MY FATHER SAID…………

Once a Muslim family was enjoying boating in the deep sea. There were five family members in the family, husband, one wife, one daughter, one son and a blind and handicap brother of the husband. They were all very happy as due to religious restrictions such type of pleasure trips among Muslims looked down upon. The wife was irritated to see the blind brother in law accompanying them. She was treating him as kabab me haddi. 
All of a sudden the boat was rattled by the fierce jaljala. All the family members thought that their end was near so they started praying. Listening to their prayer a farishta appeared and spoke, "You people are a sinner because you kill living lives in my name and defame me. So, to please your God you have to offer as a sacrifice of one person among yourselves."
The wife was very pleased with this demand of sacrifice. She immediately advised her husband to throw his blind and handicap brother in the sea as a sacrifice. It will be doubly benefited. First, the God will be happy and calm and second, we would be relieved of the burden of looking after this useless man. Husband did not pay any attention to his wife's suggestion and threw his daughter into the sea, saying he had four more daughters from other wives. Moreover, girls are a burden to us.
With this sacrifice, the jaljala remained calm for some time. But again after some time, the jaljala resurfaced with double fury. All started shaking with fear and their colour became yellow. Again a farishta appeared. He shouted that you have offered a girl to God and with this offering you have again angered the God as girls are the incarnation of the goddess on earth, so they are very dear to God. You offer another scarify to please the God.
Listening to these words, the young and beautiful wife again whispered to her husband to offer the blind and handicap brother as a sacrifice. But again the tensed husband did not pay any attention to the whisperings of his wife and threw his son into the sea as a sacrifice, saying that we had five more sons from other wives. Moreover, we are young enough to manufacture much more sons and daughters.
With this sacrifice, the jaljala was calmed. But after some time again the jaljala resurfaced with more fury. The petrified husband prayed. Again a farishta appeared and said that you have again angered the God by sacrificing your infant son. Children are very innocent and most near and dear to God. So with this sacrifice of most dear and innocent creation of God, you have made God furious. You have to offer another sacrifice to please and calm God.
Again the terrified wife shouted at her husband that your brother is the real sinner. He has been punished by God by snatching his eyesight and crippling him. So throw him in the sea as a sacrifice and save our lives. Again husband ignored his wife's plea and threw his young and beautiful wife into the sea as a sacrifice. The helpless wife asked that why was he throwing her in this cruel manner. The husband said remorselessly that he had already three more wives at home and moreover I could get another wife very easily by paying the small Maher. 
After some shrill cries, the body disappeared in the furious waves. But after some lull, there was again a fierce jaljala. Again a farishta appeared and his face seething with anger. He shouted at the surviving brothers that they were very perverted sinners as they had saved their lives and sacrificed helpless lives because you have many more wives, sons and daughters in your possession. So now sea God will devour you. If you voluntarily offer one among you, as a sacrifice, one among you can be saved.
On this, the blind and handicap brother decided to offer himself as a sacrifice and save the life of his brother. He profusely thanked his brother for his love, care and affection before jumping into the sea. But before he could jump, the other hale and healthy brother jumped into the sea, praying to God to take care of his blind and handicap brother. He was looking at his blind brother with love and tear in eyes before drowning. Seeing the spirit of the dying brother for his blind and handicap brother, the God melted. God saved the life of the drowning brother and lifted him to the boat.
The God asked, why he offered himself as a sacrifice, whereas he had a crippled brother to offer. On this, the brother said that before his death his father asked to look after his blind and handicap brother till he died. So I was fulfilling my promise given to my dying father.
On this, the God was very happy and brought back to life, his dead wife and children. God also restored the eyesight of the blind brother and made him physically healthy.
  O Man! Love and respect to parents is the greatest service and highest prayer to God. Similarly, compassion to weak is also a service to God. Yudhistra, the wisest man in Mahabharat, also said the same thing that the lap of the mother is bigger than this universe and blessings of the father are much higher than the sky.

Secular Ban

Ban on Diwali crackers is secular,

The ban on cow slaughter is communal.

Cow smuggling is secular,

Cow protection is communal.  

Termination of cracker license is secular,

Termination of slaughter license is communal.

Slaughtering of animals on Eid is secular, 

 Bursting of crackers on Diwali is communal.

Slaughtering animals on Eid is religious,

Bursting crackers on Diwali is pollution.

Eid celebrations are secular,

Diwali celebrations, communal.

Sealing of cracker shops is secular,

Sealing of meat shop is communal.

Burqa is secular but vermilion is communal.

Roza is secular but Karwachauth is communal.

Haj Houses are secular; Ram Mandir is communal.

Madrasa education is secular; Sanskrit is communal.

Azan noise is secular; kirtan noise is pollution.

Long live secularism; long live justice system.

MAULVI AND HIS BLACK MAGIC

There was a Dargaha cum mosque in my neighbourhood, a ghetto. The ghetto was most backward, a ghetto completely in ruins as if very recently plundered by Mugul army. People were so traumatized that all the time they were always haunted only for freebies. People were always drowned in the sea of gloom and miseries. For my neighbours, there was no happy declaration and people were always in a dark and cheerless world.

I was always scared of the east of distressing ghetto which had scrap godowns in which only theft items were stored, packed and distributed all over the ghetto. There was dirt all around the market and spread over the ghetto like polluted clouds. It was a small ghetto of grim-faced, sour, peevish and corrupt people who were always busy in mischief. 

