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!”

****

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 38): HAPPY HOLI

HOLIKA DAHAN marks the end of a hollowness and HOLI defines the melody of life

Before I speak anything about the above lines, let me note down my subtle experience surrounding it.

HOLI, the festival of color, brings a strange nostalgia in my heart. Today, as I looked out from veranda, I saw little children playing with vibrant colors and enjoying the festival to the fullest. A sudden nostalgia gripped my sentiment as my mind flew away to the years when Baba used to bring colors for me and I used to jump around him in a childish frenzy with ecstasy! I had thought that those years, those memories, those moments would always remain etched in my mind forever. However, my ailment makes me nervous. Soon, this dementia would erase everything and fill my head with a hollowness which I am really afraid of.

“Will I forget everything? Will all these beautiful experiences vanish from my heart and create a blank hollow?” I asked Aunt Padma with a sardonic expression.

Aunt Padma perhaps understood my discomfort and told me, “Pravin, let us go to Gokuldham, the Ashram of my guru Shri Dayanand Swami. I wanted to visit him for a long time, but could not make it in all these years. Guruji was my driving force through all the tragedies in my life. Even at his present age, his words are like magic and I am sure you would like interacting with him.”

I agreed to her proposition and within the next two hours we were on our way to the suburbs. It took us a total of three hours to reach Gokuldham, the Ashram of Guru Dayanand Swami. I was a bit skeptical about how the day would turn out to be, as I was not very keen on religious learnings. I wanted to easy my mid and the open landscape of the suburbs was a genuine option for it.

My first impression of Shri Dayanand Swami was not repulsive. In fact, I quite liked him. The octogenarian had a serene face and appearance that matched with his simple yet magnetic personality. Aunt Padma met him, introduced me and then went away inside the huge campus to rejuvenate her soul. I sat in front of Guruji and looked at his face. My inhibitions got slowly removed as Dayanand Swami didn’t engage in any kind of teaching with me. A sweet tune, played on a flute, was floating around in the air. It was not recorded music. Somebody was actually playing a placid tune on flute somewhere.

I asked, “Guruji, who is playing the flute? It is such a beautiful melody.”

Guruji looked at me and said, “Listen to it with closed eyes. You would feel all your anxiety disappear soon.”

I replied, “Guruji, my anxiety is not so simple. Perhaps, you don’t know about my current state. It is an hollowness emanating out of my impending amnesia that is eating away my entire existence!”

Guruji got up from his seat, held my hand and took me near the window. He pointed his finger to a hut, within the campus, at a distance and I looked in that direction. Although nothing was visible, but I could understand that the melody was coming from that direction.

Guruji smiled a bit and said, “That is Ramu’s hut. Ramu is a fifteen-year-old boy who lives here in Gokuldham. He has been living with us for the last five years. Let me tell you something about him…”

I looked at Guruji and stood beside him with a sudden eagerness. Guruji continued, “Ramu belongs to a remote village where he used to live with his parents. His father was a farmer. The little boy used to love playing the flute and lived happily. Five years ago, during the HOLIKA DAHAN festival, a politically induced unrest erupted in his village and some antisocial people burnt down many houses in the village! There was complete mayhem and many villagers lost their lives! Ramu’s parents were burnt alive in that catastrophe, in front of his eyes and at that tender age, Ramu was seriously injured and traumatized beyond imagination. As an impact of the disaster, Ramu lost his speaking and hearing abilities and became completely mute! A month later, some social workers brought him here.”

I felt a pang in my heart and listened to Guruji while he spoke, “From then, till now, I have cared for him like my family here in Gokuldham. However, his ability to hear and speak remains curtailed forever! There is a hollowness in him that is unfathomable and he stays in that small hut, all by himself.”

Guruji took a pause and then began again, “Even though he participates in all activities of Gokuldham, there is a hidden pain inside him that has not healed, perhaps! However, something wonderful happens on this day, on HOLI…”

“What?” I asked with eyes full of wonder.

