=2=







          Anthony gathered the baby and almost ran
        to the casualty, found the only doctor dozing,
        he touched him, cried aloud for help. The
        baby was put in the incubator, Anthony waited
        outside.He had a gold necklace gifted to him
        by his maternal grand mother, sold that,
        purchased medicines  and time weighed on
        him waiting.
                  The boy did not survive, he held the dead
        in his arms, the tiny mass was blue, a lifeless
        creature, who petered out before he was fed
        a drop of his mother’s milk. None would shed
        tears for the  sinless, he was born of desire,
        but never welcomed.
                The man who was never to beget a child
        cried and cried till he was famished and could
        not find a drop to roll over his bony cheeks.
                        Anthony took the baby to the river,
        washed him, wiped his body dry, dug earth
        beside  the great banyan tree in the river
        bank, put a fresh banana leaf , and carefully
        placed the lifeless there,covered with a new
        cloth and put a bunch of hyacinth beside and
        filled with white sand and earth, above was
        laid a red stone.
                     Anthony was tired, could not walk
        then, retired beneath the tree and woke up
        next morning. He had not had a glass of water
        during last twenty-four hours.
                   He touched the stone mound, slowly
        caressing its rough surface. It was noon and
        he reached the medicine store, resigned
        from the job and for a few months he was
        not seen.
                           He sold his parental property
        at  Thrissur,reached the river bed and looked
        at the setting sun,felt the red sand stone ,
        he was a possessed soul, fenced wet land and
        constructed a thatched structure and put a small
        board in the entrance of the house. It became
        his Ashram and for destitute,undesirables a
        home. An old lady, whom he rescued from
        committing suicide in the river, was his
        companion. Both of them reared,  parented
        the unwanted children of society who were
        left helpless in the dark corners of the town,
        whose mothers fled the hospital bed
        unnoticed.
                          Anthony bought an old printing
        unit, collected orders for print in the day,
        till late night  he composed letters, printed
        it and took to the  binder for finishing,then
        delivered and the money he earned  was
        spent in feeding and growing those
        helpless. Those were the  days of lead-letters
        in the wood-blocks and  computerised  printing
        unit was to come after many years.   
                          It was a warm evening in April and
        I was there in the Ashram, now it was a small
        concrete building, thanks to a rich father of an
        inmate, who had long left the place to fend for
        himself.When he left he was a young man
        capable  enough to earn for himself and lead
        a normal life.  He was employed somewhere in
        a big city and an engineer. He never knew
        that his father was  a rich man, his mother
        a beautiful woman, who  died with her
        husband in a road accident.
                                              Anthony made
        it a point that none of the inmates would
        have any contact with him or the Ashram once
        they left it, he wanted that their past should
        never burden them, nor made them sick.
                     When I visited Anthony, he was
        disturbed;for the place he nurtured, he
        planted saplings to become large trees, was
        declared an encroachment and he was the
        offender. Like any city Cuttack was expanding
        and the wet land was developed and sold
        by the Government and development authority.
        Court cases were  pending against Anthony for
        unauthorized construction and encroachment.
                       He was fighting another battle of his
        life, against the mighty establishment, whose
        children, he was nurturing. For the establishment
        he was an enemy against prosperity and
        development. There were eleven boys and girls.
        The youngest one was two days old, she was
        a girl.The lady put her in Anthony’s  arms. He
        forgot the legal wrangles. acrimony and
        bitterness.
        He showed me the child, her  reddish
        complexion, toothless mouth appeared
        enigmatic and mysterious.  She was rescued
        from a garbage-can a couple of days back.
                    Anthony’s voice was animated, his
        face radiated from an unknown joy, he said,
        the baby recognized her, she even smiled.
        When I wanted to hold  the tiny trot, she
        cried, her face contorted  .
                        I did not meet Anthony again.
        I was away from Orissa for these years. I
        have no desire to learn about him. He is
        a hope , a dream,  I would not bear if
        hope is lost, tortured, I would be mad
        if dream died young in wilderness.
       