In the centre of the old ghetto, in the aged zone of ruined buildings, occupied illegally, thanks to draconian Rent Control Act, occupants appeared like distraught hearts, surprisingly near my house there lived a happy young Maulvi, Saddam, who has more surprisingly,only one daughter, Ayesha, the only child of Maulvi, Saddam, whose beauty, intelligence and cheerfulness was the talk of that unhappy ghetto. Due to his religious backwardness and narrow outlook maulviji never send his daughter to school. Only in a local madarsa, the bright girl was forcibly sent to study.

Maulviji has the quality to concoct never-ending tall and twisting tales which earned him not only one but many nicknames. To his foolish chamchas, he was maulviji, the manifestation of their Allah on land. For some, he was the doctor of ideas for all types of problems, as loaded with typical ideas and treatments. But to wise, he was the khota maulvi.

I gathered information that for his wife, Shabnam, Maulvi Saddam, was for early years a loving and caring husband like any other Indian husband. During those good years their only daughter Ayesha grew up as a beautiful girl, she had her father's all the earning and clout at her disposal and her mother's full attention for a very special only child. In that ghetto like locality, all the women had plenty of children as if they were child manufacturing machine.  

I noticed suddenly something went wrong and the gloom of the ghetto finally engulfed that small but happy family. Saddam joined a group of clerics and these fanatic clerics mind washed Saddam into a trickster khota maulvi. Now khota Maulvi always busy telling stories and befooling distressed people. He did not notice the gloom of his wife and daughter. Moreover, poor Shabnam was treated as a sub-human because she mothered only one child. In that ghetto, women were children manufacturing machines. On average women had more than six-seven children. Some had even in dozens. Adultery was a very common phenomenon for producing more and more children.   

  I felt everything, went with Saddams as if the gloom of the ghetto entered in their hearts. Shabnam stopped singing and dancing in the middle of a rhyme as if someone performed some black magic. Ayesha realized this but never understood the seriousness of the hidden storm. 

  I guessed Saddam was always busy in his black magic and curing people by his corrupt tantric practices. In that, he completely failed to pay proper attention to his wife and daughter. Shabnam forgot dancing and Ayesha lost all her intellect. But Saddam was a very busy man and in high demand as he was like an MNC of ideas. Saddam was always in the company of high and mighty people but lost track with his small family. Shabnam and Ayesha remained jailed at home truing sad and pale.

 I noticed, Ayesha used to peep in her father's room. Sitting on a wooden bed and surrounded by ragged children, dirty men and women, squatted in soil and mud and once he started, all used to listen to him like dead and sad cadavers. Ayesha often thought that her father was a cheat because his treatment and pieces of advice were dizzy whirl and have no sense and meaning. 

 Where did all theses he learnt? It appeared that all Saddam had to open his lips and eyes, but would crop some new tale, new sorcery, love mystery, wicked aunt, ghost, bearded thug, haunted houses blah, blah blah, ‘Every idea comes from somewhere, Ayesha sounded, so these ideas can't come out of thin air…?'

 But whenever she asked her father this mysterious question, the Maulana of Tricks would twist his eyes, thumb his ugly belly and gesture his fingers in very ugly manner and create hideous sounds. But Ayesha hated these absurd acts.

 ‘From the great holy trick river the Jumjum' he retorted. I swallow the cold trick water of Jumjum and I sense new tricks.'

 Ayesha found this answer very irksome. ‘Where do you keep this cold water, then? She argued shrewdly. ‘In cold jars, I mean. But, ‘I have never seen any such jar.'

 ‘It comes out of a hidden valve fixed by one of the Water Spirits,' said the Maulvi with a dry and hard face. ‘You have to be a believer.'

 ‘And how do you become a narrator?'

 ‘Oh,' said the great khota Maulvi, ‘it is very complex to understand.'

 ‘Anyhow,' said Ayesha crankily, ‘I' has never seen Water Magical or Sprite either. Ayesha crossed.

 Irritated Saddam shouted ‘You never get up in time to go to madarsa,' so now, stop from this ifs and buts and be happy with the Quran, Maulvi teaches you in madarsa. And Saddam shouted down the little girl.

 The Saddams lived in a very poorly constructed concrete house. It was not a big house but also not like the abode of poor. The poor live in huts, jhuggis or plastic sheet shelters. And there were beggars, who had no homes and slept on pavements or verandas of shops and houses. They all pay hafta to local gang lords. So it means that the Saddams were lucky and prosperous. All the inhabitants stole electricity by using Katia on the electric pole.

 In that sick and sleeping ghetto, families mostly had big families; but the majority were sick and starved. They were more interested in riches' and governments' freebies than working properly. The residents of the ghetto were all lazy and work shy people who were always in ‘Q' for anything for free.  Ayesha had a perennial inferiority complex, why his parents' hadn't had more children like other families. But Saddams had no answer for this.

 ‘Your tears cannot understand this problem,' shouted Saddam at his daughter.

 Well, what was that mysterious problem?

 ‘We used up all our energy in producing you,' Saddam explained. ‘It's all very tough, enough for maybe to produce six-seven children. Your wet eyes cannot understand.

 Saddam never gave straight answers; he would never give short answers and was expert in confusing and be-fooling the question-raiser.

  ‘We tried,' he sorrowfully said. This child production is a very difficult and complicated work.'

 ‘Think of the poor Basus.'

 I woke up with a jolt. Saddam had rented out his upper floor to Basus. Basu was out of the job. So Saddam kept him as his assistant. Basu was very lean-thin and husky-voiced widower. His wife died, a few years back.  Basu has a son named Bhiku. As a result, Basu paid more attention to Shabnam than his own son Bhiku. He brought her sweets and other gifts, whenever he found her alone he touched her and hugged her.