“A day before HOLI, from the time of HOLIKA DAHAN, this mute boy plays such a heart wrenching melody on his flute that fills the air around Gokuldham! Nobody knows how he manages to do it! No science can explain it! However, he does it. What you are listening to is the tune of his flute that he will play throughout this day! Perhaps, it is his divine celebration of HOLI, with his impaired soul!”

Guruji closed his eyes and said, “Hollowness or emptiness is the source! At times I wonder, his flute is just like Ramu. It is hollow from within. However, this hollowness created within this piece of dead wood that gives birth to such wonderful tune! Similarly, the hollowness within Ramu, enables him to create the beautiful melody with his flute! The hollowness within you, Pravin, would be your strength to things that are beyond your imagination! Don’t consider it as your curse… It is a creation of destiny that will redefine you!”

“Finally, what is HOLI?” asked Guruji.

I remained speechless while he answered his own question, “Mother Nature removes all colors from Earth in winter and creates a hollow. However, the arrival of Spring, creates the beauty of colors from within that hollow! HOLIKA DAHAN marks the end of that hollowness and HOLI defines the melody of life!”

I smiled and replied, “Thank you Guruji. This was a completely new realization for me and gives me he strength to understand myself. Indeed, my hollowness will redefine me and not terminate me.”

Before leaving, I met Ramu at his hut. I touched his head, with all my love. I couldn’t stand in front of him for long. His eyes were so expressive that my heart started to weep. I smiled and came out with Guruji.

Aunt Padma and I walked out and got inside the car. She looked at me and said lovingly, “HAPPY HOLI.”

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 37): POPCORN

It was a cool winter afternoon. I ran towards the window and peeped outside with eyes full of excitement. My eyes scanned the street outside and searched anxiously. My heart pounced while I tried to spot the bright signboard, “MAGIK POPCORN”. It was the name of the Dilawar Khan’s popcorn vending cart.

The faint voice of Dilawar reverberated around the corners of the colony, “Popcorn! Magik Popcorn! Come and enjoy a mouthful of magic right from the land of the djinns!”

As I spotted the lemon colored cart, I rushed out from my house and reached the corner of the alley where Dilawar had parked the cart. A mini crowd of young boys from the neighborhood had already gathered around him. I patiently waited for my turn. He knew me by my name and smiled at me.

Dilawar diligently and artistically mixed the freshly made popcorn in neatly crafted paper packs and then took a cup of hot fuming camphor and blew the smoke into the popcorn. This was a regular practice of Dilawar and he smiled while handing over to the customer with, “The smoke of the djinns trapped inside my magic camphor embeds its magic inside one piece of popcorn in this pack! Eat every piece of Dilawar Khan’s Magik Popcorn and make a wish! The special piece with the magic of the djinns would make your wish come true!”

This was twenty years ago. Time flew away like a whirlwind thereafter…

During my teenage days, Dilawar Khan of Kashmir used to vend popcorn from his MAGIK POPCORN cart with the special addendum of the magic of the djinns that could make our dreams come true! What’s more? It did work also! Many of us indeed got what we wished for! He was a real magician. He was a hero of every child and teenager in nooks and corners of local alleys of Mumbai and I was no exception.

One day, Dilawar went away. Before leaving, he told us, “I am returning back to Kashmir. My son is turning five years. I need to be with him. He misses me. I must see him grow up!”

****

Today, as I was sitting in my study room and was chatting with Aunt Padma, I heard a voice. It was a familiar voice that kindled a childlike excitement in my heart.

The faint voice again reverberated around the corners of the colony, “Popcorn! Magik Popcorn! Come and enjoy a mouthful of magic right from the land of the djinns!”

I exclaimed, “Isn’t that Dilawar Khan’s voice? What is he doing here after almost two decades?”

Aunt Padma was also surprised. I got up and ran down to the street. It was indeed Dilawar Khan, with his same old popcorn vending cart, with the signboard MAGIK POPCORN! However, the cart now looked worn out and dilapidated just like its owner Dilawar himself.

