared by Ramu.

It is immaterial to say that I too am a regular patron of “Ramu’s Kitchen” and the “Rice Bowl” is my staple for lunch. There are two aspects of the “Rice Bowl” that I have discovered as its unique selling points. Firstly, the cookery that goes into the recipe has a uniqueness that Ramu has mastered (from where I really don’t know) that attracts and suits the palates of almost everyone. Secondly, the menu, I mean the curry and the “Dal” has a new taste every day. Nobody knows how Ramu manages to do this, but it is something that acts as an attraction, a mystery to b discovered, by many of the customers who rush to the shop just to taste and find out what the “Rice Bowl” would contain! Even I am a slave to this enigmatic culinary schedule, and eagerly wait every day for the arrival of the lunch time!

However, today I discovered a third aspect that has made Ramu’s Rice Bowls even more precious and special to me. Unlike my usual habit, I came down for lunch a bit early. Most of the customers are yet to arrive and “Ramu’s Kitchen” was yet to begin its day’s business. I walked inside the little kitchen and took a glimpse of the interior for the first time. The small rectangular room had several wooden racks filling with so many different things! There were jars full of various spices, different utensils, vessels, ladles and rows of melamine bowls that would soon boast with the contents of the famous Rice Bowl recipe! The ingredients for the day’s special Rice Bowl, including vegetables, pulses, rice, paneer and eggs were lying on one of the lower racks, while the higher racks were mostly crowded with containers loaded with some unknown elements whose fragrance floated in the air.

Near the right-side of the room, stood a busy Ramu in front of a gas oven making final preparations for completing the day’s menu. He whistled lightly while focusing deeply in his work. There was an expression of tranquility in his face that made me feel good. I spoke, “Hey Ramu, isn’t the lunch ready yet?”

Ramu gave an astonished look at me, as he was least expecting this sudden arrival of mine. As the initial confusion cleared, Ramu replied, “Yes sir! I am almost done. Today’s special Rice Bowl is as good as any other day’s!”

I smiled and asked him the secret behind the exemplary recipes of the Rice Bowls every day that attracts so many people who make a beeline in front of his shop. I was really enthralled by the rush of customers and huge amount of supply that this single guy had to manage, that too with a content and smiling face!

Ramu knew me well, as I was one of his oldest customers. He asked me sit on a stool and began to talk, “Sir, today, let me tell you the story of my life. There is still time before the flow of customers would begin and I think we can make good use of that time. I used to live in a small village named Kakori near Bharuch in Gujarat. I was the only child of my parents and the three of us lived happily in our little mud-house. My father was a spice seller and had a shop adjoining our house. The little income that came through the meagre sale was enough for running our family of three. My mother had always been happy with whatever god gave us and she taught me the same. We were a happy family. My father was so proficient in mixing spices and his assortments were really popular among the villagers. Everybody in our village used to call him a magician of spices! My mother was equally skilled and used the spices to create flavors that were ethereal to taste! My parents used to teach me that culinary experiences are direct outcomes of human emotions. They taught me the magic to imbibe human emotions in the spices and create exemplary delicacies with them!”

I listened keenly while Ramu continued after a little pause, “Manjeet Chetri was our village Sarpanch! His daughter was Lavanya. She was my childhood friend and I used to call her Imlee! As we grew up, the innocent friendship developed into a secret romantic affection that brewed in both our hearts! However, when Manjeet Chetri came to know about this, he didn’t confront me or my family directly. He plotted a deadly plan against us and defamed my father in front of the entire village. My father couldn’t bear the insult and suffered a serious heart attack. He passed away within three days and my mother followed him soon. I was left devastated. Manjeet Chetri didn’t stop yet, he cooked up a mutiny and got me ousted from my house and from my village! I was left homeless, at the tender age of twenty-one!”

Ramu looked at me, smiled and then went over to check the consistency of the rice that was getting readied. He returned and said, “It has been twenty-five years since that day! I came to Mumbai twenty-five years ago and started to work as a servant in a street-side shop. The owner of the shop, septuagenarian Govinda Das, became my guru. He taught me, never to lose hope and said every human being possesses some unique quality that can make him special. He implored me to search that special quality in me. After my guru breathed his last, I started to operate his business.”

Ramu picked up the first Rice Bowl of the day, handed it over to me and said, “Soon, I realized that I indeed possessed a unique quality… The mastery of species and imbibing their flavors into the food I cooked! I was amazed to find that I truly could incorporate emotions into the spices and that is what make Rice Bowls unique! The dreams in my eyes, of sorrows or happiness, get transferred into the recipes! Its magic, that I have inherited from my parents! I don’t want to go back to my village now. I don’t even have any heartache for Imlee, my only dream is to make the Rice Bowls so popular that the entire world would know it someday, and father’s name would shine like GOLD!”

There were little drops of tears in his eyes, and the recipe of the Rice Bowl tasted a sweet melancholy flavor that touched my heart. I finished my food, paid for it and walked out from the shop. The queue of customers was gathering volume and Ramu became busy in his work. As I walked up to my office, I made up my mind that I must note down about this extraordinary person in my journal so that whenever I forget everything, I would be able to recall about Ramu’s “Rice Bowl” and return back to his shop for the exceptional culinary experience!