 Basu always ignored Bhiku but always talking to Shabnam, which neither Bhiku nor Ayesha liked. Whenever he found Shabnam and Ayesha alone, he would launch into criticism of Saddam about his tricks and fool business at the dargah.

   ‘Your husband has time neither for you nor for his beautiful and intelligent daughter' he would start in his husky voice, ‘but enough to spend with his foolish followers.'

 What are all these treatments? Life is not a joke or story narration. He will be exposed one day. What is the use of such treatment that isn't proper? He is a fake jhola chap scholar.

 Whenever I looked around, I found, Bhiku and Ayesha listening to them silently outside the door. They started hating Saddam. Saddam, who fabricated stories and treatments, was now hated by his wife and daughter. Now he did not care one little bit.

 What's the use of such treatment and stories those are fake and lies? Ayesha couldn't throw the appalling question out of her mind. However, there were fools who thought Saddam's stories and treatment were used.

 I noticed that now Basu was friendly with Shabnam and Bhiku was with Ayesha. Now, whenever they got time and opportunity they were confined to their respective pairs.

During election days Saddam was in big demand. In the majestic shows of various political parties with secular tag, all rushed to Saddam, with folded hands, to beg him to tell his stories at their election rallies and nobody else's. His presence was enough to consolidate Muslim votes. It was well known that if you could get Saddam's magic speech on your side then your victory is almost ensured.

Those were the bad days for secular politicians. Nobody believed them, even though they tried their best to prove that they were telling the truth. (Actually, all knew in advance, they were lying). But everyone had complete faith in Saddam because he always declared that he knew nothing and everything he spoke was Allah's command. But such admissions made him more popular and swelled his popularity and appeal. Now people started calling him as Sufi Baba Saddam.

So the secular politicians needed Saddam very badly to help them to consolidate Muslim vote bank. Politician lined up outside his door in spotless white kurta-pyjamas and fake- crook smile but bags loaded with currency notes in cash. Saddam was free to pick any and choose.

One day I was returning home from the market. It was raining very heavily. On that day everything went wrong. All were returning home from their works when they were caught in the heavy downpour of the rainy season.

Now, when the rains came to the troubled ghetto, life became a little easier to bear or rather enjoy. All type of free help used to pour into these so-called poor people. Tents, food packets, water, blankets and clothes etc., were supplied very liberally. They used to wait for this water deluge. Roads, drains, nalas-nalis all were encroached by the people. An encroachment on the public property was their fundamental and secular rights. They were very happy in the sea of polluted-dirty water, people could have a break from their compelled work routine, and the area was also clean because the dirt thrown by people was washed away by the rain.

I know it very well that Basu, Bhiku, Shabnam, Ayesha all loved this rainy season. They loved the feeling of getting wet in the rain and enjoy the wonderful warm drenching.  When I arrived home, I thought they would also be completely soaked and their wet body will be exposing their curves. 

My wife Shweta was standing on our upstairs terrace, shuddering like a jelly; and as it was raining, I thought she might have got cold. I rushed, upstairs. I noticed she was crying. She told me to go to Saddam's house.

I went indoors to the house of Saddam and found Saddam the great storyteller and trick master was looking very sad and depressed because his eyes were swelling and blue and cheeks were soaking wet, even though he was indoors. He was behaving abnormally.

Shabnam and Ayesha had run off with Basu and Bhiku.

He told me that in the evening, he went to his house, asking her to search for his magical green handkerchief. When there was no response, for few minutes, he himself busy with the search (Ayesha was good at losing items), Saddam heard no answer from any corner.

My wife rushed there trembling and narrated that she heard the main door slam, and, a second latter, the sound of a car in the narrow lane. She saw that Shabnam and Ayesha went with Basu and Bhiku, and a car speeding away from the lane.

‘Bitch must have planned it all very carefully,' he cried. The clock stood at eight o' clock exactly. Saddam picked up a hammer and shattered the clock to pieces. Then he broke every other clock in the house, including the one on Shabnam's dressing table.

 Shabnam had left a big letter full of malicious things Basu used to say about Saddam and his business: ‘You are only involved in gratification through wrong means, but a good man must understand that life is a solemn business. Your brain is full of tricks, so there is no space in it for honesty and sombre facts. Basu cares and loves me very deeply. This is, I want.'

 There was an afterthought. ‘Listen, I love Ayesha so I cannot leave her with you, she will be happy with Bhiku.'

 Rainwater dripped onto the note from Saddam's curly-oily hair. ‘What to do, now, Sharma Ji,' Saddam cried pathetically. ‘Storytelling is the only work I know.'

 When I heard Saddam so pathetic, I lost my temper and angrily shouted: ‘What's the point of it? What are the use of stories, tricks, treatment and dargahs, those can't even help you?'

 Saddam concealed his face in his hands and wept inconsolably.

 I wanted to get those words back, to throw them out of his Saddam ears and thrust them back into his mouth; but of course, I could not do that.

And that was why he blamed himself when, soon afterwards and in the most uneasy situation conceivable, an Unthinkable Thing happened:

 Saddam, the renowned Sea of Ideas, stories, tricks, cure, the magical Badshah of Etc., Etc., Etc., stood up in front of a massive crowd, failed to open his mouth, and found that he had forgotten all the stories, tricks, cures to tell.

 Silently, I grabbed him by his arm and silently took him to the dargah.

