where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Nine

Anindo sat with the driver in the car he had arranged; they were driving towards Ambala. He had learnt from his sources that the ladies captured at the dhaba were taken to a police station from where they were sent to a refugee camp just on the outskirts of the city. One of them did own a car but it had been destroyed in the fight. 

It was early morning; daylight was still stretching to its capacity. 

Satyawan was seated in the back seat. In his hand was his father’s diary. He read it again; once more he felt an emotional sweep as he read his father’s words: 

“Whenever Mamta would ask about Roza or accuse me I used to scream at her. But I could never tell that I was not shouting at her. I wasn’t angry at her. The anger was at my self; at my helplessness; at my guilt. How could I explain that the relationship between Roza and me was of neither lust nor love? It was way beyond these – it was a relationship of friendship, a relationship of pain”

The car had gained good speed. Its noise echoed behind it, on the road, which was empty. Satyawan flipped the pages:

“For Mamta’s delivery Shimla was my suggestion. It suited her health. It was endorsed by the doctor as well. Plus the head in charge was an old client. He was more than eager to repay my debt. But there was a selfish motive as well. Roza was there. After the unfortunate incident between us, things could never become normal; within a month she resigned and left Delhi. I received a letter from her after a while; she had a massive fight with her parents, and had shifted to the hills. Ever since I received her letter I had meant to meet her. Irealized that I had been unfair to her. Very unfair. I had to see her once and apologize. But then she never demanded anything. She should have. It was her right. She had been unfair. Very unfair.”

The car bumped over a loose stone. Satyawan paused in his reading and looked out at the fresh fields bathed in early morning dew; the golden expanse extended both sides unendingly. His face was contorted as he tried hard to stop the tears to fall again. 

“I met Roza at her guest accommodation. It was nothing more than a shanty. I was appalled at her condition. She was pale, and weak and looked deathly. This was not the bright Roza that I knew who brought coffee for me every morning. I was angry at her. I knew I had to take care of her. Even though she refused, I didn’t listen. I had her admitted in the same hospital as Mamta. It made my meeting with her also easy. 

“Mamta’s condition was worsening. For a while we all thought she wouldn’t survive. The breathing was abnormal, and even the doctors were scared. So was I. Even though it was not my religion, I would still sit for hours below the idol of Mother Mary in the hospital corridor. God was, after all, one even though we give Him several names. Within the roof of that hospital there were two women who had a deep impact on my life. 

“Both held my past and future. I wanted them to be safe. I wanted my future to be safe”

The car jerked to a halt.  Satyawan looked up from the diary. Anindo turned, and nodded. They had reached their destination. Satyawan got out and stretched, and when he saw the camp, his eyes nearly fell out. 

                                                                *******************************

Stretched over acres was a huge sea of men, women and children – in various degree of disarray- punctuated with tents – grey and torn and broken; there were trunks and bags and household things thrown around in a chaos in between. A line of decrepit buses stood on the farthest side. This was a large barren field converted into a refugee camp, fenced on all sides with a low barbed wire. There was a hushed din, a small number of wails, children’s cries and voices speaking – all in a grating dull concoction. Beyond the ground, behind the buses the town outline was visible, with the clock tower looking down morosely. 

Anindo touched Satyawan’s shoulder, urging him to move. They walked to an opening in the wire, their feet digging into the sand. 

On the right hand side, there was a tent larger than others. A hand written board stated in three languages: ‘Office’ in English, ‘Daftar’ in Urdu and ‘Karyalaya’ in Hindi. They walked towards it. 

Inside, it was a similar confusion. On the farther end of the tent was a ramshackle desk, behind which sat a harried clerk trying to answer queries that had no replies. Two women stood asking for their brother. Behind them was a couple and scattered around a few more people – the only thing that bound the diverse gathering was the worry on their faces; it was as if God had painted them in same color. 

They walked towards the desk. Eventually, the ladies left, unsatisfied after a small argument. There was a couple after them, who were there only to enquire about the bus timing. 

The clerk dropped his pen, and shook his head irritatingly. Standing up, he said in his thick oily voice, “Everyone who is here to ask for bus timings – just note that all buses will leave at 10 am. That is in forty five minutes from now.”

Getting this information a few more left. Anindo and Satyawan stepped forward.

“Kya hai?” asked the clerk rudely, looking at them. 

“We are looking for one lady” started Anindo. “Her name is…”

The clerk interrupted curtly, “Kya hoga naam bata ke. Kya hoga?” He picked up a thick bunch of papers. “Yeh rah naam, dhhoondo…” Satyawan’s heart sank as he saw the bundle. He noticed the names were written in a tiny handwriting. “Dhoondo…chalo…” challenged the clerk, and turned away in a huff seeing that they could not meet his challenge!

“Par bhai sahib,” started Satyawan. The clerk glared back him. Anindo held his arm, and shook his head as if to say : no point arguing here.

“Waise bhi,” continued the clerk, “What is the point in finding the name here. They are not in any order. You will have to physically search for them outside only.”

The clerk turned to the next person. 

Dejected they stepped out of the tent. Satyawan surveyed the sprawling field, and the activity there. People who were leaving were piling into the buses at the farthest end- even though at some distance he could hear shouts and curses flowing towards where he stood. The immediate space ahead was quieter. 

“Let’s divide. I will look towards the right, you at the left” 

Satyawan nodded – and the two parted ways. He walked towards the first tent, and tried to peer inside. He recoiled back; a woman was breastfeeding an emaciated skeleton of a child. He moved ahead; a couple of ladies made rotis. 

“Have you seen a lady, in black called Firoza?” he asked them. The women were Muslims. They covered their face with dupatta and shook their heads. 

He walked ahead, at each tent, to each person …have you seen a lady in black…no! thereis a young girl with her also…yes! Where? No, no she doesn’t have a mole …have you seen a lady in black, middle aged? No… have you? Neither me...have you? Nor me...your sister has? Perhaps…where is your sister? there? I will go…have you seen a lady in black dress? Yes! You seem to think…did she come from Ambala police station? Yes … Oh, but the lady I saw was in saree, you say she was in a black dress? No, my child it must have been someone else!

Tent after tent…person after person…

He ran his tongue over his lips. Looking up he saw the sun increasing its intensity. He shielded his eyes with the diary he carried in his hand. 

His feet stumbled. There was a loud wail; scared, he turned to look backwards. He had stumbled on a child who was crawling in the sand – the face was stained and dirty; Satyawan looked around for the parents. Ahead an old lady sat, her back towards the tent – wrinkled, toothless, graying dry hair open and frazzled. He tried to signal her to pick the child. She did not respond, or notice his signal.

Not knowing what to do, and with a more pressing matter in his hand, he wanted to move on. But the child had crawled towards him, and was crying bitterly while tugging at his trousers. He picked it up. Sensing it to be its father, the infant snuggled close to him. Satyawan felt a strange emotion run through him – he had never held a child earlier; the soft mass gurgled and moved in his arm’s fold: vulnerable and weak. Was this the feeling that his father had when he first held him?

He walked to the old lady. Bending down, he said, “Maai, yeh bachha kis ka hai?” 

The lady did not respond. He touched the frail arm, where the skin was flaccid and heavily wrinkled. As soon as he touched, the lady started screaming and howling. Petrified at the sudden reaction, Satyawan stepped back. 

A few seconds later, a younger lady in a dull maroon sari came rushing there. She held the screaming old lady in her arms and consoled her, making a few cooing sounds as one makes to a child. A few pats and soothing words later the old lady quietened. 

Satyawan looked at the scene transfixed. The woman came to him. “Sorry about mother,” she said. “Give – he is my child,” she said. The child instinctively recognized his mother and jumped towards her.

Satyawan was speechless, and his eyes were still on the aged woman with a blank stare. “Wh…what happened to her?” he asked handing over the infant. 

The woman took her baby, held him and said flatly, without any emotion, “She was raped,” and walked away. 

Satyawan was stunned; it seemed as if the ground beneath him had been pulled off. What evil had possessed the person to rape an old lady? She must have been his grandmother’s age. He shuddered.  

Aghast and ripped off all feelings; he went about his work – at first cursorily, then gaining his composure with more interest.

Have you seen a lady in black? Yeah tall! No? Yes! Where? There was another young girl with her?. Firoza. Saroj. 

Where are you two? He wanted to scream. He stood amidst the palpating surrounding, which stretched all over till the eyes could see. People went about their miserable duties oblivious to his stricken face. He looked one of them. His hands were on his hips with fists tightly clenched in frustration; his mind tense to the point of bursting open - how he would find two people in this teeming mass of people. Taking a deep breath, he resumed again. 

Have you seen a lady in black? With a young girl? No! 

“Was she actually a Parsi?” asked the girl. His heart pounded and he nodded vigorously. “And the young girl wore a pink suit with broken bangles in her hand?”

Yes!! Yes!!! he nearly shouted. The girl looked at him with pity. “But those two are leaving today itself. Check them in the buses, maybe you will find them” she said, shrugging.

He flung a quick thanks and ran to the area where the buses were. He entered the first one. It was packed. He had to push and shove to find a foothold. People looked at him curiously as he stared at their faces, trying to find the ones he wanted to. Nothing there. He got off, and ran to the second one. There were another people trying to get in from both the ends of the bus. He tried from the front. He was pushed. “Dekhke”, “hato” were the rude responses. He ran the length of the bus, peering into the windows. The ones who sat on the window side eyed him suspiciously. They avoided his gaze. A lady. A man. A youngster. A couple. Different faces. Different colors. Different sizes. But one expression. Dazzled. Tired. Hurt. But no Ms. Roza! No Saroj. The two faces that he wanted to see. He reached the third bus. Same result. 