           
   
            
    

       It would have been easier for me if he didn’t
    have a name. He was Anthony from Thrissur in
    Kerala. He reached Orissa about three decades
    back. When I met him, he did not impress me,
    an ordinary man with ordinary features, was
    then in his mid-fifty. His face was more punitive
    than joyous. A small man, weak physique, and
    radiating eyes with prominent blood vessels.He
    was shabbily dressed, grey hairs unkempt , a
    kind of nemesis in his stature. Visibly arrogant,
    least friendly sort of character. I was a little
    annoyed in our first encounter, he was
    complaining that  our services were poor, which
    I was not ready to admit.
            Thereafter we met on few occasions, the
   ice melted and I knew the man. He was a chemist,
   working in Thrissur, reached Cuttack on a business
   visit, and did not return. His parents were long
   dead, no relative to bind him.Why he stayed back,
   he did not have any answer. He only knew the
   keenness, that he had to feel different places,
   he was wandering and thoughtless .
        He rationalized each place had its unique soul,
   and it had a kind of binding energy, might be the
   ancient town had a magnetic hold on him.
               He was a Catholic, but never visited a
   church after he reached the place, nor he had any
   regrets for that. He did not either go to a temple
   or a mosque. He had no idea about God’s form,
   but thought a cosmic energy regulated the
   earth, the same was incomprehensible, formless,
   mysteriously dynamic.
          He worked in a medicine shop near the only
   medical college in Cuttack. He earned enough to
   lead a decent life, at times he went on long vacation,
   went to distant places and felt the presence of his
   imagination and cosmic force inter-playing.
              It was a dull autumn dawn, the east was 
   faintly brilliant.  Crimson sun was about to usher in.
   He heard a commotion, opened the door of the shop,
   which he bolted from inside. He did not have any need
   to find a separate residence, the owner was also happy
   that his shop was secure at night. Near the road side
   drain some people had gathered and discussing in
   animated voice. Anthony was curious and reached
   the drain. He found a new born, wet and gasping
   for breath, almost motion less. Nobody knew for
   how long he was there.
                             He did not know who forced him
  there, he pierced the crowd, went down ,  gathered
  the new born in his frail arms, saw him, felt a kind
  of new born enthusiasm.
                 The crowd was busy discussing the child’s
  mother, the father might be a spoiled brat of a rich
  politician, or even only son of a corrupt bureaucrat,
  who seduced the immoral woman and left .
  Anthony was oblivious of the people and place. He
  perceived something unusual wailing in him, from
  a distance in the temple echoed the blowing of 
  conch shell,cymbals’ crash, the child felt the
  warmth of human touch, tried to open his eyes.
  The sun was rising in the east.
                                                      
       
 

                                               =2=







        Sabarmati and Hridaykunj evoked a
   response  unknown to him. The mere  sound
   had an  effect of something out of the world.
   He did not   know whether it was for their
   association with Gandhiji or something else.
                     She said, she married six years
  back, just after her education she married the
  man, whom she thought would be her mentor,
  protector and fried for life. She  was from a
  conservative family, where value system was
  rigidly ordained into the children. His father was
  dealing in jewelery business. The house was
  a gift to her husband by her father.
             Her in-laws were nice to her,  treated
  her  like a daughter. Time rolled on, she could
  not  bring a heir to the family. She visited many
  doctors, none found any fault with her.
                          The loving husband turned a
  hard man, caring in-laws did not find time to
  share her feelings.
                 Now life had become unbearable for
  her, the man slept in another room. His parents
  were busy finding a young bride for me. No body
  thought the man might have some problem.
  He never visited a doctor.
                 She heaved a deep sigh, yet he did not
  find a tear drop rolling down. She was silent and
  still  after pouring her heart out.
              He  saw her face, its folds. A vision was
  in waiting, there was a resemblance with her
  elder sister. The face appeared ancient, a
  suffering woman , still and motionless for ages.
                         He left Ahmedabad after a
  fortnight or so , never had any opportunity
  to know anything about Bhabijee.  Whenever
  he meets her happily married sister and
  her young kids  a gloom  surrounds him
  from no where, from which  he can not
  escape.
                       