I observed him carefully as he walked to the door. I knew that time was running out but suppressed the urge to check my watch. I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath. "Ten, nine, eight, seven..."

 But Saddam, the renowned Sea of Ideas, stories, tricks, cure, the magical Badshah of Etc., Etc., Etc., lying by the side of Mazar, green handkerchief in one hand the Holy Quran in the other.

  Again, I took a deep breath and started counting in reverse under my breath, "Ten, nine, eight, seven…" There was no movement in his body. I noticed Saddam, the renowned Sea of Ideas, stories, tricks, cure, the magical Badshah of Etc., Etc., Etc., lying by the side of Mazar, green handkerchief in one hand the Holy Quran in the other was dead.

LOST WITH THE WAVES

It happens only with dreamy Indians. Children are the happy dreams of their parents. To fulfil their dreams, I had obtained B.Tech degree in Computer Engineering from I.I.T... After B.Tech I acquired masters' degree in Management from I.I.M... After working for few years in India, like any other Indian, I joined a multinational company in the USA.

 America is now treated as a dream country especially in India.  It is the cherished dream of every Indian to touch the soil of that dreamy land, the land of braves, patriots and vast opportunities. Americans are born with three Ts in their mind; TRY---for better future; TRUE---To your nation, religion and work; TRUST---in God and self. So in my case also that long cherished dream had come true. My parents were very happy with this achievement.

Every entry point has an exit point, so I resolved to make my exit from my dear motherland to enter into the land of dreams as a wonderful experience with lots of joys and graceful achievements. Here, at last, I reached a place where I truly deserved and where my merit and talent has respect. Here I saw a beautiful world was waiting for me. I decided to walk with an aim. Bubbling with happiness and confidence, I planned to stay in this country for about five years in which time I hope to earn enough money to settle down comfortably back home in India.

We belong to a Brahman priestly family. However, my father did not have any interest in our traditional profession because in our country it was almost a secular and intellectual fashion to abuse and curse Brahmans and Brahman priests. In some states like Jammu & Kashmir and Tamilnadu, Brahmans are treated worse than slaves and animals. He generally used to recite this poem;

BRAND NAME

God send me on the earth, an innocent being,

Untouched by the black and white doing,

But the world branded me as a Brahmin,

And a curse has fallen on this urchin,

A child of lesser God,

The entire honour was forbidden to this pod.

Education, help, livelihood;                                              

All was snatched by Robin Hood,

Some branded it as social equality,

But it was state cruelty,

Other's called it secular passion,   

But it was ugly repression,

All the isms kill human rights,

They are the Janus face of racial might.

Because of this scenario, my father preferred to be a teacher. As honesty, hard work, patriotism and Sanskars were in his blood, which he inherited from his parents. He could not do much for his family and his economic condition remained grim throughout his life. Only after his retirement, he could purchase an ordinary one bedroom flat in a slum type locality. Moreover, he has to pay a hefty bribe to government babus to get his day to day work done in government offices. Even still he has to pay a bribe to get his PF and other dues cleared and get his monthly pension from the same department which he served for thirty-five years. But ambitions could not touch him. He believed in," When nails are growing, we cut nails when ambition is growing; we cut ambition but maintains relations and character. 

I wanted to do much more than my nationalist father did. I wanted to earn and earn like secular leaders of the country. However, in America, I could not adjust comfortably and started homesick and lonely as the time passed. My patriotism and love to my roots always troubled me there on the foreign soil. Moreover, in America, Indians were not treated respectfully. As upper castes Hindus are insulted and abused in India, in the same manner, Indians are treated in America as a community who are there only to mint fast bucks only, come what way. There too I saw each heart had pain, only the way of expression was different; some hide it in tears in their eyes while others' hide it behind their beguiling smile.

     

I used to call my parents almost once a week using low-cost international phone sim cards. In this manner, three years passed and my contract with my employer was over but my employer extended my contract for another three years as in America person is recognized by merit, talent and work whereas, in India quota castes, minority religion, language and region are recognized and not the merit, talent and work.

Another one year passed on burgers, pizzas, chowmin, potato chillies etc... Years and months passed, watching foreign currency rates and getting happier whenever the value of Indian rupee went down. One thing I learnt from Americans that getting upset would not help. Always getting up to set the things right.

The problem of marriage always was a big issue for my ageing parents.  Finally, I decided to get married, gave nod, and told my parents that I have only ten days of holidays and everything must be settled down within these ten, very important ten days of my life. I got my ticket booked to India in the cheapest economic class. I was on the seventh cloud and was actually trying to purchase gifts from the cheap duty-free shops, for all my relatives, and friends back home. If I fail to do follow this custom, there will be talks because in India it is believed, if one is in America, he must be rolling in money. Right from the babu at the airport to the dancing terror eunuchs, this great India loot is a part of life. 

     

After reaching India, I spent some time at home with my parents. All the time we all were involved scanning photographs of girls and as the time was very short I was almost forced to select a girl as my future life partner. Bride's side was in much more hurry as they did not want to let out this America settled son-in-law. They told that I had to get married within three-four days. After the marriage, my departure time to U.S.A. was very close. After giving some money to my parents, I again had to leave India and requesting my relatives and neighbour friends to look after my parents. We both returned to U.S.A.