Then he heard a clang, and the ignition jerked to life. The first bus heaved, and started. He heard it move, crunching the sand beneath its heavy weight. Soon, the next heaved forward and the third started its engine with a loud roar. He was on the fourth one. This one will start off soon. He entered the bus. He was shouting, “Ms. Roza! Saroj!!” He did not care what others thought of him. Agitated, he walked the length. When he tried to get off, he was pushed back harshly by two men who were entering. He fell. The diary slipped. He stretched his hand to retrieve it. But the men did not stop; they stepped on his hand and moved into the crowded bus. He screamed in pain. The dusty shoes left a mark. But he managed to grab the diary and stumbled out, just as the bus gave a jolt forward; and he moved outward towards four more persons who were entering the bus, screaming to the driver to wait.  

He had to find them before the bus left; he was near the next one. This also started its engine. “Ms Roza! Saroj!!” The bus lunged forward. He ran, peering inside desperately, as the bus moved beside him though in the opposite direction. “Ms Roza!! Saroj!!!”

He was getting frustrated. With all his might, he screamed out, “Ms. Roza where are you!!!” Looking heavenwards, he gave a loud cry – his arms raised, his body taut. 

“Satyawan!”

Opening his eyes, sobbing he saw the next bus move towards where he stood. And leaning out of the window was the face he wanted to see. Immediately it retracted, and Ms.Roza and Saroj moved ahead towards the exit. The bus was still slow.

“Stop the bus, stop it,” he waved his hand to the driver.

The bus stopped with a loud groan. Pushing the swarm standing near the exit, Saroj and Ms.Roza tripped out of the bus. 

Relief poured over his body. He was too full of sentiment to speak. Ms. Roza looked at him with compassion. Their eyes met. He raised his arm, to show the diary…and nodded. Yes, he had read it. The words from the diary came back to him, as if his father was speaking to him:

“Roza delivered my son on a warm winter afternoon; he was premature. She was so ecstatic that she would not leave him for a minute. Not even to give him to me. The feeling of holding one’s own child cannot be described. At least I cannot. All I can say is holding little Satyawan in my arms, I was completed. Ten days later Mamta gave birth to a still-born child. Even before she gained consciousness, Roza had made the decision to hand over Satyawan to Mamta. As an unwed mother, the child would have grown with a social stigma of being a bastard. Now that destiny had paved a way out, Roza would not hear any arguments. But I did snatch one promise from her before agreeing – she would have to return to her post and her position back in Delhi in my office. At the hospital it was easy. The owner switched the children himself, without anyone getting to know of it. It was a pity that my younger child had to die. I would have been a father twice over. My other dead son’s death certificate often haunts me. 

“I often wondered at Roza’s resilience – she had Satyawan for only ten days, and those ten days were the foundation of her entire life. She said that she could live with those memories forever. I salute this lady.”

He inched forward towards her. So did she. Tears were rolling from her eyes. Saroj was by her side. 

They stood face to face; each wanting to say a lot; each failed by words. Emotions stuck in his throat; they squeezed his heart and crushed his veins. Their eyes spoke. And Satyawan’s questioned her for keeping him away from her for so long. She just cried. 

“Ms..” he started out of habit but stopped, as she put her hand to the lips, her eyes conveying more than words could ever say.

For twenty three years Roza had kept her emotions dumped within her self, in a bottomless pit; at that moment they blasted up from that well in their full fury and flushed out in form of a storm of tears. She raised her arms and hugged Satyawan holding him tightly lest he slip away from her life again. 

Anindo came towards them. He had seen them from a distance. He gave a smile; his eyes were wet too. 

Roza pushed him back, had a good look and hugged him again. With his one arm around his mother, Satyawan raised the other to take in Saroj. Anindo smiled, and followed them at a distance.

The sun was bright and smiling. Birds chirruped. Trees swayed to a mild wind’s music. Flowers bloomed. The ground skipped below their feet. There was still commotion, but it was behind them. Together the four of them walked away from the refugee camp, away from pain and sorrow; the past and its memories, which now they laid to rest; they walked towards the horizon, where the heaven meets the earth.

THE END

Author’s Note: 

This completes my second consecutive long story ending on 15^th August, albeit in different eras! 

When Priyangini mailed me two story plots I was not too keen to take them up. Not that the plots were bad but there were several other reasons: Long stories take up a lot of time – not only the hours spent in ‘physical writing’, but the entire process of thinking up scenes and breaks and movements. I didn’t want to be in a situation where I was sitting in a meeting but thinking what the hero / heroine of my story are doing. Plus, I had announced The Independence Day to be my last ‘big’ story for the year.

 However, the biggest reason was that my creativity itself was not showing any encouraging sign. And things around me were not in good shape. Hence, I warded off Priyangini’s queries and persistence as much as I could. 

Of the two plots, Sudhanshu and Roza’s story stayed back. It was a subject right up my street. Often I sat with that email open trying to build a cohesive script around it. Priyangini had not given me the climax; and I wanted one that should be spectacular. It eluded me. Also, every time I read it I was convinced that a present day setting would not suit the story. It had to be in the past; vague sepia toned images floated in the mind. So, I zeroed upon 1947. It was a turbulent time in history; the ambience suited the storm within the son. 

Still, out of sheer laziness, and a lack of the climax, I delayed writing. Priyangini’s ‘nagging’ continued. A few other scenes continued to form in my mind - e.g. the one where Sudhanshu is talking to his son on the stairs. 

The Bloggerattis happened. Three wins, including one for Best Fiction, recharged me completely. Not thinking about the end, I just started to write, and before long I had 9000 words typed. I sent it to Priyangini to check if it made sense; and whether the flow was good enough or not (which is of prime importance to me). She gave a positive reaction.  At the same time, I requested her to edit it. She agreed. 

Generally, when I am writing I have a sort of imaginary film running in my brain (including the background score); so was the case this time! I simply followed it, and lo! I had the climax with me: wide-angle, gritty and expansive. After this, there was no looking back. It took me nearly ten days to have the entire story written. 

Here is what Priyangini mailed me (reproduced ad verbatim): 

“A few days ago one of my friend's boss died in a car accident. He was around 55. It was a sad event and since he was a known CA, I went to the mourning meeting with my friend. There I saw a lady, sitting silently on the side. She was oddly quiet shedding a tear or two in between. They said she was the late gentleman's secretary and had served him for the last 24 years since the day he started to firm.

From that I thought of a plot and you are the best to do it justice. I don't know what story it could be but lets say a Lawyer, highly successful professionally but failing miserably personally, his wife unfaithful to him now divorced, his son blaming him and hating him for the divorce and a lonely childhood dies leaving behind a successful firm but an uninterested heir. He is a sadly misunderstood man and his last wish is to apologise to the son. The only person who really knew him is the secretary, she tells his story. Do whatever you want with it but make it a happy ending with the son forgiving the father and taking over the firm. Btw I have thought of the two main characters' names

Lawyer: Sudhanshu Agarwal

Secretary: Firoza Rustom Sodawala (Parsi ,unmarried addressed as Ms. Roza)

See now I have your type of a plot. Make a story.”

Considering the story was set in pre-independence India, I changed the ‘divorce’ bit; and also added my own end and characters. Apart from this, I was sure that there would be no negative characters – these would be people led by circumstances and their upbringing and their social milieu. In that way, Chunnilal is also not an out and out villain.

For the purpose of statistics, the story has approx. 30,000 words (longer than Meera and Naman Geeta).  

I write stories purely for reader’s  enjoyment; and on the way, gain pleasure in seeking the comments. I hope this one was entertaining enough. 

Finally, a big thank you to Priyangini – for giving me this plot, and a bigger thanks for the pains she took in editing this huge bulk, reading and re-reading each word over and over to iron out any loose ends, cleaning up typos and correcting grammatical errors. Her efforts are laudable and I used her help to the maximum level, and troubled her a lot, to the extent of even waking her up on a holiday to work on the story! Thanks, Priyangini! 

Till my next big one, 

Deepak Jeswal

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Eight

The last thing Satyawan remembered was Roza’s plaintive cry “Satyawan- your father’s desk, last drawer!”

There after, he was dragged by Ram Sharan and someone else towards a bus standing at a distance. He could feel the movement of the bus and the smell of a crowd around him, but his body refused to comply with his mind, till the time latter gave up and went off to sleep. 

It had been a sudden commotion. The four guys had pounced on the table. Saroj had looked up fearfully at them; she had seen that menacing look closely earlier. But this time her mind told her she was from the same religion. These people were Hindus; they were searching for Muslims; she would be safe. She was right, they peered at her smudged sindoor and the mangalsutra that hung on her neck, and turned venomously towards Roza. They pulled her roughly. She gave a loud scream. Satyawan intervened. He was pushed back rudely, while Ms Roza was dragged away. He lunged at his assailant, dropping him on the floor. With a war-like cry, he punched into the opponent jaws with his elbow. He tried to get up, but was immediately caught in a vice like grip from behind by another. 

Behind him, a few more men had materialized, as if from thin air, shouting the name of Allah. The other customers either slid away or stood on the periphery, scared unable to move and not in the least interested to help. One set was fighting above the car’s bonnet. Soon, he heard loud crashes; the car was being destroyed

In the midst of the din and shouts, a car squealed to a halt. Someone fired a shot in the air. Police. They started to round up the fighters; some resisted, others ran. The police followed. 

Satyawan freed himself from his attacker, and pushed him to the ground, but before he could react a strong ‘lathi’ hit his head. Beyond this his memory failed him. Before blacking out, he had seen the police rounding up Ms. Roza and Saroj – and Ms. Roza calling out his name telling him about his father’s desk.