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 13): A FORGOTTEN SCAR

Memory is such a bizarre phenomenon! Just when my amnesia is slowly erasing away my mind, a sudden gust of past images brought back a long lost memory! Such is life, when we begin to lose our most precious treasures, it brings back something that we had been searching for so long.

Ever since the time I can still recall, I could never remember the reason behind a four-inch long scar behind my left thigh. When I was in college, one day, Maa asked me, “Pravin, when did you get that scar on your thigh?”

I was naturally surprised on receiving this sudden question. It was a Sunday afternoon and I was roaming around in my trunks when Maa saw the scar behind my left thigh. Aunt Padma rushed in from the kitchen and scrutinized me thoroughly (as if I was still a child) and then retired on the sofa with the words, “Good heavens! I wonder when you received that. However, it seems quite old, though the traces of it are still visible!”

Aunt Padma’s deductions were correct. The scar did seem like a very old one and only the mark on my skin has remained. However, the weird part of the entire episode was that nobody remembered how I got it! The history and the mystery behind the forgotten scar of mine had somehow vanished from the minds of my entire family, including me!

****

Today, on a lazy Saturday morning, as I sat near my window and watched the showers come down from the clouds, I suddenly remembered everything! I was ten years old then, and had moved to Mumbai along with my family. My Baba enrolled me into “St. Joseph’s Missionary School” and my education commenced in this new city. I made quite a few friends shortly and settled down amid my new environment. Among the fresh acquaintances in school, there was a boy named Tony Macaulay. Tony and I didn’t become friends immediately, instead there was some sort of an antagonism that he developed towards me. I couldn’t understand the reason behind this dislike, but my young mind wanted to overcome it and befriend him. Tony had an innocent charisma that appealed to me, even at that tender age and I wished I were his friend.

Once during a holiday weekend, the school authorities arranged for an excursion for the students of the junior school. The plan was to take the students to the “Queen Mary’s Church” in Little Colaba. The parents were asked to drop the children in school early in the morning and the school bus was supposed to take all the kids on a daylong trip. The itinerary contained a morning trip to the church, followed by a lunch session and playtime within its campus. At five in the evening, the bus was again scheduled to bring back all the students to school for dispersal.

I was excited about the trip, more so because it was supposed to be a solo one without the presence of parents! It was a kind of thrill that every child experiences at that age. There were quite a few school busses and all of us headed for the trip with full enthusiasm. As we reached the destination, the appointed teachers queued us inside the church, to maintain decorum. There was a brief prayer session and then we were dispersed slowly. At noon we had a hearty lunch and then all the children were allowed to play in the playground within the boundary of the church campus.

Around late in the afternoon, as I was strolling around the bushes at a corner of the church’s northern boundary, I saw something! Tony was standing near a pit and peeping inside while trying to do something intently. I felt inquisitive and went near him. As I came close, I could see a small kitten sitting at the bottom of the pit and howling for help. The pit was deep enough, with protruding rock splinters along its perimeter, and was not possible for a young boy to get in and out of it easily. I asked, “Hey Tony, what happened? What are you trying to do?”

Tony didn’t notice my arrival and was astonished initially on hearing my voice. After the initial confusion, he replied, “I want to save that kitten, he is stuck inside that pit… But I cannot find a way to do so. This pit is too deep and dangerous!”

This was the first time I realized that Tony had a strange pitch in his voice and a body language that I had previously mistaken as his antagonism towards me. Since we were completely unfamiliar with each other, even he felt hesitant to ask me for help. I tried to make a good use of the situation and quickly said, “Tony, I will climb down into the pit and you hold me tightly. Once I grab the kitten, you pull me out! Anyways, my name is Pravin!”

Tony was a bit skeptical about the idea but agreed. Thus began our mini adventure and while we succeeded in rescuing the kitten, I ended up bruising the back of left thigh, as it brushed against the protruding rocks! I squalled in pain as Tony helped me out from the pit. The little kitten ran away ecstatically into a nearby bush while I sat on the ground. The bruise pained a lot but Tony tried his best to soothe me. However, we were both happy that we could succeed in our little act of heroism!

Tony saved me from any humiliation in front of the teachers. He told our class-teacher that I fell down while trying to save him from skidding on a slippery ground. Our class-teacher, Mrs. Sutherland, praised me for my valor and took me over to the church’s infirmary where I received first-aid. Luckily, Mrs. Sutherland forgot to inform anything about the incidence to my parents after we returned. Perhaps she thought it best not to raise an alarm among the parents! I was also cared to tell about it to Maa and Aunt Padma, so I decided to keep it as a little secret. For many days, I avoided to exposure my bruise in front of my parents. I was good at it and could escape any confrontation. The wound healed soon and my relationship with Tony became friendly. We were no more antagonists, but became buddies.

Years moved on, and with time, I forgot about the incidence completely. A few years later, Tony went away to South Africa along with his parents and I lost all touch with him. As the little Tony behind the forgotten scar faded away from my mind, so did the existence of the scar. Moreover, such was the stroke of luck that I could not even remember anything about it.

Finally, today, the fond memories of Tony and the forgotten scar have suddenly returned home, to my mind and I stand here with a smile on my face. I don’t know whether miracles happen or not, but I really wish that a miracle happens and I get to meet Tony again, just like a miraculous gust of lost time has reminded me about the FORGOTTEN SCAR!