In the beginning, my wife was very happy in America and she enjoyed her stay here. But after some time she started feeling lonely. Her frequency of calling her parents, back home in India increased and sometimes almost every day. Because of her extravagant nature, my savings started vanishing rapidly. I tried to get some job for her but I failed and could not arrange a job for her. She used to receive wise upbraiding from her parents especially from her mother every day. In my case, it was very true, "If the first button of your shirt is wrongly stitched, all the rest will definitely be crooked. So always be careful on your first step, success will automatically follow you. 

Although she was PhD from Gazab Singh University, India, but to my horror, I came to know that she was not capable even to write a letter. All her degrees were almost manipulated through corrupt methods. Her father is a judge and her mother is a professor in Gazab Singh University, India. She boasts of guiding forty-five Ph.Ds to her credit, through lifting, scissoring and pasting methods. This university was notoriously famous for selling fake degrees.

In this way, two more years passed, and we were blessed with two lovely kids, a daughter Ganga and a son Brahmaputra. Every time I rung to my parents, they asked me to come to India so that they could see their grandchildren before their eyes are closed forever. But work pressure coupled with difficult monetary conditions, I could not visit India. Months and years passed and visiting India to see my ageing parents was a distant dream.

Then one day at around midnight, my phone rang and I got a message that my father was seriously ill. I tried to get leaves but failed to get the leaves sanctioned, to go to India. The next message I got was the death of my father. As there was no one to perform the last rites, the close relatives helped by the neighbours performed the last rites. 

The death of my father shattered me and I was badly depressed. My father passed away without had a glimpse of his grandchildren.  One day he came to me to meet me in my dream and cried at me:  

   

MY FATHER AND THE CURSE OF MY NATION

  I

I heard my heavenly father, last night,

What is your dear nation's curse? Write

And throw it beyond the Himalayas, high,

I trembled, collecting my father's sigh.

I can't-do, my dear father!

There are many curses but ask my brother.

I am pressed by love and patriotism.

The voice shouted to shun hypnotism.

My father's word in mind,

Generated radiant and vigour in the side.                          

II

Tender little hands of children begging in streets,

Brutal and intoxicated fathers musing in fleets.

Donors giving through misty doors,

This is unknown to fair floors.

For right of freedom, this crowns,

The rogues as lords in Parliament frown.

Tears in eyes, I cried, patriotism means,

Self-interest, corruption and rotten dreams.

As honest and intelligent have lost their claim,

Corrupt touching glory and nation in the drain.

  III

Secular cry breeding fanatic name,

Social justice prospering caste chain,

Tainted rulers dance while enemy conspire,

Brave soldiers are fried on crying pyre,

Jihadi killers dance while innocent cry,

Bloody red hidden in white to rob every pie,

Alter decorated with anarchic laws,

To strangulate the weak and just with claws,

There my father cried in terse,

Shall thou write my nation's curse?

  IV

Now modern women have only known,

To cheat hearts with tears false blow

And swap bed every day and night,

Every right is wrong and wrong right.

Framed racial and communal laws,

To bestow trump powers to our foes,

Here wise man choose to silence,

And fools throw tantrums on their glance,

Where unmerited groups laugh at your gate,

Merit is scorned and measured without weight.

  V

As you turn your body to side,

Met with foul tradition and conscience tide,

Power shines with mirth deadlier best,

All this I wrote to mourn the test.

This is the curse, open to all to read,

Go with ill-doers, my father cried

And furl your flag with sick brewers,

Now cannot be changed a new,

Six decades of ill governance,

Has dried and sucked all fragrance.

         

VI

With heart sinking and tears in eyes,

Death can change this entire fry,

Otherwise, rot will go on,

With all my blessings to you to worn,

Saddened to leave you alone here,

As I cannot be no more with you there,

Left crying in a cruel winter evening,

Twenty years have passed by morning,

His sudden march to the kingdom of death,

Left we orphaned as a traveller without a sheath.

VII

That mighty soul, sober, cool and austere,

Must be shining in some unknown sphere,

Enjoyed his shadow as wise banyan keeps boughs under,

Here he was to beat the storms and not to flounder,

Helping and guiding the masses in need,

With a happy and honest hand indeed,

True servant of Almighty in this world wild,

Goddess Saraswati seated on tongue with message mild,

Such souls loved and needed in ages all abound,

Pray to Master to reincarnate him again around.

Three four years passed. I decided to return to India and to settle down there. My children did not appreciate this decision but my wife was very happy with this decision. I started to look for a good and affordable property. However now, here Dr Man Mohan Singh was the Finance Minister of India and to my shock, my savings and pocket were much short and the price of property gone up very high during all these years. I had to return to the USA.

    

But this time my wife was very intelligently tutored by her mother. She was not ready to come back to the USA with me nor was ready to live with my aged mother. On the other hand, My children and I were not ready to live in India under these circumstances. I, with my two children, returned to the USA after promising my mother and wife to come back within three years. Everything about our future was uncertain but God has arranged everything for our tomorrow. You just have to trust Him. He grants us the power to accept things you cannot change. 

 Time passed by and my daughter decided to get married to an American own her own. Neither, due to financial constraints, my wife, nor could my mother join us, to bless our daughter. My son was happy living in the USA because he was very comfortable with American lifestyle. Suddenly I received the news of the death of my mother due to heart failure.

          

    

Now I was fed up with this type of life. It was enough and I decided to wound up everything and returned to India. The relationship is like fragrance, you can never touch it but you feel it. Now I had just enough money to buy a decent three-room flat in a posh colony in India.