The bus cut through the fateful night; it left a trail of smoke, which reached up towards the sky sullying the shining moon. It left a din, and its wooden body shuddered and half-broken panes rattled. 

Satyawan woke up with a start. Someone was shaking him. Confused he looked around him. The bus was motionless. Even though it was pitch-black, he could make out that it was empty. A huge person in a kurta-salwar was looming over him. 

“Utho babu,” said the man. “Manzil aa gayi; hum Dilli pahunch chuke hai.”

It took Satyawan another minute before he got the import of the message. He got up with difficulty; the pain shot through his skull to his spine. Steadying himself with a seat, he saluted his thanks to the driver, and got down. It looked like some bus station. A few other buses, in a similar dilapidated condition stood there. The station was empty.

A warm breeze hit him. 

The other bus passengers had left. And probably so had all the tonga-wallahs, except for one who stood hopefully looking at him, with wide-eyed child like enthusiasm. He had been late in reaching the stand, he wasn’t sure whether he would get any passenger. 

“Bhaiyaa, Boulevard Road jaana hai,” said Satyawan.

“Chalenge babu, bilkul challenge,” smiled the tonga-wallah. “Par aaj duguna kiraya loonga; aaj hamara desh aazaad ho raha hai; uss paise se mithai khareedunga”

He felt around his trousers. Satyawan’s face fell. The back pocket was empty. His wallet must have fallen during the shuffle. Shaking his head despondently, he said, “Paise toh hai nahi,” and started to shuffle away; it was an effort to walk as well. 

“Babu,” called the tonga-wallah behind him. “Duaen toh hai na. Aaj aapse koi kiraya nahin loonga. Aaj hamara desh azaad ho raha hai – dua karna phir kabhi kisi ke firangi ki buri nazar na pade isspe”

Satyawan looked at him in gratitude, his eyes filling up and he nodded his reassurances. The tonga-wallah smiled back and pointed him to sit at the back of the cart. 

                                           *************************************************************

When the tonga turned on Boulevard Road, Satyawan’s heart beats increased. In the past years there had been changes. A few houses were demolished; a couple of new buildings had come up at open spaces. And where there used to be a dirt side-way, a new pedestrian side-walk had been built. Buried beneath which were his footsteps when he had run calling for his Chunnilal Mama during his childhood, the day his mother had died. 

As he neared the familiar house, he couldn’t help peering out, excitedly.

“Lagta hai bahut saalon baad aa rahe ho babu,” remarked the driver. 

“Dussaalon baad,” he replied. “Lekinlagta hai poori umar ka faasla tay karke aaya hun.”

He dropped off in front of the white mansion; the driver gave a salute, called out to the horses and drove away. 

He saw a man locking the front door and coming out towards the gate. He stopped in his track. From his childhood memories he recognized the face. Only, it was old and haggard, and the body had acquired a slight hunch. 

“Anindo Chacha, aap?” 

“Arre, Satyawan. Welcome back, my son,” he peaked over Satyawan’s shoulder and asked, “But where is Ms. Roza?”

“There was a small clash just before Ambala. She was taken away by police there. I was put into a bus, and hence came here. I am worried about her. I hope she is safe.” 

Anindo smiled. “Don’t worry. I know a lot of cadre-friends in Ambala. I will find out.” 

“But how come you are here?”

“I come here often. To take care of the house,” he said. Barely over a whisper he added, “This house has some strong memories for me.Your father was a good friend, his death came as a shock, it was too sudden, a heart attack, first but fatal.” He looked at his friend’s son with compassion, and continued, “There was no one to take care of the house, Ms. Roza and I decided to share the responsibilities, she took care of the official affairs, I manage the house. We both wanted you back, for more than one reason, Ms. Roza told me that in case she missed you at Amritsar, I should be here to receive you,”he informed. “She said you must visit the office.”

Satyawan nodded, recalling Roza’s shout to him. “She told me the same thing. I think I will go there first and then come back here”

Anindo handed over a bunch of large iron keys. “This smaller one is for the office. In the meantime, let me make some phones to Ambala to enquire about her. After you return from office, wait for me here only.”

He started to leave. Satyawan called out. “Anindo Chacha, Ms. Roza is not alone. Ask about a girl called Saroj also. She is … she is …” he hesitated. There was as yet no relationship between them. 

Anindo gave a meaningful smile, and nodded. “I understand.” 

                                                     ******************************************************

With his hands in his pocket, his head bent, Satyawan hurried towards the office. It was nearing midnight. He could see a palpable excitement on people’s faces as they crowded together in anticipation of the designated hour. A few privileged ones, who had ‘radiograms’ had brought their machines out, and everyone rounded it, as they expected the news to come in. There was an air of merriment, hope and festivity. Even strangers greeted each other. Satyawan just weaved his way, without acknowledging any presence, without returning any greeting – he had seen a time where even friends were ready to kill each other. This brotherly bonhomie looked contrived. There was a small such crowd next to the office building as well. He walked past them, quietly, into the tiny compound. 

As he neared the polished wooden door, he stopped awhile and stepped back to admire the signboard of his father’s firm. A twinge of sadness melted with the pride. The gold insignia read: Aggarwal and Sons, Solicitors. 

He entered the one-storied building, and turned right towards his father’s cabin. It was quiet here, though a few murmurs from the animated discussion outside could be heard. The room was musty. He went to the window and opened it. The moonlight filtered in. A small breeze playfully waltzed through the netted opening. 

He went to his father’s large table, and switched on the table lamp. It washed the desk with its yellow light. ‘The last drawer’ Ms. Roza had said. His hands trembling with excitement, he opened it. 

The drawer was almost empty – except for one diary, and a large buff colored envelope. He pulled them out. Opening the envelope, he peered inside. Loose sheets. He turned to the diary, and opened to the first page. His heart skipped a beat. It was his father’s diary. He never knew he kept one. He turned to the first entry. It was dated some three months after he left. 

His eyes brimmed. For a minute he ran his hand over the handwriting as if trying to connect with his father through the words. He started reading: 

“I don’t know if Satyawan will ever return or not. He has the Aggarwals hot blood. Probably he won’t. But this chronicle is an account for him to learn about many things – some about the present as I live…some of the past that I will keep adding; and it is an effort to make him understand his father, and an effort on my part to seek his forgiveness” 

Satyawan noticed a slip of paper protruding midway. He turned his page towards that. It was a small note in Ms. Roza’s longish and slanting handwriting, “Read the following pages carefully, my child.”

With his heart pounding, he read the words in his father’s handwriting. It seemed as if he was speaking to him. 

Thereafter, for the next fifteen minutes he devoured each word in that diary – million emotions cascaded across his face, and tears flowed down his eyes. Pain, guilt and apprehension marched over his heart’s unsteady terrain. And then he reached the shocking five pages. He read each word meticulously in the dim light. His heart beating. His mouth sand-paper like. His ears red.  His body hair on their edge even in the warm breeze. Hurriedly, he opened the buff colored paper; in excitement he nearly dropped it; but caught it at the nick, and looked inside, took out the contents and viewed them. 

A thousand volt lightening ran through his body. It hit him like a sledgehammer. The shock was unbearable … he stood up, the papers falling from his hand, and flying around. 

There was uproar…but it was from the crowd outside…and after  while all fell silent. 

He heard Pandit Nehru’s voice crackle through the radiogram, “Long years ago we made a tryst with destiny, and now the time comes when we shall redeem our pledge, not wholly or in full measure, but very substantially. At the stroke of the midnight hour, when the world sleeps, India will awake to life and freedom. A moment comes, which comes but rarely in history, when we step out from the old to the new, when an age ends, and when the soul of a nation, long supressed, finds utterance” Panditji was making his speech at the Constituent Assembly. 

An independent India was born. 

Several minutes after the applause, there was complete silence. Satyawan sat limply in the dimly lit room,crying …and crying… and crying…it was not only India that awoke that night, it was Satyawan’s awakening to a new life; a moment when he stepped from the old thoughts to new, when his ignorant age ended and when his soul opened up and contacted with that of his creator! 

He sat there in the room, silent – ShimlaHospital bills, and a death certificate had flown over the grilled window where they flapped  - the solitary noise in the room – a noise from the past calling to the present. 

                                                               **************************************

The door creaked when he opened it. 

For a minute he stood at the threshold, unsure, uncertain. The light from outside made an elongated rectangle on the floor ahead of him, in the center of which was his stretched shadow merging with the darkness ahead. 

Satyawan’s homecoming was accompanied by a fifty piece orchestra predominant with violins playing in the background; the celebrations were still on. He had closed the office, and returned with the envelope and the diary, to his house. This is where Anindo would meet him. 

He closed the door behind him, and switched on the electricity. Light flooded the hall. He walked into the drawing room. Memories surged upward turbulently. This was where he used to play; the place where he had seen his mother and father fight. The place where his grandfather’s body had lain for the anointments and ceremonies before being taken for the final rites. He walked to the corner. That is where he had stood timidly looking at the proceedings. 

He crossed ahead – there was the shadow when he had hid himself when his father had stomped out of the house before slapping his mother. He opened the door of his parent’s room. The bed was there. He could feel his mother’s presence. To him, she still lay there with her outstretched arms, breathing her last gasp-filled breath. He walked and sat on the bed, just as he had done that day. He caressed the pillow that had taken the final weight of his mother’s head; bending down he kissed it. Mummy, I love you.

He got up, and went out, and climbed the stairs. It was dark. His steps echoed over the marble flooring. After the first landing, towards the attic, he sat down. This was the place where for first time his father had made efforts to communicate with him. He wrapped his arms around him, bent his head over his knees…he could feel his father around him, patting his head lovingly. 