                                           =1=










    He was a paying guest in a Gujrati family, he
    reached  Ahmedabad about six months back.
    The family had a small and nicely maintained
    house in Nawarangpura,  then a posh locality.
    It was in the vicinity of the  university, that
    was an added attraction.He could remember
    his university days, and could see boys and
    girls having a carefree existence.
            The family head , a teacher in a local
    school, his wife and Bhabijee;the husband
    of Bhabijee came  once in a week. He was
    employed in Mehsana, not very far off.
                    He was a little in love with the city,
    not for its developed look, but he had never
    found two men arguing on the streets, there
    was also a distinct  similarity between Gujrati
    and   his language.
              The colours of life , affluence and tender
    neighbourliness touched him. His day started
    with a cup of tea from Meenu, his Bhabijee
    and ended with moonlight from the window
    of his small room. He was in awe of the
    river Sabarmati and felt a queer feeling of
   dissipation and detachment when he visited
   Gandhi Ashram, and when he was in the living
   room of Ba’ and Gandhi. An ordinary man rising
   to sainthood and changing the fate of a nation
   always  amazed him, he could never reconcile
   that such a man ever existed and breathed the
   air of the city. 
    At night the elderly lady brought  dinner to
   his  room and his duty was to keep the plate
   and pan outside the room to be collected by
   the domestic help in the morning.
                    He was very friendly with the family,
   they were all praise for Puri beach and being
   pious Hindus they were always in awe and
   devotion to the lord,  Jagannath. Beyond this
   he felt there was something amiss in the family.
   Meenu was young, hardly a few years his senior,
   yet her husband came once in a week.
           A distinct sadness  was always on her face,
   a rugged hardness was there on the face of the
   elders. At times the family head asked him
   to come to the ground floor and have a chat,
   and he always obliged.
                  It was a Saturday afternoon, both
   the elders were not in the house. He was ruffling
   the pages of a light reading journal. A soft voice
   broke the sound of silence, it was Bhabijee
   who asked him to come down and have a cup of
   tea. He thought she was bored and needed
   someone to talk to.
                  The lady offered him a cup of tea
   and asked him to come to their drawing room.
   He was a little  hesitant, he did not want to be
   with a young woman when she was alone.
   Bhabijee insisted and both of them entered
   their room. It was meticulously arranged and
   touch of a deft female hand was apparent.
                   He was sitting opposite to her.
  She was beautiful, dusky, short and had an
  oval face with dark eyes. Her hairs long and
  soft. Her fingers long and  manicured. She had
  attractive features. For the first time he saw
  her from such a close distance. He felt uneasy,
  but the lady was unconcerned and asked about
  him, his parents, his family. She had two sisters
  and a brother, his father died a few years back,
  mother is an asthma patient.
                     She continued without a break, as
  if she had not talked for years.
                            