With this vagabond type of life, I became sixty years old. Beaten from all sides I became highly religious and a regular visitor to the nearby temple. My faithful wife was still living with her parents. She was not ready to leave me nor was ready to leave her parents. I was a cash card to her and her family. As her father was a judge he knew the hazards of filing and settling divorce cases. Therefore, my wife was happy living as a married lady but her parents' daughter, financing her rogue brother by the money I used to send her as a peace package. She was like Stephen Blackpool's wife in Charles Dickens' Hard Times:

TRUANT DAUGHTER IN LAW

Always play truant and abhors all in-laws,

A knotty bride, slamming doors,

A perverse father's tricky daughter,

Floats in muddy and shallow water.

Guided and guarded by,

Inhuman Taliban laws,

Branding man's race,

As savage and subhuman.

Men in khaki and gown black,

Are suitors dear?

But never gave respect to,

Her elder in-laws.

Rude and twisted to caring in-laws,

Direct from honeymoon cracked

Whips on these helpless fellows.

At school, her report card noted as a spoiled child.

Decked and jacked in false glitters,

Children she mothered,

Narrate tales awful and deadly,

Never taught children with milky hymns.

Children never impressed by her dear mother,

But never learnt to slam the door.

Her funeral was performed sacredly,

Mentioned her virtues in tone false.

           

But all and sundry present there,

Dwelled her vices in hushed detail,

She was a bandit queen,

In the garb of bridal makeup.      

 Again, another mishap happened in my life. Papa's daughter, but my faithful wife also left me high and dry and gone to the last abode from where nobody returns. Now I started wondering the meaning of life. Is it worth all this? My father, even after staying in this country as a poor teacher, had a house to his name but he never was alone. I too have the same, nothing more. But I have lost everything, my parents, my wife, my children, my mental peace and near and dear ones. Life is like an onion, which has many layers of relationships. If you do not cut, it adds taste to life but if you cut it, you will get tears only.

 Looking out from the balcony, I see a lot of boys and girls riding on bikes and dancing. This modernization and liberty have spoiled our new generation and these children have no values in life. I get occasional greeting cards from my children on different days. I wanted to cry, I wanted to hug someone dear, but no dear ones were around. You cannot hug yourself, you cannot cry on your own .0shoulder; perhaps life is all about for living others. So live with those who love you, not with those whom you love. World's happiest relations never have the same nature. They just have the best understanding of their difference, which we missed in our life. 

 Now perhaps I will also die and my neighbours again will be performing my last rites. God bless them. At least this one thing is still there that at least last rites are performed with full honours. But again the question remained unanswered, is life all this worth? A failed son, who could not serve his parents, when they need him most, a failed husband, who could not be with his wife, a failed father, who could not continue the legacy of a family…and a failed Indian who could not serve his nation. Whatever life throws at us: it will be easier to comfort if we feel loved.

 My children and the grandchildren will not realize this pain and pain of losing my culture forever and forever-----is it really worth so many souls alienated. On a one fateful morning, I was reading the divine Bhagavad Gita. My phone rang. From the other side I was overwhelmed to listen to the sweet voice of my dear son, hello papa, can you give me an appointment to bless your grandchild, mothered by a close friend of mine, means born out of wedding-lock. 

 Shocked, I sank into the chair on which my father used to sit and teach. Slowly and slowly, darkness gripped me; perhaps I shall never be able to give an appointment to bless my grandchild and its mother. But my question remained unanswered; was the life worth this? With this, I lost somewhere and sagged down.

एत्धोनीनि भूतानि सर्वाणीत्यू उपधरय ।

अहं क्र्त्स्नस्य जगतः प्रभवः प्रत्नयस तथा ॥6॥

etad yonīni bhūtāni sarvānī'ty upadhāraya

aham krtsnasya jagatab prabhavah pralayas tathā

Know that all beings have their birth in this. I am the origin of all in this world and its dissolution as well. All things are dissolved in me.   

(The Bhagavad Gita, Ch.VII. Sl.-6 (Trans.))

LOST IN JHELUM

They were very good friends. Village elders frown upon their friendship. Maulvi Basheer's daughter Ayesha and Pundit Sita Ram's daughter Jhelum left their houses to go towards the fields. Maulvi Basheer was a very powerful and respectable Maulvi while pundit Sita Ram was a very poor pundit of the village. Jhelum was dressed in a ragged salwar-kameez and covered her breast with a ragged cotton towel. Ayesha had salwar-kameez made of zari and a string of pearls hung around her neck and wore golden bracelets and silver anklets on her hands and feet. She covered her head in an expensive silk hijab. Ayesha had gold nose- pin and earlobes whereas Jhelum had copper wire for her nose and ears.

The two friends were walking, clinging close each other, holding each other's arm.

They were the example of togetherness.

Jhelum was chewing a pickle.

‘Very tasty', Jhelum twisted her lips and tongue.

‘What?' asked Ayesha.

‘My pickle.' Teased Jhelum.

‘How you got?' irritated Ayesha asked.

Somebody offered in our ‘Shani Temple.' ‘We had vegetable pulao with pickle and chutney.' Jhelum blinked her eyes naughtily and said.

Irritated, strong and well built, Ayesha pulled Jhelum inside the bushes and pinned her down on the ground and rode over her. She hugged her very tightly and took hundreds of kisses all around her body.

After some time Ayesha and Jhelum came out of the bushes.

‘Besharm.' Arranging her ragged clothes Jhelum murmured.

Ayesha again hugged Jhelum tightly and kissed her frantically on her cheeks.

‘Sweet liar! You think I don't know? You did not light your sigri last evening because you had neither grain nor rice.