He could hear his father say, “We haven’t talked for long. Now you are a big boy. We should. But remember, whenever you feel scared or alone, there is God above always with us, every time, and here below I am there for you. I love you my son” 

“I love you too, papa” he whispered into the darkness. But he was sure his father had heard. And that his father was happy. 

Now, there was one more duty he had to fulfill.

To Be Continued

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Seven

“Are you mad?” asked Mamta, incredulous.

“No,” replied Anindo. “But believe me this is the safest place to hide the guns”

“But how?”

“Because Sudhanshu is known to be distanced from revolutionaries like us. No one in their wildest imaginations would think that guns could be stored here!”

They were in her room. Her mind was in a dizzy. Anindo’s idea was preposterous. She steadied herself with the bed-post. He stood near her looking at her squarely. Her hair was tied in a loose bun and a few strands fell on her face; she was irresistible. Anindo felt a rising within him. A desire stirred within him once more – carnal and physical!

“Wasn’t it your dream to do something for the nation? Didn’t you once want to be part of this revolution?” he asked. “Mamta, this is the time for you to make the difference.”

“But…” she thought. Yes, this is what they had dreamed together many years back. To fight for a common cause. To fight together. But much river had flown under the bridge since then. The fight had now become impersonal for her. She was married. A mother. Could she risk this?

“Sudhanshu once mentioned to me about the attic upstairs that no one visited ever. You can hide them there. They won’t be large – just three boxes. I can get them in here easily one by one without anyone noticing,” he continued. “Come on Mamta. We could not be together in life. We can be together in this. Sudhanshu will never even come to know. He is busy with his work, he hardly comes home. And Lalaji is old and not all that well. He wouldn’t go to the attic, I think”

“No he doesn’t” she offered, without thinking. 

“Think, Mamta, think. This is not for me or you or for his house or for this city. It is for the nation,” he urged, holding her by the shoulders, with his large right hand. “It is your duty”

She shivered at his touch. She had been denied a man’s touch for long. He was close. Very close. Every pore, every cell and every shred of her soul yearned to collapse in those arms – where once she had dreamed about a future. But beyond that it was a call of the body. She had to get away before she weakened further. 

She struggled to escape from his looming figure. But as she turned, he raised his arm; her head touched it; the bun came out loose. In the next instant, he pulled her close to him, and held her. 

“Please leave me,” she said, ostensibly protesting, but her voice quivering and her body falling further into his clasp. 

His face was on her cheeks, and his breath was warm, “Please,” he whispered hoarsely. “Don’t go.” 

“N..no” she said, turning her face away. 

It takes just a second to step across a threshold. In that moment, the mind seeks justifications furiously. And finds the most convenient one. Mamta recalled Sudhanshu’s burning eyes the night before, accusing her of being unfaithful. She was already a criminal in his eyes. Now, her heart and desire coerced her actually to commit the crime. 

She slipped into the quicksand faster than she could realize, pulled by the gravitational force of Anindo’s warm embrace, coupled with a rising heat within her. 

                                                           *************************************

Lala Kirorimal’s health deteriorated. But he knew it wasn’t due to any illness. It was at the scattered condition of his household. He had hoped that Sudhanshu and Mamta would reconcile their differences. They even seemed to do it. But the wall between them never really broke. It only continued to strengthen till it obliterated both of them out of each other's life completely. Lala was a mute witness to this. It pained him. Earlier he would try to be the bridge between the two; he would sit with them in the evenings, trying to whip up a conversation, making a few lame jokes about the traders in the market. It worked somewhat during the initial years when Satyawan was an infant. Though he also realized that the minute he left there was coldness between the couple, but still a hope flickered within him that all would end well. But of late, even the tiny thread of civility was lost. His daughter-in-law was not wanting in her duties, but clearly she wasn’t there. 

Lala withdrew into his shell. And as old age tightened its claws, his mind played further games. The guilt of ruining his son’s life hit him hard. He had already survived the pain of losing his wife and one son. At that time he was young, and busy with consolidating the business. But now, things were different. He could not bear the distance between Sudhanshu and himself. 

His only solace these days would be young Satyawan – a lone source of life in the lifeless house! With Satyawan on holidays and evenings, he would sit and narrate stories and play with him. He enjoyed the child’s tugging at his whiskers. He was mesmerized with the small talk – the immense questioning. Then, when he grew further, they would go upstairs on the terrace to fly kites: an old man and his grandchild, together against the azure skies trying to rule it with their tender love and fragile kites. It was his own childhood that Lala lived through Satyawan. In him, he also saw a hope that if he lived a bit longer, there was probably an heir to his empire. 

Satyawan was now eleven – a smart young boy. His mind’s horizon had also widened. Whether instinctively or otherwise he knew there was something amiss between his mother and father. They were not like his friends’ parents. They were never together. In fact, his father was hardly there. It was a place called ‘office’ which took up his father’s time. He had been there a couple of times, but the interaction between the resilient Sudhanshu and him had been low. Even there, while he sat playfully sitting on the large chair and trying to fiddle with things, his father was busy reading files. Plus, Roza was there, who seemed to be more comfortable with his father. He did not like this place. 

By virtue of time spent, he was closer to his mother. Her eyes always looked sad. A natural urge to protect her came within him. She was the one with whom he shared his thoughts – the bully at school, the torn homework book, something called ‘cinema’ that his classmate talked about, the result and the scary mathematics and much more. All this was with his mother. And Dadaji – the grand old man, with his large girth, on whose stomach he would sit and listen to stories – tales about far away lands and beautiful lives. 

But that large girth cushion was to be pulled off soon. Timidly, he watched from a distance as doctors came out of the room, shaking their head pensively. His father looked at them horrifyingly. 

“Sorry, Mr Aggarwal. There is nothing more we can do” 

Satyawan watched his father escorting the doctor out of the room. His mother pulled him away. He knew there was something terrible wrong. He was not a child any longer. Why didn’t they tell him directly? But no one spoke. Before leaving, he looked back at the heavy body lying on the large bed, the stomach moving up and down peacefully. That was the last movement which Satyawan would ever see of his grandfather.

Sudhanshu tiptoed into the room where his father slept. He sat beside the bed. It was a curious relationship that they shared – very formal and distanced. Sudhanshu tried to recall whether he was ever a child and had played with his father the way he saw Satyawan doing? The memories were not there at all. Not even hazy ones. It was as if he was born an adult, as this prim and proper lawyer, always appearing to be in control – a statue of respect and success. But a statue, nevertheless. Why had his father kept such a big distance between them? Why didn’t he discuss his farcical marriage rather take the order as it was given! 

The old man groaned, and moved. Immediately, Sudhanshu leaned forward and held the wrinkled and thick hands. 

“Pitaji…” he said. Suddenly he wanted to say everything he had in his heart, he wanted to tell his father he loved him. 

“Sudhanshu?” asked Lala Kirorimal straining his eyes to see his son. The effort hurt. The pain was great. “Forgive me my child. Forgive me.” His vision was blurred, but he saw his son’s eyes. He sought forgiveness. And he found it. Now to sleep. A deep sleep. 

Sudhanshu bent over the cold hand, his tears streaming down wetting it. And as he did so, he knew that he had to amend a wrong that he was doing to Satyawan. That child should not grow distanced from his father. He had to bridge eleven years of gap, but if his father could do that of four decades in one small flicker of a minute, he was confident that he could as well! 

                                                ****************************************

There was a deluge of visitors condoling Lalaji’s death. Sudhanshu understood his father’s importance in business circles. People whom he had not even met came to pay their respects. As the thirteenth day came on, the local purohit paid a visit. 

“Beta, it would be advisable to conduct a ‘hawan’ in the house itself. It placates the spirits and purifies the house,” advised the kindly old man, with a flowing beard. 

Sudhanshu nodded. Mamta kept her eyes lowered. 

“I hope you have a hawankund, else we shall get it.”

“No, I think there was one in the attic somewhere. Just wait, let me check it up right away while you are here,” said Sudhanshu. 

Mamta’s heart beat froze. The attic was where they had hidden the guns! Sharply she broke in, “Aap rukiye, mai dekh ke aati hoon,” she said rising up. Sudhanshu, who was getting up stopped mid-air, and looked at her quizzically. She gave a non-chalant smile, “Aap panditji se baaki saamagri ka pooch lijiye tab tak,” she added lamely. 

The old man, not realizing the tension, between the two or within Mamta broke in, “That is not required. We will get all the puja material. Beti, why don’t you get me a glass of water till Sudhanshu checks on the ‘kund’” 

“Jee?” she whimpered. Her face fell. Sudhanshu’s eyes had not left her. She tried to give a smile, but it hurt.

“I will be back in a few minutes,” said Sudhanshu, and walked towards the stairs. 

Mamta’s heart thumped loudly. She followed him till the base of the stair-case, stopping hesitatingly before moving towards the kitchen, eyeing his receding figure. Furiously, she tried to think of a reason to stop him from going. But none came to her. She heard his footsteps climb. They punched into her heart. 

Every step he took, it rocked maddeningly within her. He would be at the landing now…turning towards the second level…and then the attic. 

In the kitchen, she poured the glass of water, and moved out. Again, she stopped a bit near the base. Now, just now he would know…she would be caught! 

Sudhanshu had turned the landing, but was taken aback by the person sitting there on the staircase. Satyawan sat on a stair, his face lowered in his arms. He was sobbing. 

“Arre, my child what are you doing here?” asked Sudhanshu surprised.

There was no reply. Sudhanshu sat beside him, and placed a loving arm around his son. 

“What happened?” he asked concerned. Gently, he turned the face towards him. The tears were flowing copiously. 