I walked up to the corner of the alley. Dilawar was indeed selling his popcorn in his usual manner. The cup of smoking camphor was also present and he smiled while handing over to the customer with, “The smoke of the djinns trapped inside my magic camphor embeds its magic inside one piece of popcorn in this pack! Eat every piece of Dilawar Khan’s Magik Popcorn and make a wish…”

However, there was a queer difference in his style this time. Even though it was insignificant, but it caught my fancy. Before handing over the popcorn, Dilawar was picking one piece from every pack and placing in his own mouth (as if trying to verify the taste before giving it to the customer). This was an unusual practice that I felt awkward about.

As the crowd of customers eased a bit, I approached Dilawar and stood beside him saying, “Dilawar, do you recognize me?”

His skin has crumpled and his health has deteriorated. His eyesight might have also become feebler. However, he looked much older than his actual age. Dilawar scrutinized me and then said after a while, “Pravin baba?”

I smiled and said, “Yes its me.”

Dilawar patted on my shoulder and said with a smile, “Do you want your favorite popcorn?”

“Yes I would love to!”, I replied, “I would also love to know about you and your son! How was life for all these years? How is it that you have returned after almost two decades?”

Dilawar started to make my pack of popcorn and spoke, “Life was good all these years and I had seen my little Ahmed grow up into a fine young gentleman! He joined the Indian Army and served his nation!”

“Where is he now?” I asked enthusiastically.

“I don’t know Pravin baba!” fumbled Dilawar, “When the war started in Kargil with the neighboring nation, five years ago, he was commissioned for duty! I sent him and he fought with full valor. However, after a few days, I got the news from the army that he has been martyred!” 

“What?” my voice stopped and I couldn’t speak further. I felt a lump in my throat that blanked my speech.

Dilawar Khan continued, “His body was never found. Some officers suspected that he was taken as a prisoner of war while some suspected that he fell valiantly while fighting but his body couldn’t be recovered from the treacherous trenches! I still have hope, even though five years have passed. My heart tells me that my brave Ahmed will return! The Army and the nation has rewarded him with a medal for his bravery and supreme sacrifice, but the heart of this father knows that he will come back to his old father…”

Dilawar gave me my pack of popcorn and took one piece from it and placed it in his mouth. He came close to me and whispered, “Ever since I came back to Mumbai again, from every pack of popcorn with the magic of the djinns, I take one piece for myself and make a wish for his return! Who knows, the one with the magic spell might come in my hand and my wish would come true!”

Tears rolled down from my eyes, while Dilawar placed the piece of popcorn from my pack, closed his eyes momentarily and made his wish. As he went away, I ate my popcorn and made a wish myself, “magic of the djinns, please bring back little Ahmed to old Dilawar Khan! May every soldier of our motherland be able to come home to their fathers!”

The aged Dilawar Khan slowly went away while pushing his cart of MAGIK POPCORN and hawked, “Popcorn! Magik Popcorn! Come and enjoy a mouthful of magic right from the land of the djinns!”

I don’t know why I am writing this incident in today’s journal. Perhaps, when my dementia wipes away my memory, I would love to see Ahmed return to his father and proves the magical power of the djinns! 

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 36): TARANTULA’S VEMON

There is an invisible thin line between what we know as superstition, myth, belief, faith and truth! Such is the strangeness in these subtle sentiments that they define the manner in which we react so uniquely at times! It reminds me of the fabled TARANTULA’S VENOM!

****

Ram Ratan Yadav, our Dhobiwho takes care of all our laundry, sat at the foot of the dining table and discoursed, “Today, in our village colony, the feared TARANTULA was finally caught! Many had seen its feared web across trees and hedges and we knew that he was around. However, the ultimate victory came today morning!”

“What are you saying?” exclaimed Aunt Padma. “Did it kill anybody in the recent time?”