                            =2=




    A bearded, thin, frail and shrunken old man,
    skinny face,protruding eyes, bones visible.
    The day he confided about his wife, he was
    without any emotion and never betrayed
    any tremor. From that day my interest in
    him was increased. I never thought him a
    poor chaiwala, he was not ordinary, he
    was an enigma of a man. For reasons or
    not I frequented him, tried to listen him
    attentively, selfishly trying to learn from
    experience of age and common wisdom.
    He never appeared sad, a jolly soul ,
    happy and at times hummed old Hindi
    numbers.
         I wondered how could one be so,
    despite shock and heart wrenching
    treachery.The old man was never deluded,
    and he rationalized he was at fault in neglecting
    a young woman. He said he was destined to
    suffer a lonely life.Then I thought if people
    could be half tolerant as he was, then…
                    Afternoon was fading into dark.The
   sun was loosing its crimson sheen, in the distant
   horizon, a dazed gleam was appearing,after
   sun, the cool moonlight . Nature of the universe,
   Mysterious and magnificent.
                                               The old man added
   cream to my tea. Another revelation was waiting
   me. The old man was in touch with an orphanage
   for last many years. He financed education, food
   for three children, now they were independent.
   The latest one was marrying that  Friday.He
   was happier than before.Never had he met
   them and forbade the orphanage to reveal
   his identity. I found no display of any emotion.
   I felt like saluting the old man.
         It was late, I returned to my room.
                   After some months I was transferred
   to Kolkata, my office was in the vicinity of
   Raja Bazar, there I met many bearded skinny
   old Muslims. I could never forget the old man.
   In them I wished to find another, but never
   could I come across a similar man. He was
   a revelation, none could ever come near him.
                           After some years I visited
  Cuttack, there had been spectacular change
  in the land-scape of the old town. People were
  busy than before, less interested in others.
                            I could not resist visiting
  the tea stall I frequented. I reached there,
  in place of that thatched stall a tiled brick
  restaurant. My eyes roved over, the old man
  was no where . A young man was on the counter
  collecting bill and asking the boys to be fast.
  I was in two minds, approached him and
  asked him about the old man. The glints
  of gratitude never escaped me. He was a Hindu
  Brahmin, came in search of livelihood from
  a distant village. The old man offered him
  food and shelter.The Brahmin was hesitant,
  but had no other alternative. He lived with the
  old man, they both managed the stall, the old
  man built the new shop and one afternoon died
  while praying.The old man had bequeathed
  all his belongings to the young man. 
                    I was silent, my eyes moist. For a
  minute I closed them.It seemed the old man
  had gone for Zuhr, the prayer at noon; he would
  come back and offer me a cup of tea sprinkled
  with cream.
                       I had no sadness for him, yet had
  a feeling the world is worth living and dreaming
  only for people like the old bearded man.From
  the day I am in search of someone,who is as
  happy and sincere,  never  after I met a man
  who is like him, pain in the  heart, an
  expanding smile on face. 
              
    


        

                                          =1=
              I did not know contentment could have a
              face, nor I knew life could be serene, full
              without having a trace of fulfillment.Yet
              some day in life’s  journey you confront
              the inexplicable that you pause and
              weigh your ideas, feel the futility of a
              pre-judged notion and start anew.
                         It was a lazy May afternoon,
              a Wednesday. it was hot and a holiday.
              I was alone, did not have anything to
              kill time. Then staying in a one-room
              rented  house near a mosque. I was
              never a believer nor an atheist.
             When I go to a temple, I attempt to
             maintain calm. I wish to be free of any
             desire. The only  thought then is to free
             of all evils, let there beno harm
             caused by me.
             In a church, mosque or a  gurudwara if
             I am allowed to pray, I would  not utter
             a word, but shall wish no harm to  any