In between his sobs, and taking short breaths, Satyawan said, “Where has dadaji gone? I want to meet him.”

Sudhanshu pulled him near and hugged him. Wiping the tears, he said, “Now my brave son. Boys don’t cry like this. Your Dadaji has gone to God…but I am here. We haven’t talked for long. Now you are a big boy. We should. But remember, whenever you feel scared or alone, there is God above always with us, every time, and here below I am there for you. I love you”

Meanwhile, Mamta waited to hear a rushing Sudhanshu return. But there was only silence. It was killing. He should have reached there. Had he missed seeing those boxes? Let it be so. Let him not look around too much. She tried to remember where the ‘hawan kund’ would be. Maybe it was near the entrance only. But she did not recall seeing it there ever. She simply wished that it would walk and place itself on the doorstep so that Sudhanshu wouldn’t have to look for it. 

She took the emptied glass from Panditji. 

“I will just go and check what’s taking him so long,” she mumbled to no one in particular, more probably to herself – if he had learnt about the guns, it was better she came to know of it sooner. The wait was more killing than the actual revelation and the subsequent show-down would be! 

She climbed the stairs hurriedly. At one step, her foot caught in her saree. She nearly stumbled. She caught the banister nervously. On turning the landing, she was nearly rushing, and stopped with immense inertia seeing the figures sitting on the step. 

“Arreaap yahan hai,” she said, smiling speaking in a nervous high-pitch, and tried to act normal. But her breath was not. Her eyes were flitting to see if he had brought down the ‘hawan kund’. It was not there. In all probabilities Sudhanshu had not reached the attic. “What happened?” she asked. 

Sudhanshu eyed her suspiciously. “Nothing. Satyawan was feeling a bit low. Now he is fine. He is a brave boy, right Satyawan?” said Sudhanshu. The boy gave a low smile. 

“Well, why don’t you just take him down, while I get the kund,” she offered, and did not stop to take the reply. 

Sudhanshu stepped down, holding Satyawan’s hand, but he turned over to have a look at his wife. 

                                             *****************************************

“No Anindo. I cannot take this risk any longer,” Mamta said. “Yesterday’s incident was too much, and I fear Sudhanshu suspects some foul play”

Anindo was silent. She turned away from him. 

“I think we should not meet also,” she added.

“What?” he exclaimed. The past few years had flown by peacefully. Even though nothing happened on the revolution front, his renewed relationship with Mamta was exciting. The revolution fizzled due to many factors, primarily due to Gandhiji’s non-violence movement gaining popularity. The violent methods found disfavor. And the guns remained in the attic. 

But his relationship sizzled due to one – Sudhanshu’s indifference towards Mamta. Even though he knew Mamta loved him, he had realized that she slept with him only as a means to get back to Sudhanshu, which he would never know openly, but her own silent emotional revolt gave her a strange satisfaction and power. 

They would meet not daily but quite often – at least twice a month he would sneak into the house. 

“Anindo, please understand – our relationship has no future. Once you asked me to follow my duties. Today I beseech you to let me do that. Na mai Sita bani, na tum Ram; we couldn’t even be decent mortals…”

She stood by the window, tears flowing down.

                                                          ************************************

Sudhanshu looked at the boxes in disgust. One by one he picked up the guns, looked at them disdainfully and dropped them. So this was Mamta’s secret. Even though he had understood something was amiss in Mamta’s behavior that day in front of Panditji, still in his wildest fantasies he had not imagined that she would resort to hiding inflammatory things within his own house. Since that day he had meant to check on the attic, but with his father’s post-death ceremonies he hadn’t got time. 

He gave the boxes one last look. He was incensed. Raged, he kicked them and ran downstairs to his room, shouting, “Mamta!”

Mamta was in the room, folding the day’s laundry. She looked up as he entered. He was red in his face. She stepped back meekly. She was scared. 

“So that’s what you have been doing behind my back?” he shouted. “Hiding guns in my own house! What other things have you done with that lover of yours?” he thundered. 

So he had come to know, finally! She stepped back further, shivering, “Please let me explain,” she started, but thought: explain what?

“What will you explain? That how you blackened your face with Anindo and made a fool of me!” 

Even though it was a truth, the way Sudhanshu said it angered her. He had no right to be talk about purity when he had also crossed the same threshold of trust! 

She shook her head, and gave a mock-smile. “Chhalni boli sui se tere pet mein chhed” She spoke an age-old Hindi dictum slowly, each word designed as an arrow to pierce him! 

“Mamta!” he bellowed.

“Don’t shout Sudhanshu,” she said, her inners cracking. Enough had happened. She couldn’t bear it any longer. “Shouting will not hide your own sins.” His eyes bulged out in fury. She was breathing a little hard. Taking a deep breath, she spoke, emphasizing each word, her voice barely above a whisper, “Yes. Yes I slept with Anindo. Yes, I hid those guns. Yes, I hate you.”

Sudhanshu was tremulous. It was a boiling point he was reaching … and it flowed over – the lava burst open, and taking a loud sweep and with the back of his hand he slapped her. The slap echoed in the house. 

She fell sprawling on the bed, the clothes in her hand flying in all directions. 

Sudhanshu turned on his heels and marched out of the room. Satyawan had seen his father slapping his mother from the hallway beyond and in fear immediately retracted back into shadows. He heard Sudhanshu move out of the house, closing the door with a bang. The next he heard was the car’s engine. Timidly, he ventured out, and walked towards his mother. 

Entering the room, Satyawan froze. His mother was lying on bed. But she was shaking and trembling. He neared her. And then recoiled in fear. His mother’s eyes had bulged out and she lay convulsing on the bed, her breath coming in short quick gasps; she was struggling to breathe – her mouth opened and closed in quick succession, as if trying to grasp as much air as she could. 

“Mummy,” he called, shaking her by the shoulder. She attempted to speak but it only yielded further discomfort. Satyawan was scared. Something was wrong with her. She was like a fish out of water, quaking! He felt a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes. 

“Mummy, get up,” he called. “Mummy please…”

But she continued to be in the delirious state. He stepped backward, crying. His feet touched the doorway. He turned, and ran out. He had to call for help. His mother was not well. Papa. His office. He would have gone to his office. 

Satyawan ran out into the hallway, out of the door, into the street and rushed towards his father’s office. 

The sun was bright. The day was on its mid-way. Crying aloud and oblivious to the stares and unmindful of anything else, Satyawan ran…ran as fast as his feet could take him. His mother was sick! He had to get help. Dashing over the loose stones, stepping over the open ditch, side-stepping an elderly man, he ran…ran like a boy possessed.

At long last, he could see the building. And his father’s car. Sudhanshu was stepping out of it. Roza came out of the building.

Satyawan, short on breath, and gasping viewed horrified as his father gave this other woman a hug; both then sat into the car. 

Run and catch him, an inner voice coaxed him. But he was too shocked - and disillusioned and disappointed. He came to his senses only when the car had started to move, raising a cloud of dust and black smoke, and a loud noise. 

“Papa,” he called out. And ran after it. 

But the car was picking up speed. He pursued it with all his might. His father was on the roundabout. He moved ahead. A rickshaw came from the side-street, and nearly hit him. 

“Ae ladke dekh ke chal,” screamed the rickshaw puller at him. Satyawan wiped his eyes with the back of his hands, and looked desperately, as the distance between him and his father’s vehicle increased. 

Turning, he ran back. No, the doctor. He would go to the doctor. His father doesn’t care. He had slapped his mother. That is what had sickened her. He ran back towards the house. On the opposite one, he saw a figure, keeping down a suitcase and opening the gate. 

From the distance that he was in, Satyawan called out, “Chunnilal Mama, Chunnilal Mama, wait”  Putting in as much strength he could, he increased his speed. His throat itched. It was dry. His chest pained. His breath was heavy. “Chunnilal Mama!” 

Surprised at his name being called by a child’s voice, Chunnilal looked around. He saw his niece’s son running towards him, the arms flailing to catch attention. 

“Chunnilal Mama, mummy …” called Satyawan. He was a few feet away now, and he pointed desperately towards his own house. 

Realizing the import of the child’s words, Chunnilal pushed his trunk into the gate, and crossed the road towards his niece’s house quickly. The front door was open. He walked across the hall and the drawing room towards the bedroom. Behind him, he could hear the nearing footsteps of Satyawan. 

Chunnilal was aghast to see Mamta lying in that position, shivering and wheezing. He rushed to her, and pulled her in his arms, and comforted her. She was in a bad state. Plopping up the cushions, he laid her on them, and walked out.

“I will call the doctor,” he said to Satyawan, who stood at the doorway – his eyes wide. 

Mamta – in a more comfortable position – looked at the door, where her son stood. She was breathing heavily. Her vision was blurred. It fell on Satyawan. 

“Mummy,” he called out timidly. She stretched his hands. Their eyes met. He ran towards her. But before he could reach, the arms flopped down. Her breathing stopped. She was lifeless. 

When Chunnilal returned with the doctor some ten minutes later, Satyawan was still sitting beside his mother’s inert body, prodding her with sobs of “Mummy get up, mummy get up”

His voice dissolved into a deathly silence that overcame the room. 

                                            ********************************************************

“It wasn’t your father who killed your mother. It was asthma. And probably circumstances, which led to that horrible day. Your parents shared a strange relationship. Each suspected the other till the time they committed their adulteries. It was a relationship of denial; and within that denial probably there was love. After your mother’s death I have seen your father in a state that cannot be described even. He would sit in his room, without moving, without saying anything – often it was impossible to make out whether he was even there! Chunnilal was a good help at that time; he took care of you. For him it was a repeat duty. But this time, even he was not prepared for it. Not able to bear the burden of seeing you sad all the time, he returned back to Hardwar. Then, your father realized he had to come out of the stupor. For three years he tried to bridge the gap that your mind had created. But you thwarted every effort of his. And then one day you left the house,” Ms. Roza finished her narration. 