‘We have mutton kabab and egg biryani' mocked Ayesha, putting her arm around Jhelum's neck.

‘My father told us. You had nothing to eat and you said that you had vegetable pulao with pickle and chutney'. Mocked, Ayesha still holding younger Jhelum in her arms and in between, rubbing her small breasts.

‘You also had nothing to eat last night?' teased Jhelum fluttering in her arm.

‘We didn't have anything to eat last night? You naughty sweet bitch! Who told you this? Last night we had the soup of fish and we ate mutton kabab and egg biryani,' shouted Ayesha.

Her father was the most prominent Maulvi of the village. He used to get loads of offerings from the people. He had gone to attend a meeting to the city and brought the tasty fish and mutton for the dinner.

Peeved, Jhelum moved towards the rice fields. Ayesha followed her, swinging her arm and breasts. In the village, madarsa children started their prayer.

‘Allahu Akbar, Ash hadu an la ilaha illal lah,' the Maulvi recited.

‘Allahu Akbar, Ash hadu an la ilaha illal lah,' recited the children in a chorus at the top of their voice that echoed the village.

Ayesha and Jhelum started, running and playing into the narrow long chasms. Playing their way, they moved ahead. On one side of the chasm was a sweet full grown apple garden.

‘I am joining the madrasa from the next Jumna. That day is a good day for Muslims. The Maulvi asked my father to send me to madrasa and my father gave his consent,' said Ayesha.

‘What is the use of this madrasa education?' asked Jhelum.

‘What is the use? Listen; listen to that, how beautifully they are singing!'

‘Maulviji asked my father too. My father said what use of a madrasa to a pundit daughter.'

‘Yes your father is a pundit, my father is a Maulvi.'

Jhelum became very sad on this and tears rolled down on her cheek.

After some loitering they lay down to rest and slept on the soft grass, their heads were side by side and they were looking two pigeons in one nest folded in each other's wing. Thus lying cheek to cheek and breast to breast with each other, they were sleeping in an embrace.

In the sarkanda bush, a monkey jumped on a tree. On the narrow pathway, some red and yellow flowers dropped. Ayesha took some flowers and inserted them in her hair. Jhelum too picked up some and tucked them in her hair.

Ayesha became very happy and started dancing and hugged little Jhelum.

‘See Ayesha, my roll of hair is like a small pot but your bun is very small and without oil,' she said. Ayesha looked at her.

‘I don't need any decoration.' replied Ayesha. ‘Look at my head, I always use scented oil, and my hair have plenty of oil, but your hair is very dry and no oil in them.

The madrasa children were still howling at the top of their voices, puffing their vocal chords like cycle pumps. Ayesha crooned with them.

‘Allah,' said the madrasa children, chanting the Holy Quran prayer.

‘Allah,' said Ayesha.

‘Allahu Akbar, Ash hadu an la ilaha illal lah,' said the children.

‘Allahu Akbar, Ash hadu an la ilaha illal lah,' repeated Ayesha.

‘You stay here reciting, I must go and collect some dry woods and leaves,' said Jhelum and moved into the forest. Ayesha also followed her.

Jhelum was fourteen years old and Ayesha was around twenty. But Jhelum was hard pressed by her family responsibilities. With a pitcher on her head, she had to go to the lake and fetch water for the family. She had to go to the forests and orchards to collect dry woods and leaves. These responsibilities Jhelum had to carry out regularly.

Jhelum's father Pundit Sita Ram was a priest in a Shani temple which also had a Hindu crematorium nearby. Before terrorism in Kashmir valley, they had enough earning through offerings. But due to Islamic terrorism, all the Hindus fled from the village fearing for their lives. Now they had hardly any earning. Earlier on Saturdays devotees whose wishes were fulfilled used to remove their worn out old clothes and footwear in the Shani temple. This practice used to gave them enough clothes, although old ones.

Likewise, during cremation people used to remove clothes and chaders of dead ones before putting them on funeral fire. This practice also gave them enough clothes. They also used to attend tehervi bhoj of dead ones, leaving them a little better off.

After terrorism, they had to face very tough time. Whenever they tried to work in fields and orchards as labourers, Muslims and Harijans did not allow them to work. They declared that if pundits work in fields and agriculture, they will bring disaster for everybody. They pelted stones on this poor pundit family whenever they tried to work in fields and orchards.

In the fields nearby, bunches of soft anjeers' and figs', pods and flowers hung on the branches. Ayesha pulled down a few branches and plucked few anjeers and started eating. Jhelum was very sad. That day she hadn't had anything to eat or the night before.

‘Oh, God! I am hungry.' She murmured.

‘Don't cry, my dear daughter, there is nothing in the temple to eat.' Crying, her mother comforted her. Seeing her mother's pain Jhelum slipped into bed under the pain of hunger and overtiredness.

Jhelum was the daughter of a pundit; she didn't have the courage to enter the field and pluck fruits and eat. If poor like her commit petty thefts, they will be punished very ruthlessly. If the rich and powerful like Ayesha commit the same theft, they are ignored. All the way, Ayesha kept pulling down the branches and eating the fruit. She had no fear.

‘If the big Khan catches you, he will beat you,' said frustrated Jhelum.

‘Nobody is going to see. Even if anybody sees, nobody can touch me; I am the daughter of Maulana Basheer, head Maulvi of the main mosque.' Said Ayesha, squeezing Jhelum's bony cheeks.