             one.
                    That day since early morning there
             was  a temptation  to idle away the long
             summer   day. After a biscuit-tea
             breakfast  I was lost  in Camus’
             The Plague. Existentialism, Nietzsche,
             Freud’sunconscious  were my  favourite
              then.
                             Dragged my feet to the old
             man’s  tea stall. I never knew his name.
             He was an  old soul with a tender heart,
             that was enough   for me. He came to
             Orissa during partition days. He was
             from East Pakistan. He was a devout
             Muslim, but preferred to come to India.
             From then Calcutta he reached Cuttack
             riding the  only train, that was Puri
             Express.He was my constant company
             all through those lonely nights.
             From 10 to 5, in the bank, then
             a single bachelor in a rented house with
             no company, even at midnight I could
             get a cup of tea, courtesy  the old man.
             He opened his stall   early morning,
             just after dawn, closed well after
             mid night,  catering to medley customers,
             right from night rickshaw-wala  to the
             local high school teachers.
                                       He was staying alone,
            no body with him, all alone to fend for
            himself. In me he had found an avid
            listener. He was religious in his own
            naive way. He had vague ideas about
            Islamic duty. He offered prayers five
            times a day. He observed Sawn(fasting),
            tried hard to practice Zakt or alms in
            his humble way. He always thought
            a Muslim must be generous, he should
            perform his designated duties for his
            less fortunate  brethren.He offered tea
            to a few while they returned from
            the prayer.
                 After reaching Cuttack, the ancient
           and traditional of Orissa he worked in a
           filigree shop, it was too difficult for him
           to learn the intricacies of silver craving.
           He left that job, opened a tea stall and
           lived in a thatched house near his stall.
           He was faithful to his world. He said
           how street lamps were introduced and
           remembered the light boy who came
           with a can of kerosene in the evening,
           light the lamp, and put out in the
           morning.He carried with him a bamboo
           ladder to reach the lamp. It was real
           yet nostalgic for me, seemed like
           stories from a past civilization.
                 When he reached with his wife,
          he did not know it would be his home
          for remaining life. After putting this
          ramshackle tea stall they were a happy
          couple. He recounted the day he bought
          a nose ring for his wife and how she
          responded with a dazzling blush.He
          reached his home late night and both
          took their night meal together and
         retired till the dawn, unthinking and
         happy. He earned enough for their
         frugal living. He  had also a friend,
         a Telgu rickshaw puller, he lived
         alone, and also a wanderer like
         him, left his native in Andhra and
         came to Cuttack in search of a living.
                         Once or twice in a week
        they dined together, the wife a perfect
        host, occasionally they took country
        liquor to be rebuked by his wife. Then
        he promised not to take again and
        broke it the next occasion.
                   It was a winter night, then it
       was cold in Cuttack, there had been
       need  of a warm quilt and passionate
       touch of a woman. These days Orissa
       is hot in December.He found the door
       open. He called his wife, no reply. He
       shouted, then cried and felt a hot fluid
       running inside. No, he never found his
       wife again. She had eloped with the
       Telgu. I thought the man did not spend
       much time together, and for the young
       woman it was not possible to bear.
                       For days, months and years
       he had a hope, one night returning home
       he would find the woman waiting for him.
       They would dine together and in his arms
       she would beg forgiveness, and he would
       be too happy to grant that. yet never
       she came back, the man grayed and
       wrinkled. Now he is an old man.