I turned towards the two of them from my sofa and listened. Ran Charan continued, “Last fortnight, the old priest got bit by this dangerous creature and he breathed his last! The venom is merciless! Everybody in our village colony was scared after that! Every time we saw its web somewhere, we used to shudder!”

I wanted to interrupt and explain some basic facts about Tarantula and the myths associated with it but refrained from doing so. I didn’t want to begin a lecture to educate Ram Ratan Singh. However, the subject of his discussion remained crouched up in my fantasy.

I got up and stood at the balcony. Down in the street, a man was taking his son to school. The little child seemed quite mischievous and his father struggled to manage his tantrums. The man expressed his discomfort and then said, “The angry demon with red eyes is watching you! He will come at night to catch you… Listen to me and behave yourself!”

The child paid some heed to whatever he just heard and then decided to obey his father. I smiled at the sight of this little drama and came inside. I was getting late for office and quickly got inside to get dressed. Today being a weekday, I had to follow my usual routine and Aunt Padma became busy in her work.

As I came out and woe my shoes, Aunt Padma approached me with her usual copper-worship-plate and its contents. She sprinkled some of her holy-water on me and muttered, “Don’t worry Pravin. Soon, god will wipe away this disease of yours! Soon you would become shielded by the holy powers!”

I didn’t want to say anything in reply and simply smiled and went out. There was something brewing up inside my subconscious mind. However, I couldn’t understand what it was. I thought it best not to nudge it further unless the cocktail ejects itself into my conscious mind.

As I reached office, I completed my usual tasks and then sat inside a conference to listen to a presentation. Mr. Atul Bhaskar had come from Delhi for this special meeting. Along with the rest of the team, I listened to whatever he had to say. Atul spoke relentlessly about the future of Telecom Industry and how it was all set to revolutionize the entire world in the next decade. He spoke about networks and platforms that would build a web of information around us. He spoke about how telecom technology would impair many devices as redundant. I was enthralled but felt disturbed with something. However, I again refrained from nudging my sentiments.

Rajesh accompanied me during my return journey. As we stood inside the bus, Rajesh asked anxiously, “Are we going to lose our jobs? Are many people going to become jobless due to this disruptive revolution in telecom?”

I replied with a smile, “No. The threat is somewhere else… A Tarantula’s venom cannot kill you.”

The spontaneity of my words amazed me and I kept silent for the rest of the journey. The strange feeling was slowly seeping out from my subconscious mind into the conscious one. Rajesh obviously got bowled out by my answer and became more confused. Even he became silent and got lost in his confusion.

****

As I sit inside my room, at my writing desk, and document this journal, the bigger picture is clear in front of my eyes. From morning, this thought had been cooking inside me…. The thought about TARANTULA’S VEMON! It is strange but is relevant. A Tarantula onslaught is not life threatening, but is often feared due to its external appearance. It definitely doesn’t use its venom to kill its prey. However, a myth is prevalent about how innocent creatures are killed by it. Everything about it is so similar to many experiences that we, humans, have in our lives!

Life itself is like a Tarantula’s Venom! It is a concoction of myth, fable, superstition, faith and truth! Ram Ratan Singh and the residents of his colony believe in a myth that is really a fable but not the real truth. However, the myth is what remains prevalent. 

Aunt Padma’s intense faith in the almighty makes her believe that the holy-water would eradicate my amnesia, but the fact is something else! However, it is a belief that keeps her alive and I don’t want to change that. This is again so similar to the Tarantula’s Venom… it just cannot kill a real prey! Yet, it is revered for a characteristic it doesn’t possess. 

Finally, the debates about the future prospects of telecom technology, how it will shape our future, how it will disrupt the job market etc. are making ripples across our minds. However, we are not thinking about the fact that it will change us, the human beings forever! It will lead us one more step closer to being mechanized and become slaves to gadgets! Again, it’s the Tarantula’s Venom that is getting an unnecessary hype as we human beings become more and more illiterate with our I.Q. becoming sharper by the day.