Satyawan sat on a low stool, his head lowered. Saroj was by his side. No one spoke. There was a silence. Just like it had been on the day of his mother’s death; but this silence was more contended, as if it was a silence of understanding. 

And Ms. Roza’s voice echoed in his ears – bridging the gap between the two silences. 

There were now a few more customers. They sat scattered on the low benches. But the silence was broken. With a sudden shuffling of feet. And a few quick whispers. 

The dhaba owner looked at the four strong men standing in front of him, their heads wrapped in cloth. They carried long heavy sticks, and had kept him rounded.

“What I have learnt is that lady’s name is Firoza. She could be a Muslim” he blabbered out. Alongwith this information, a silent prayer left his lips. God forgive me! I did this only for survival. 

The four men smiled viciously. They pushed the owner and lunged forward to the seats of Roza, Satyawan and Saroj. 

To Be Continued

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Six

When Sudhanshu woke, his head was heavy and mouth dry. He tried to get up. The effort sent a pain shooting through his nerves. He flopped back onto the sofa, his eyes half open trying to make sense. From the window he could make out that the evening had set. He had been sleeping the entire day. He was thirsty. Making another effort, he got up and noticed his open trousers and shirt. His heart pounded within its ribs. He recalled hazily Roza’s entrance. She had sat beside him… and then? He wanted it to be a dream. But it had been reality. He sat up, his head in his palms. Oh God! Why had this happened? Why were his problems compounding? For several minutes he sat still, and then tried to stand. His legs gave way, and tingled as blood flowed back to them. He shook them and stood waveringly, his eyes falling on the broken glass. He buttoned his shirt and trousers and moved to the bathroom. 

When he saw his reflection he recoiled. His eyes were red, and in that one day he looked several years older. 

He splashed cold water on his face. It hurt. Yet it was relieving. It cleared the cobwebs of his thoughts. He dried his face, and stepped out. Picking up his bag, he left the office, locking it behind him. He did not know how he would face Roza tomorrow? But first he was unsure how he would face Mamta tonight; and his clients? How many had returned? 

He walked back, in deep thought; eyes lowered avoiding contact with any acquaintance. 

“Aagaye aap,” said Mamta, welcoming him with a hesitant smile and taking his bag. “How was the day? You freshen up and I will get the dinner ready. Papaji is also waiting for it.” 

His guilt gave way to irritation. He wondered at the deceit of this woman! Behind his back she had been cavorting with her lover – and now she was acting the dutiful wife and daughter-in-law. He was repulsed. He gave her the bag and sat on the sofa. He did not want to enter the bedroom. It would be too heavy for him. In any case, he was feeling nauseous and the draught from open windows of the drawing room freshened him. 

“Yeh lijiye” she said, entering with a small ‘thaali’ filled with a few roses and sweets. “It is Navroz today – the Parsi New Year; Roza must have told you about it. It’s a very auspicious day”

He gave a mocking grunt. “Is there any thing auspicious in any day ever?” 

She was taken aback at his reply. “Is anything wrong?” she asked suspiciously. 

“Was it ever right?” he counter questioned. 

“Why are you talking in such a tone?” she asked, a small fear crept into her heart. Had he seen Anindo? Had someone seen Anindo coming in and informed him about it? She had not wanted to hide it, but then Anindo had instructed her to do so – ‘Sudhanshu might misunderstand; I will come in the evening to meet him,’ he had said. 

She bowed her head, and from the ‘thaali’ picked up a rose and handed it over to him. “Little Parsi kids were distributing it near the temple,” she explained. “The flowers are in full bloom now” 

She turned to leave. 

“The flowers have no fragrance,” he said, his tone rebuking and disdainfully threw it away. 

“Flowers never loose their fragrance; only human beings forget how to smell them,” said a voice, entering the room and catching the thrown flower. 

At the voice Mamta stopped short, and swung around. 

Sudhanshu looked up. Anindo was standing there, holding the rose that Sudhanshu had just thrown. 

“These innocent things don’t even know when they are plucked from their homes and placed in another to satisfy the urges of human beings. Yet they smile and retain their color,” continued Anindo, walking up to Sudhanshu, gave him a black look. Anindo placed the rose in Sudhanshu’s top pocket. “Kaisa hai mere dost?”

“Khush hun” said Sudhanshu, even though neither his face nor his voice displayed anything remotely near happiness. “Kyun, nahin hona chahiye?”

Anindo hesitated at the remark. From the corner of his eye he captured a quivering Mamta. To lighten up, he smiled. “Arrebilkul, you should get all happiness,” he patted his friends arm. But Sudhanshu stood stiffly. “I came to say goodbye to you, my friend. My work for the party takes me to Lucknow tomorrow, so I thought I will meet you and uncle before leaving”

“Chalo, I am pleased to see you still remember this house as belonging to a friend,” taunted Sudhanshu, ‘and not to your lover’s’ he wanted to add, but kept quiet. 

Mamta’s eyes turned from one to other – the two men in her lives, erstwhile friends, standing face to face with an impregnable wall of doubt between them. The three were caught in a triangular web, a horrifying drama created by destiny and enacted by them. 

Before Anindo could reply, he was interrupted by a heavy cough. Lala Kirori Mal entered the room, and the tension between the three eased. 

The dialogue that could have answered many questions, could not happen and status quo remained; none of the three gathering enough courage to disturb it for a long time.

                                           **************************************************

1931 was a sad year in Indian history, and a dejected one. The deaths of Bhagat Singh and his friend shook the country, as also eroded its self-confidence. Rifts were increasing – between Indians and British; between Indians themselves as the rulers stoked the communal fire with a devilish glee. 

But despite the worst political scenarios and situations, life always continues – with its own small joys and sorrows. For Mamta the latter came in form of her father’s death that year. He had been unwell and had to remain bedridden for sometime before he lost his battle with his ailment. Having no son, Mamta was beneficiary to his property. A large and comfortable chunk went to Chunnilal, who with advancing years sought refuge in God, and left for Hardwar.

Mamta had developed a breathing problem – what the medical fraternity gave a heavy name as ‘asthma’. Often, she would get an attack that would seem as if someone was sucking out the life from her. It erupted from her pregnancy – a result of those tender though tentative three months before the fateful March day in 1923. The doctors had advised her away from the city, and she had delivered in a small private hospital in Shimla, a hill station some distance away – known as the summer capital of the British. Even though dialogue between Sudhanshu and her had not resumed normalcy, the stiffness had thawed when she told him about her pregnancy. He took care of her, and had suggested she go to Shimla, which would be change of air and good for her health. 

Her joys came in the form of Satyawan, now nearing seven – a precocious kid that kept her on her toes. She filled the void left by her indifferent husband - who kept busy with his work and expanding the firm that was now a name to reckon with – in taking care of Satyawan. 

Often on lonely evenings, as she would wait for Sudhanshu’s return; she would sit on the verandah of her house, watching Satyawan play, and longing for companionship – mentally and physically. Yet there was no one to share her space. Satyawan was a child. She needed a man. She knew about Roza, who had left in between, but was back. But, she did question herself whether there was more to the eye than what she saw. There was no proof, though people talked. 

Once she asked, only to be thundered with a reply from Sudhanshu, “That is my office. Stay away from it. Don’t pollute your mind with filth.” He had spoken truth. But, she was not convinced. 

Anindo’s checkered career took him around North India – he was arrested twice, but both times the charges were not serious enough. He was released after short stints in jail. They planned attacks on British Army messes and cantonments. Some materialized, some didn’t. It kept him busy. He missed Mamta, and would often sit on lonely evenings wondering if he had made the correct choice in his career. He longed to meet her. He hated evenings. They were a burden.

He stoked the fire, the flames rising angrily along with a chorus of ashes and smoke. 

“We need a safe place to hide guns and ammunition,” informed Mishraji. “Firangi hoshiyar hain; they have raided most of our hideouts.”

Anindo did not reply. They were in a small hut. Another year would end soon. Winters had pressed in hurriedly. Outside, another friend was tinkering with a newly acquired motorcar, a gift from a wealthy philanthropist who believed in their cause.

“I know a place,” he said at length. 

When he elaborated, Mishraji turned and looked at him, worried. “Are you sure?”

“Lala Kirorimal’s house will be the last place where they would think the guns would be.”

“And will Sudhanshu agree to this?” wondered Mishraji.

Anindo grunted a reply. He knew Sudhanshu would not. Mamta would. 

There was silence, but for the metal sound from the car and the crackle of the fire.

                                       ******************************************

The early morning fog had cleared leaving behind a thin misty veil. A weary sun peeped out. A dull wind encircled listlessly. Sudhanshu and Roza walked towards the court. It was a light day – just a couple of filings. They strolled leisurely, and crossed a small park. A few elderly couples were taking their late morning walk. A balloon vendor had set up his stall, in anticipation of noon when the mothers and ayahs would come with their wards. 

“Have you spoken to Mamta ever?” asked Roza, suddenly without preamble. 

“Huh? I do speak to her” replied Sudhanshu evasively.

“I don’t mean routine talks,” she chided.  “I feel you are being unfair to her. She does not seem to give any reason for complain” And added wistfully, “She is taking good care of Satyawan”

Sudhanshu inquired, “Why do you bring this up today so suddenly?” 