                    
                          
    
           
                                    
                                             
          

           










                             ‘Rise up; control thy panting breath,
                              and call
                              The soul to aid, that wins every fight…’
                                   ( L’ INFERNO)
 
              He was there for almost a month, from the
       very  first day he loved the people and the place.
       It was bursting with sublime reason and matter.
      The  wealth from the gulf and rationale routine
      of the people  made  the state rich in spirit.
      The green  infinite entwined with sedate  
      back waters, decorative   wood-sculptured
      temples, the odorous  women , the mythical
      Kathakali  seasoned  him to  realize  the
      ambiguity of existence.
    
                 Mercy D’souza , even after many
      many   years evoked in him a jangle, a
      battle between  the conflicting  emotions. She
      was a sales girl,  in her late twenties, neatly
      dressed and the name tag just above the chest
      pinned to her  blue uniform. She was working
      in a  high-end  store, Vettukatal . Her eyes
      spoke less yet conveyed  more. He  met
      her in the store while buying a  trouser.
      She smiled a  lot, talked ceaselessly,
      when she  spoke, her deep black  eyes sent
      out rays of joyous  abandonment,cheeks
      glowing,   she was a woman to be  enamoured
      of.  
                   He did not know why he visited  
      the  store daily on his way back from his
      work- place.When she closed her eyes and      
      then   opened , she pierced his senses. A chill
      went   through him when she asked   him to
      visit her  place. On the appointed day he was
      anxious  and tried to maintain calm. Mercy stayed
      in a  one -room  rented apartment sharing with
      another  working woman. 
           He reached there in a dull afternoon. It was
     an  ordinary working  woman ’s dwelling.. Her room
     mate went to her parents’ place.
                    After ritual hello a surprise was in
     store for him, Mercy introduced a child as her son.
     He was Paul, a soft cute boy of three, who was
     taken care of by the land lady when Mercy was
     there in the store,  He was in no mood to stay
     further. Mercy asked him to accompany them
     to the back waters. He had to.They reached
      there. Ships, trawlers and remains of Fort
     Cochin from distance added movement and
     impulse to the  serene  land scape. He was
     a little ashamed and more disturbed. Mercy
     was  fabulous  in her white saree  and    
     blue blouse with a white bindi adorning
     her forehead.
               Paul led them to a corner where his
     peers were trotting along. Mercy was silent
     as if a stationary dark cloud. He thought he
     lost a lover but gained a friend.
          Mercy poured her heart out. She was
     in love with a Hindu boy, the boy left
     her when she was a few weeks pregnant.
     She did not look back, her parents desertion,
     hard life did not deter her from  a pursuit,
    a  unwed mother rearing her child .
                   He could not speak, his face did
    not betray the simmering emotion.He thought
    Mercy   would be  inconsolable, but she was
    placid  like an autumn sky.
           Paul was banging against unseen wind,
    the evening was spreading against the backdrop
    of returning birds, their shadows no longer
    visible. They left the  back  waters  leisurely,
   speechless. The light posts were releasing
   an abstract straight line.
             He never visited the store again.
   When  he met Mercy and Paul it was
   at their home. On a few occasion he had
   an idea, to hold a handful of sunshine
   and put it over Mercy’s face. Strange are
   the ways of men.
       Some days after he left Ernakulam.
  Mercy was there at the platform with
  Paul. For a moment he put his hand over
  her head and felt a sublime joy and that
  recurs when he is at peace with himself.
 
           It was many years . The image still
  lingers, when he broods, he finds himself
  at peace, a whispering calm abounded in
  the soul.
 
  
   
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

              
   
   
       



       

                                                   (1)


















       It was a long night’s journey into day.   For a
      small town   boy  it was   wandering   in an alien
      land.    Orissa ,  then was more  ancient, offbeat
     and less   boisterous.  From  Ahmedabad   to
     Ernakulam   there was  no single  direct train.
         He boarded   Navjiban Express  at   Ahmedabad
     and after   forty odd hours   journey  reached
     Madras,  where an August   afternoon was   waiting
     with qualms   and distinct  slit of   uncanny
     apprehension .  It was an idle evening. The coolies
     on   the platform  were  genteel, unbecoming of
     their   profession.   There was a   long   uneventful
     anxious  waiting for the connecting train to   Ernakulam. 
             The station was half   empty  and half noisy.
     For him it was like   the centre  page of a  least
     circulated  local language paper.   People were getting
    down from  arriving long distance  trains. Children,
    men and women   all were eager to reach their destination
    at wind’s speed.  He thought a mad rush gradually and
    systematically  creeping   into otherwise dispassionate
    men and women. That was long back. When he
    remembers the day,   he has a feeling  time moves
    faster than human sensation.   It is time which has
    made man a  baby doll that moves  only when   it is
    keyed up.  Stimulation is the essence,   it has  become
    synonymous  with advancement.
                  He boarded the train to Ernakulam, he  had
    heard   there all   religions meet and cultures synthesize
    to present a  picture perfect of  human  empathy.
          He wished he could sleep, a deep sleep, unhindered
    and undisturbed , a peace  through attainment of
    withdrawal.  But he could n’t. The  tinge of  undefined
    melancholy tapered off his excitement of being  left
    alone to fend.
              He could not sleep , nor could think coherently.
    Closed his eyes, relived his  childhood, yet the scene
    was   blurred, it was evanescent. The passion in him
    transformed   into deprivation.  The euphuism  was
    lost in hard metaphors  of   living, where light  is not
    all white, it is translucent.   At midnight he slept like
    a cradle baby, in the  safe lap of moving  giant.
           Almost with a jerk he woke up , it was dawn,
    from the dim light of the platform he knew it was
    Palaghat ,  from the audio  system there was
    melodious  recitation of   Geet Govindam.  The
    subtle nuances of the verse mingled   with the smell
    of rain clouds and leaves took him to a state  of
    union with the universe. It was surreal, albeit in flashes
    of overreaching clairvoyance.The train left the platform,
    music faded into  thick air. At Trissur he found men,
    women and children squatted on the railway track.
   the   rail roko was for twelve hours  It was wee hours
   when he  reached Ernakulam, the abode of
   God and wise men,  a joyous confluence of human
   reason  and epicurean fulfilment.  