Tonight’s journal here is not about a feeling, it is about a realization that I want to remember the existence of the invisible thin line, so that I can distinguish between superstition, myth, belief faith, and truth and never fall prey to the TARANTULA’S VENOM.

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 35): DARK CHOCOLATE

Nostalgia is a strange emotion. It is created by a subtle concoction of memories. It is a sweet and sour taste that we savor with our hearts. It is something that I experienced today and want to experience till I am alive. Even though today’s incidents were quite insignificant, they do carry a rich flavor that can only be compared to DARK CHOCOLATE! Yes, and dark chocolate has its own bitter-sweet taste in it too!

Today morning, I took Aunt Padma for a reunion of her old acquaintances. Some of these people were part of her extended family, while some were just friends. However, they had all lived a fond part of their lives in a locality called Vasant Colony. Two days ago, Aunt Padma received the invitation from Mrs. Savita Desai. We were invited to join the reunion over lunch at the newly built Vasant Colony auditorium. Initially, Aunt Padma was reluctant to go, however I saw a sparkle in her eyes. I understood an elusive childlike thrill in her heart.

I said, “Aunt Padma, let’s go there. You would get to meet so many different folks again!”

She agreed and we went. At the venue, we were greeted with full fervor and soon I could see Aunt Padma melt into the crowd of old acquaintances. I sat at a corner and observed. A person came and handed over a plateful of samosas and I munched the snack while listening to the conversation.

“Remember Padma, how we used to play hide and seek around that alley?” laughed an old lady, “My husband used to be so embarrassed with it!”

“I can still visualize those days when we played badminton across this street during the winter evenings!” mentioned another elderly man.

“The flavor of Gangu’s hot croquets still lingers in my mouth! He used to sell them on the footpath here! Padma, those were your hot favorites! We used to fight for the last pieces” mentioned Mrs. Savita with a smile.

I could see the happiness and cheer in Aunt Padma’s eyes as she re-lived the moments.

As we returned home, I could see an invigorated energy in Aunt Padma and felt good that she enjoyed her time. I went inside my room, changed my clothes and sat on the bed. A sudden fancy caught my imagination and I started to fiddle with my old belongings. The old wooden closet in my room is full of things from my childhood and I took them down, one by one, and relished them.

I found my old toys, my old textbooks (with secret scribblings), my drawing books and my scrapbook! With a heart full of excitement, I opened the scrapbook and flipped through the pages. There were many fond memories pasted in those pages and immortalized with ink! My eyes scanned though them and I felt an emotional pinch.

At last, I arrived at a page with a plastic wrapper pasted on it. The print on the plastic read, “ALADIN – DARK CHOCOCATES”. My mind flew away many years back and I remember something. Baba used to get me these bars of dark chocolates from a store called “ARABIAN KNIGHTS DELICACY” in Little Colaba. I used to be fascinated with them! Even the flavor has somehow slipped away from my taste buds but I still remember how, even almost twenty-five years ago, crazy I was about those chocolates. 

“What did you bring me Baba? Did you get those magical chocolates?” I used to ask with excitement.

What was Baba’s answer? I don’t quite remember now! His words have eroded away with the memories. I felt desperate to remember what he used to answer before handing over me the bar of dark chocolate! With a sudden urge, I decided to seek out the “ARABIAN KNIGHTS DELICACY”. I got up, got dressed and quickly came out from the house after bidding a hasty farewell to Aunt Padma. 

It took me an hour to reach the location in Little Colaba. I remember the place because the store used to be adjacent to Baba’s office building. I didn’t know if the “ARABIAN KNIGHTS DELICACY” was still there after almost two decades. I looked around the corners of the road. Evening was drawing to a close and the sun was almost setting. 

“This place has undergone a complete metamorphosis,” I wondered, “I hope I am able to find my destination!”

After roaming around for another twenty minutes, I was able to locate the “ARABIAN KNIGHTS DELICACY”! The once popular store, was now in ramshackle. The dilapidated walls and windows showed the poor condition of business. I felt bad at this sight.