Roza smiled. “I guess age is catching up, and I want to see a happy ending in your life” 

They stopped awhile. Sudhanshu gave her a long hard look. She was nearing thirties now, and age had settled on her face gracefully – not a hint of wrinkles or fading away; she had acquired a strange sort of glow; a glow that came from understanding and maturity. Her auburn hair flew mildly around her cheeks, adding a sweet tempest to the serenity of her visage. He mulled over their friendship – deep and strong and barring that stupid day sans any physical bonding. 

He sighed. “Yes, I think a long time has flown by. Seven years!” Time flies, he thought. Every day he wanted to converse with Mamta, but he could not. There was a barrier between them, and only polite dialogue crossed that strong invisible mesh. The rest remained entangled within his heart’s web. 

Roza gave a reassuring smile. 

Suddenly, she raised her hands to her eye, and shuddered. “Oh God, something has gone into it,” she mumbled, rubbing her left eye. He stepped forward to peer closely and help her. Roza’s breath stopped when Sudhanshu neared; and blew a thin stream of breath into the eye to clear it. 

Standing at a distance, across the road, returning from Satyawan’s school, Mamta stood rooted and transfixed as she saw her husband bending over Roza. Blood drained from her brain; her lips were dry; she shuddered, not from the wind but from an inner rumbling within her. Not wanting them to see her, she walked away, a whirlpool churning in her mind, a storm raging within the ribs. The air seemed to squeeze out. She breathed heavily, in small quick spurts.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she did not notice the car from behind. It stopped inches away from her with a screech. 

“Ae…can’t you see where you are going?” shouted the driver. 

She stopped, and flustered looked back, nodded an apology and stepped aside. But before the car could move, the passenger sitting on the back seat peered out from the left side window to understand the commotion.

“Stop the car,” ordered Anindo, and looked outward, “Mamta!” he called.

She burst out crying. She released her self-control on seeing her erstwhile lover, and tears gushed out in a heavy torrent.

“Come in, what happened?” He pushed aside, opened the door and allowed her to sit in. She did not speak but continued to sob. Tentatively, he raised his hands to console her. But he hadn’t touched her for years; he was hesitant. It was not right. But Mamta was inconsolable, like a child. He clenched his fist, but released the tension and held her. She needed it. 

The car picked up small speed, and turned the curb at the end of the road. Oblivious to the world outside, Mamta allowed herself to be controlled and consoled by Anindo. Oblivious amongst those standing on the pavement, watching the car go by was Sudhanshu! 

                                                              ******************************        

Little Satyawan ran in the drawing room imitating a steam engine that he had heard about in his school. He made all the relevant noises, and even stopped at ‘stations’ marked by the sofa sets. 

It was late evening; and even though the windows were bolted there was a chill in the room. Sudhanshu viewed Satyawan’s antics disinterestedly. Even though the day had passed, his memory of Mamta and Anindo together in the car was sharply etched. It morphed with another hazy image from seven years back when he had seen them hand-in-hand. That memory refused to leave, and in due course of time, as with all memories, a little imagination had crept. The hand that was lightly held had become a tight clench. 

Mamta walked in and handed him a cup – an everyday ritual. He would come home, have tea, talk inane things about the day, largely concentrated around Satyawan, play with him awhile, have dinner and go off to sleep after some more office work. It was a routine – a routine practiced for large number of years and converted to habit. 

“I want to talk Mamta” he said. His voice escaped his lips gruffly – as if it was being held back by a heart that was saying, ‘don’t do this!’

She was about to leave, and looked at him with sad eyes. Was he about to confess about Roza, she wondered? She did not speak, but sat gingerly on the chair next to him, and wrapped her shawl tightly around herself. 

He viewed her deeply; as is the case every time when one sees a person every day one does not notice the process of time taking its path. Yet, looking back the footprints are clearly visible. She was still beautiful though there was a fullness in her but it only added to her attractiveness positively. She wore a sky blue sari which rested on her frame neatly. Her large eyes still carried the ‘kaajal’ with a queen’s grace, and her rich hair done in a loose bun framed her face exquisitely; only, Sudhanshu now noticed there were a few strands of grey in them. 

“I really don’t know how to begin this,” he said truthfully, and stopped midway – again that image, again that subtle rage within. “We haven’t really been the ideal couple in any way. But I didn’t expect this from you. We could have sorted this out with dialogue. But then…”

“What do you mean to say?” she asked, puzzled. 

“I want to know about Anindo!” he blurted out. “And your illicit relationship with him!”

It hit her hard. She snapped – every reserve within her broke. “Am I being pronounced guilty without evidence?” she mocked, using his legal language. 

“I am not saying that …”

“But you are meaning that! You are the husband, the lord and I respect that. But you cannot point fingers at me when your own sheet is stained!” 

“What do you mean?”

“My relationship with Anindo is as pure or dirty as yours with Roza!” she said, and got up to leave.

“Mamta!” screamed Sudhanshu, jumping up from his seat.

Satyawan stopped, looking at the angered and flushed faces of his parents. He recoiled, scared. The two were standing facing each other their eyes flashing, their breath coming in fast gasps. But then he saw his mother’s eyes. They were crying. In his little mind, he fathomed that his papa had scolded mummy; he ran to her and wrapped his small arms around her legs. Reflexively, Mamta ran her hand over his head assuringly while her eyes never left the arrested look of Sudhanshu. 

Sudhanshu's anger knew no bounds but seeing Satyawan's stricken face, he realized that in his presence, the argument could not continue, so instead of retaliating to the impetuous stare of his wife, he turned around and walked into his bedroom, banging the door behind him. Once again, the unsaid words enhanced the chasm between them.

The wind howled, like a screaming banshee, a ghoul released from its hell running about in its own convoluted madness knocking on the glass panes, knocking on the doors and shaking the timid leafless trees.
 

To Be Continued

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Five

The night prepared to lay out its somber wares, when the black car carrying three weary passengers parked at a way-side ‘dhaba’s’ dusty open space. It was just a small hut, with a few wooden tables strewn carelessly in front, owned by a local Ram Sharan. He recognized Ms. Roza; she had stopped there while on her way to Amritsar. 

“Will you be traveling back all night?” asked Ram Sharan, “There are rumors of riots ahead.”

Ms. Roza nodded, her brows wrinkled in worry. She sat on a low stool, while Satyawan stretched himself facing the highway, looking into the horizon across the fields on the opposite end. The sun’s last rays had burnt out, and a smoky darkness remained. A few insects buzzed. He mulled over Ms. Roza’s narration, debating whether to believe her or not. He had never liked her and had blamed her for his parent’s differences. But now he had a different vision. And age had made him mature. He saw things in different light. Visions from the past held a new perspective. 

Saroj walked up to him, carrying a large steel glass. She had remained silent. But she could feel Satyawan’s anguish. She had experienced the slow peeling of her soul; she knew how Satyawan felt. She shivered as a still-warm but damp August air touched her. 

“Have some water,” she offered, raising the glass to him. 

Satyawan’s reverie broke. He raised his hand to take the glass. In the exchange, for a slight second their fingers touched. He looked into her eyes. Silence spoke. For millions of years, human beings have communicated less through words and more via the secret understanding of the heart. Tonight another dialogue initiated between two pairs of eyes. 

“I am sorry to hear all this,” she said hesitatingly. 

He nodded. “I guess this was my destiny” he repeated his earlier dialogue, fatalist, but nevertheless true. He placed the glass on his lips, but his eyes peered over the rim looking at her tender face. 

“Thank you for saving me” she said.

“That was my duty,” he replied, his fingers playing carelessly over the glass. “Where will you go after reaching Delhi?” 

She sighed, and turned away from him. She did not know. Till then she did not care. The hurt within and without her body was tremendous. It had forbidden any other thought. But now, standing beside Satyawan her future stared at her as blankly and as darkly as the night ahead. She had never imagined that one day she would be so alone that there would be no one to bother where she was. Throughout her childhood and her brief marital years she had been answerable, she had to report back to some place, which the world named as ‘home’; but today, there was no one, no home, and no relative!

Satyawan knew her answer. He wanted to take her with him. He did not realize it but ever since she had entered his neighborhood as a shy bride, he had felt an attraction for her. Their friendship, hesitant and unspoken, was through the conduit of her husband. That conduit was no longer available, and he feared making a direct connection. He did not want her to think he was taking undue advantage of her situation. 

“If you don’t mind, you can stay at our place for a few days,” he offered. 

She turned back towards him. His eyes held his breath, and both were not moving. She seemed to melt at the thought. Even though it was a feral connection, not founded on any logical reasoning, she did want him to make that offer. She wanted to stay with him.

Encouraged by her silence, he added, “…or, forever…”

It looked as if a hundred pieces musical orchestra had burst into a divine melody. Above, the moon peeped out of its cloudy curtain. The night suddenly felt silky and she could only dissolve into immense gratitude and love. In her house, she had seen a murky photograph of mountains from some far off land in Europe called Switzerland. Suddenly, she felt she was dancing over those lush terrains with gay abandon and nature joined her in its full splendor.

                                                           *******************************************

“Come over, dinner is ready,” called out Ms. Roza.The two lovers broke from their dreams and walked towards her. Saroj’s steps were less uncertain. Her innocence was on its way to restoration. The past was a nightmare dissolving away. 

But Satyawan had still his past to exorcise. 

“Where did you come in?” he asked Ms. Roza; he wanted her to finish off the tale that she had begun; the veil that had been lifted partially from his parents' past needed to be removed completely.

“I was always there. At first it was just a secretarial role. But then your parent’s marriage was not really working. Your father spent more time in office. Earlier it was within the house. After marriage, he shifted it out. Perhaps it was loneliness or a need to vent out, or whatever, even I cannot assign the correct reason or why it happened, but we started to talk quite a lot, and transcended the traditional employer-employee formality to become friends…”

Ms. Roza's eyes looked at something faraway as she resumed her narration and brought the past to Satyawan's present. 