Jhelum's stomach started burning in pain. She was haunted by empty kadhai and cold sigri at home. There was nothing at home. Her father had no work, nor was no one ready to give any job to her father. Nobody was ready even to give a loan to her father as all were sure that he cannot repay. Again she would starve. Jhelum's eyes filled with tears.

The narrow path was filled with the deodar and teak leaves. Jhelum forgot all about hunger and pain. She started picking up leaves and dry twigs and pressed them down in her chader. She has fulfilled her task for the evening fire. The load was heavy but her heart was light. Both the girls turned back home.

Jhelum asked Ayesha to help, lift the load on her head. The load was properly placed on Jhelum's head. Both her hands were holding the load. Seeing this good opportunity, Ayesha lifted the kurta of Jhelum. Helpless Jhelum could not do anything. Ayesha set on her knees and started fondling the little breasts of Jhelum. After few minutes, Ayesha started sucking, Jhelum's breast. Jhelum could not understand all this but she also started enjoying this game. But she remained silent as if urging Ayesha to embrace, kiss and suck the juice of her breasts.

Both girls were busy in this love game. Ayesha was overjoyed. Her hand was slowly and slowly slipping into the salwar of Jhelum.

‘Who is there?' a voice thundered from the forests. It was like a thunderbolt. Both the girls separated and looked into the field. Right in front of them stood big landlord Khan. With folded hands, Jhelum bent like a bow and said Salaam-Alaikum, Landlords Khan's eyes were burning red with anger.

‘What is this?' Thundered Khan.

‘For the sigri fire,' Jhelum muttered, shuddering.

Khan came in front of little Jhelum, Noticed the basket with leaves and twigs and on top the anjeer twigs. He lifted his leather shoed foot and with all his power, gave a kick to the load. The chader and the leaves flew.

Shivering with fear and tears in her eyes, Jhelum again spread the chader and started collecting leaves again with his little hands.

‘You bitch, gathering again?' Khan thundered. He had no idea how much value the leaves had for Jhelum and her family. The leaves and dry twigs were enough for a day's fuel. Though only a child, she knew her responsibility. Her entire existence cried for the leaves.

‘Janab! I will never come into your field again,' she begged and fallen into his feet.

Landlord Khan looked around. There was no mark of Ayesha. She ran away and vanished into the forest. Seeing the good opportunity, he shouted again, "What is it you have hidden under you kurta?"

‘Nothing.'

Khan lifted her kurta up to her breasts with his rough hands. Failed to find anything, he shouted, ‘you are a very cunning girl, you must have hidden inside of your salwar.' ‘Open it.' He yelled.

‘Ma, I can't-do this,' she started crying bitterly.

‘Then I will, you bitch.'

He pulled the cord of her salwar. With one jolt her salwar was on the ground.

Jhelum could not understand this, although the landlord Khan could not find anything. She gathered some courage. She stopped crying and shouted at him: ‘I didn't commit any theft. Look at my chader and my clothes.'

Landlord Khan pushed her on the ground.

‘You son of a randi! I did not steal anything,' she hurled a string of abuses.

Shocked khan completely came over Jhelum. To save her chastity, Jhelum pulled the long beard of Khan. Rattled on this sudden attack, Khan writhed with pain. His skull cap flew away. Now his ugly face was burning with lust. Shaven head, no moustache and floating beard, he was looking like an ugly demon. Khan leapt and tore her clothes and rubbed his coarse hand on her breast.

Khan leapt over Jhelum completely and started to kiss her very violently. He kissed again and again: Lips, cheeks, forehead, nose, ears.

Then he hugged her very tightly. Her tiny body was completely trampled under his weighty body. Khan started pressing her little breasts by his rough hands.

‘No,' Jhelum said and tried to remove his hand, but failed. She wriggled a lot, but he kept on pinching her breasts.

‘This is not right,' she panting, biting his chest.

Khan cried with pain and slapped her with full force.

‘Don't, Kahn abba!' she pleaded.

‘Stop talking nonsense,' he shouted, interrupting her garbled plea.

He reached down to remove her salwar. She tried to halt her ruthless advance but all in vain. He removed her salwar completely, very forcefully lifted her small legs and demon sized Kahn adjusted her in-between her legs.

She realised some sharp-straight object piercing her small hole and entering her body.

‘Oh ma, I'm slaughtered, please have mercy!' she cried with pain. She was unknown to all this.

After few minutes Khan started giving very violent push and jerks.

Then he started blowing and puffing very fast.

After some time Khan stopped and got up. Now Khan was silent. He adjusted his clothes and left her alone.

After weeping for a long time Jhelum opened her eyes. Jhelum's entire body was aching with unbearable pain. She picked her clothes and slowly wore them with feeble hands.

‘You son of a randi!' you and your family will perish.

‘Oh ma,' she began crying again, and crying still, went towards the river Jhelum. She reached on the bridge of river Jhelum. She was still crying inconsolably but nobody was there to wipe her tears. She climbed on the railings of the bridge. Her body was still aching. She closed her eyes. She remembered her father, her mother, her bosom friend Ayesha and her cold sigri at home.

She pleaded her mother to forget and forgive her.

‘O Mother Jhelum forgive me because I am innocent,' and jumped into river Jhelum. There was splash sound and within seconds she lost with the waves to sleep eternally in the lap of mother Jhelum.

Far in the madrasa students were still reciting, ‘Allahu Akbar, Ash hadu an la ilaha illal lah.'

At the threshold of the temple, her mother was waiting for her dear daughter Jhelum to unload her load of dry leaves and branches. A small old Kadahi was put on sigri and sigri was still cold.