“Do you have a bar of ALADIN DARK CHOCOLATE?” I asked without delay as I entered the shop. A thin old man, with an emaciated face stood beside me while the storekeeper (an equally old but fair complexioned man) looked at me with surprise.

“What did you ask?” the storekeeper enquired softly with a surprised expression, “Nobody has ever asked for it in the last ten years! I sold off the last few pieces a month ago to a caterer who wanted to make chocolate syrup! This man, standing beside you has come to collect a long due payment!”

“The ALADIN DARK CHOCOLATE factory has finally shut down”, lamented the man with the emaciated face, “We have withdrawn operations due to the meagre sale! However, I have this last piece left with me. I can give this to you! Please take it…”

I took the bar of dark chocolate, opened the wrapper and took a bite! The subtle flavor of the chocolate melted in my mouth and I remembered the beautiful taste! It brought back different memories that were there in my mind, locked within the chambers of my subconscious mind! The dark chocolate opened all windows and showered in the light of knowledge!

Like a flash of lightning, I remembered what Baba used to say… “Hocus Pocus magic show us; here is the Treasure for my Master!”

Tears rolled down from my eyes and I got out from the store, the “ARABIAN KNIGHTS DELICACY”! Nostalgia is indeed like a DARK CHOCOLATE. It makes us unique from every living being. I am happy, I could re-live that today and am able to immortalize it in my memoir forever!

THE FLOATING DIARY (Short Story Journal – 34): VALENTINE’S DAY

Valentine’s Day, the day of LOVE brings a cheer in everybody’s heart. This year, too, it was not an exception. As my impending dementia keep wiping away older memories, each day brings in something new and unique that enriches my experiences and I keep chronicling them in my journal. Today’s experience was something that I gulped down like an elixir of life and now am sitting down in the night to immortalize in my diary.

At seven ‘o’ clock in the morning, Mr. Bhushan Kapoor came and knocked on our door. Aunt Padma opened the door and welcomed him inside. I was in my study room and was listening to their conversation, while reading a book. 

Before I note down the events further, let me first introduce Mr. Bhushan. He is our old neighbor, for over the last twenty years, and is on the brink of being declared a successful septuagenarian! Mr. Bhushan has been a widower for over thirty years and lived alone in his little bungalow. He didn’t have any children and didn’t have the abundance of extended family members. Thus, he spent most of his days alone. However, this didn’t make Mr. Bhushan a recluse. He was indeed quite popular amid the residents of the neighborhood for his witty and enthusiastic nature. 

Mr. Bhushan had been visiting us regularly, ever since a time I cannot even recall. Perhaps, it extends to the time when he first moved into his bungalow and came knocking at our door for some milk! Aunt Padma and Mr. Bhushan were probably of the same age and, maybe that is the reason why they had a great equation with each other.

Over the years, I have watched Aunt Padma and Mr. Bhushan develop a nice friendship and through most of our days of crisis, Mr. Bhushan had been like a support for us. Aunt Padma always felt comfortable in his presence. Ever since her husband passed away, I had noted a melancholy in Aunt Padma’s eyes. She lacked a companion, a friend with whom she could share her thoughts. However, in my subconscious mind, I have seen that Mr. Bhushan had been that friend in her life with whom she could laugh a little.

“Padma Ji”, said Mr. Bhushan, “I want to ask you something. Next month I am going to be seventy years old! I think I can ask this from you as an advance birthday present from an old friend.”

“What is it Mr. Bhushan”, I heard Aunt Padma’s skeptical voice. Even at her age, I could sense a feminine discomfort that made me get up and come inside the living-room.

“Would you be my Valentine?” smiled Mr. Bhushan with blushing face and continued, “I want to take you out for dinner tonight.”

Aunt Padma jumped up from her couch with a shock and exclaimed, “What are you saying? I never expected this proposition from you and at this age! I don’t know what to say… but I want to stay alone!”