      ( contd. in the sun shines…)

  

    My good friend wrote,’Why do they love ,if they can not sustain .”nivana” is more important than falling in love. Dear friend, it is not only how you sustain, it is more a situation often discussed at length in Saratchandra’s novels.You never know what you are presented with, you never know when you first fall in love, nor you know when and how.It is like a dew drop if you don’t collect in your palms, earth shall dry it. love knows not where to start and where to finish.Those who love they never decide and then love.    

He is a good friend of mine, a handsome engineer, employed in a MNC. He was a brilliant student, with more than average intelligence, girl used to vie with each other to draw his attention.They admired him, among them a cute, little nice soul with beautifully craved lips and ever smiling face.She had dimples over her cheeks when she emitted a radiant smile.My friend knew her for many years, they were from the same school, the girl was was one year junior, both studied in an engineering college.The boy stayed in the college hostel, the girl with her relatives.They were very friendly, talked for hours. My friend had a crush on her,he saved the flame in him for several years.

 That was a Sunday afternoon, the boy resolved, whistled  and assured himself he would bare his heart today.He took a taxi, reached the girl’s place.

 His flame was more beautiful than ever.The boy wiped the sweat over his forehead.The girl smiled, thousand stars bloomed in the boy’s heart. 

They talked and talked and talked, time almost stood still. My friend spoke out his heart.For a moment the girl looked at him admiringly, kept silent , the boy thought it was ages. The girl showed him her fingers, there was a small,bright ring.The boy could not see any more, it was her engagement ring.The girl smiled, it was a wry smile, dimples were not there and said in a husky voice, ‘timid men never love.’

 My friend is still unmarried, a successful professional. 

                                    She was a dirty woman, my friends even called her a whore. They said even after menopause she was friendly with young boys.  Her husband was a temple priest. Early in the morning  she took her bath in the village pond , put a large red vermillion mark over forehead, wearing hair in twin braids she picked flower for the village deity, put on a clean saree and cleaned the temple premises. It was her daily routine even during rains and chilly winter. I was then in my high school , more interested in gossips, salacious  rumours  and wild ideas about women. Whenever there was an oppertunity I  used to give her a sly look, she embodied  forbidden sensuality and my desire was wild with fantasy of being friendly with her. My time came during annual village fair. I saw the woman buying household articles , she also saw me, found curiousity in my eyes, then called aloud and aside. I was then a bundle of nerves, took cautious, apprehensive steps. By then she had her shopping and asked me if I  could come along. I was agog with unexplained, accompanied her , sweated underneath my dress. As if the forbidden was beckoning with venegeance.  Still I gathered myself to accompany her. We reached her home , it was dimly lit, the atmosphere was eerie, her husband was in the temple. She asked me to sit on their bed, offered me ripe guava and bananna. She extended her arm, put her palm over my forehead, wiped the sweat drops, caressed my unkempt hair , it was so sudden that I did not have senses to feel anything. I was burning  inside.      

I looked up , found her teardrops wer rolling over her brown cheeks.

She said; We do n’t have a child , we are cursed , none would lit our pyre.

She was inconsolable. Light within me flickered. I closed my eyes, tried to feel my breath, found a tender darkness enveloped my  entirety. My whole being was transformed to a frigid nothingness.

 I put my face over her shoulder, twisted her pallu in my fingers , I was a tiny tot gasping for breath and crying aloud ceaselessly. She wiped my face , her tear drops drenched me more than she wiped mine. 

It was night when I reached home.

Night  was divine and I resolved in my dream, wherever I am I will do her last rites.

I left my village to study in a college, mingled in urban life, forgot her. My friends called me timid with women, I don’t know if it is true .

 I  heard , she died a lonely wretch. I could do nothing yet shed a few drops more.