Mr. Bhushan’s face became red with embarrassment, and he got up to leave. I tried to stop him but looking at the expression on Aunt Padma’s eyes, I resisted. I winked at Mr. Bhushan while left by saying, “I am sorry…”

As the old man went away, I stared at Aunt Padma while she screamed, “Can you imagine his audacity? He is proposing to me, a married woman who has been windowed for decades! What a shame! I had always considered him as a brother… Bhushan Bhaiya!”

I couldn’t control myself and asked her to sit down saying, “Aunt Padma, listen to me quietly. I don’t want you so speak anything before I finish. If you agree, I will talk, otherwise I won’t.”

Aunt Padma nodded and sat down, with her eyes still flaring with anger. I spoke, “Aunt Padma… Mr. Bhushan has been our neighbor for ages. He has not only been like a family member, but also like a friend to you! Ever since you lost your husband, I have seen a loneliness in your eyes! Even though momentarily, that melancholy gets dissolved in the presence of Mr. Bhushan! This is not romance! It is a pure friendship!”

Perhaps, Aunt Padma saw some logic in my words and decided to keep quiet. I continued with full energy, “Stop bragging about this imposed brotherhood and sisterhood. Stop this Bhushan Bhaiya lullaby! Why do we have to add a brother or a sister tag to anybody with whom we are not romantically related? How does it help?”

Aunt Padma didn’t have any answers and I kept on speaking, “You don’t need to add a brother tag to every man just because you are a window! It does not increase or reduce your love for your late husband! It is a social practice that we have adopted for ages! Why can’t he be your friend only?”

“But… what is this Valentine dinner thing?” scorned Aunt Padma.

“Trust me,” I replied, “Mr. Bhushan is your friend and that is the most important fact! His presence in your life is important, he makes you smile! You don’t have to romance him… The Valentine dinner can be a celebration of your friendship. It can be an expression to show how a pure friendship can demolish the loneliness in both of your lives!”

I guess, Aunt Padma understood my point. She sighed a bit, got up and dialed a phone number. As the call connected, she spoke, “Mr. Bhushan… Pravin and I would be ready at 8 PM. Please come down to pick us up.”

That evening, the three of us visited the “Silver Moon Restaurant”. Aunt Padma and Mr. Bhushan sat on a table while I deliberately chose a single table for myself. From a distance I could see the happiness in the eyes of the two souls. It was pure friendship. It was pure hunger for a companion with whom they could share their smiles and tears.

Mr. Bhushan raised a toast and said, “This is for the beautiful Ms. Padma! Thanks for being my friend!”

Aunt Padma cleared her throat a bit and commented, “Uh… Its Mrs. Padma!”

I smiled and turned around. The restaurant was full and the murmur of human chattering filled the air. I took a sip from my wine glass and looked up. Perhaps, I was the only guy who was sitting alone on Valentine’s night. 

Presently, somebody tapped on my shoulder. I looked back and saw a pretty lady in a salwar suit. Her face seemed familiar but I just couldn’t recall. The lady pulled up a chair, sat beside me and said, “Pravin, it’s me, Sonia! Remember me? We were in college together…”

Faint memories flashed past my eyes and I recognized her. Sonia smiled and said, “My husband is in Delhi today. He had to leave urgently in the morning for an important meeting. So I am here all by myself! Hey, you remember the college days? You remember our college band? Remember how you and the other guys played a prank on me and my husband on my wedding? I was so embarrassed and furious upon all of you! I still remember that you had a crush on that foreign girl from Thailand! What happened next?”

I took a deep breath and explained about my amnesia to Sonia. I could see her eyes brimming. I asked the waiter for another glass of wine and said with a smile, “Sonia… be my Valentine tonight! Cheers to our friendship! Maybe, while talking with you during dinner, I will remember many precious memories of my life!”

At a distance I could see Mr. Bhushan and Aunt Padma laughing together. Indeed, Valentine’s Day is not just about romance. It is a symbol of togetherness that can redefine friendship. It wipes away loneliness.