                                                          *****************************************

It’s the time when day and night set aside their struggle for supremacy and divide the time peacefully amongst their selves – the vernal equinox, a word derived from Latin ‘equal night’. To celebrate the gardens bloom with flowers, and spring takes over officially pushing the harsh winters aside – a time to discard the old and wear new vibrant colors, a season where nature decks itself like a bride and displays all her beauty. 

“Papa, here you are” said she cheerfully, placing a small bowl in front of her father. Her father closed the book he was reading, and took the dish. 

Taking a small bite he said, “You know what. You make better Ravo than your grandmother even. Happy Navroz my child. Hope you get all happiness” He placed his hand on her head and blessed her. 

He took another bite of Ravo, a traditional dish made of semolina, milk and sugar. 

She smiled. “Oh God, I better rush,” she exclaimed, looking at the grandfather clock behind him. “I will be late for office”

Ms. Roza, born as Firoza Rustam Sodawalla, to a Parsi father and an English mother, was the only child. Belonging to a stratum of society that was traditionally different from the mainstream, she had received additional privileges of education and freedom. It was a natural progression that after her graduation, she would work. And she enjoyed her work at Sudhanshu Aggarwal’s office – the same way she liked to preserve her culture inherited from both sides of her parentage. In their household Christmas was served with the same fervor as Navroz, the Parsi New Year that fell on vernal equinox, March 21. 

On this day she would make the traditional dishes – Ravo and vermicelli cooked in sugar syrup, as also ‘faluda’ (a sweet and chilled vermicelli and flavored with rose essence). For lunch she had prepared ‘pulav’ rich with nuts and saffron, fish in green masala and spicy chicken curries. In Parsi community besides all the delicacies, cooking plain rice and ‘moong dal’ is a "must" on this Navroz day. 

Her mother walked in, and hugged her. “Bless you my child. May you get all happiness this year!”

“Thank you mom and same to you as well.” 

She gave her mother a loving squeeze. The lady reciprocated warmly. When she had set foot on the Indian subcontinent, Grace Williams was not aware that she would never need to return home. Even though she was clear about her feelings for Rustom, she was apprehensive about the marriage, owing to huge cultural differences. But today, whenever she looked at her daughter, a wonderful blend of their love, she thanked heavens silently for giving her this happiness. 

Hurriedly picking up her bag, Roza stepped out of their small but beautiful bungalow for her office. She loved this day. It seemed as if everything became fresh automatically. She thought about Sudhanshu, and the past one month of intense conversation. It was a curious bond. But a bond it was, formed within the rectangular room of her boss – a tastefully but simply decorated one that had a huge rose-wood table, a sofa set and a side-cupboard, housing finest whiskies, which Sudhanshu served for influential clients, especially if they came in the evening. She pictured the sofa set, and the exchange of words between her boss and herself over the early morning coffee, which she prepared, a ritual she liked to do. Yes, Sudhanshu was a good man, she said to herself and she was very content working there. 

She looked up at the clear March skies and at the swaying leaves of the trees – life was beautiful. Life was new. And life was on a smooth path. 

She did not know the new turn that would come in her life today on Navroz.

                                                          *************************************************

Sudhanshu Aggarwal straightened his tie in front of a large mirror attached to the dressing table.

Behind, Mamta was making the bed. He caught her reflection. It was the third month of their marriage. From that first stormy night till today’s calm morning, both had taken steps forward on the long bridge between them. At first it was uncomfortable. He made the move. Mamta responded. She realized it could not be changed; they were tied together forever. It was better to accept than fight a losing battle everyday. So, they made an unstated, unsealed pact of civilized behavior. Love was too tough a seed to be sown on the burnt barren land; a moss of friendship gradually developed, leading to a diffident love-making. To her surprise, Mamta did not find it all that revolting; it wasn’t an acceptance but it was no longer a denial either. 

Sudhanshu still yearned for a more normal relationship. Perhaps with time it would happen, he thought. He looked at his watch – a chained piece that he kept in his breast-pocket. Time to leave, and he did not feel it, but he looked forward to meeting that girl Roza in his office. A neat routine had emerged during the past one month. Roza would brew coffee – very English style, the kind he used to have during college days in Britain – they would discuss life, he would tell her about his evening after he left the office. In a way, she had become his ‘speaking diary’. 

Picking up his bag, he bade farewell to Mamta and strode out to the beautiful spring day. His father had left for his shop, early as ever. Mamta was left alone. 

He breathed the fresh air, and walked. He liked walking and did not want to take a rick-shaw, which he often did during winters. The office was fifteen minutes away. He had time. Mentally, he ran through the cases that were lined up. Practice was good. He was now very well known in his circles. The British respected his work. 

He ran through the list. There were urgent eight matters; all appearances lined up for the forthcoming week. He needed to have the arguments ready before that. Plus there was one of Bhisham Singh, who had visited his office yesterday. He did not like the man. There was nothing wrong with him per se. But Bhisham was one of those revolutionaries. He reminded of Anindo. Again, nothing was said but Anindo and Sudhanshu had gone apart with a huge chasm dividing them. He was sorry about his friend’s physical condition. He had expressed it as civilly as he could. But inwardly, he felt it was probably God’s retribution in betraying a friendship. That’s how Sudhanshu saw it – a betrayal. In any case, Anindo got stuck more and more in his work, and Sudhanshu rarely met him. Come to think, wondered Sudhanshu, since his marriage he had met Anindo just twice!

He brushed Anindo aside, and picked up the first case – the murder one – a Moslem. Vaguely, he seemed to know Hussain. But then Delhi was a small city, and his father was influential. The parties of yore at Lala Kirorimal’s house were legendary. Now his father was getting old. The gatherings had dried up. Plus the overall situation was not very bright. Everyone seemed to be getting pre occupied about independence than to live a life. 

He had reached the end of Boulevard Road. Taking left, he stopped mid-way. He opened his bag, and knew what the answer would be. He had forgotten to pick up Hussain’s file from the side-table. He cursed his carelessness. 

Retracing his steps back, he half-ran back to his residence. He nodded a few absent-minded greetings to a couple of neighbors. He felt a thin film of perspiration forming on his forehead. Summers were approaching fast. 

He opened the gate and climbed the small marble steps to the large wooden doors. He was about to raise his hands to ring the bell, when he saw a crack in the opening. Probably Mamta had still not bolted it, he thought. 

He crossed the hall and drawing room, turning towards the passage-way leading to his room. He stopped in his tracks. There were voices. His eyes popped out at what he saw, and a sharp quiver of pain jammed into his heart. 

Just outside of his room, Mamta stood holding Anindo’s hand. She was saying something hurriedly to him. But Sudhanshu did not catch the words. They had not seen him. He stepped back, towards the drawing room, into the hall and out at the street. The world seemed to be closing behind him. And he ran. He felt suffocated as if he was hounded. Mamta and Anindo – hand in hand – the picture flashed relentlessly in his mind. Since when was this going on? Or, had it never stopped from the time he had seen them at the temple. He was angry. He was betrayed. His ego was hurt. It was the second time that Anindo had got the better of him. 

Behind him, where he had left the two figures, Anindo raised his hand to Mamta’s cheek, and said, “It is good he is caring about you. I hope you are reciprocating as well.”

Her eyes brimmed. “I am trying. But how much life can I give to my dead soul?” This was quite true. She had responded much more than the guarded statement she gave Anindo. Meeting him, she felt a wrong guilt within her – even though she had taken a step into future, as Anindo wanted, meeting him made her feel she shouldn’t have done it. Also, the force of seeing him hit her hard. She realized how much she missed him. 

“Try and try as much as you can. Anyways, let me go now. It is not correct for me to stay here when Sudhanshu is not here. But I…I just couldn’t resist myself from seeing you. Hence I came over.”

“Keep coming. Maybe it will help”

                                                  *****************************************

Sudhanshu threw his bag over the table. He was miserable. He was shaking. He needed a drink. Moving to the cupboard he pulled out a glass and poured a stiff large shot which he gulped in one go. The scalding liquid burnt his inners, but it did not quench the fire that was raging there. He refilled with another shot, and poured it inside him with ferocity. The liquid traversed scorching his throat and it triggered off the flash in his brain, making the scene he had witnessed more pronounced. He poured a third one.

Roza entered the cabin, cheerfully. “Happy Navroz, sir,” she exclaimed. But stopped immediately. Her brows furrowed in question. Her eyes fell on the glass in front of Sudhanshu, who now sat on the sofa. His eyes were blood-shot, his face ashen, his hair dishelved and his tie loosened. 

“What happened?” she asked worried. She placed her bag on the table. 

“Today I have been killed forever,” he cried. His words slurred. The spirits were taking control. He felt hazy. He felt dizzy. But the imprint in his mind refused to be washed away. In his mind’s vision,  Mamta was still standing with Anindo’s hand and mocking him. 

“I am a fool, an idiot, a good for nothing” he continued. Roza sat gingerly beside him. She was worried. She had never witnessed this state of her boss. He was a person in control.  Today he was a shattered shard of glass that pierced and bled with each word he spoke. She tiptoed to the door to bolt it; she did not want anyone to enter to witness her superior in this delirious state.

“But what happened?” she whispered. 

He looked at her. His eyes were drunk, and they swam in their red sea. “Mamta and Anindo meet each other behind my back. My wife and my friend are playing a game of love in my own room, and I am unaware of it! Baah!” He exclaimed, and picked up the glass and took another gulp. 

Roza was uncertain. She was at loss of words. “Maybe you have been mistaken,” she tried to placate him. 

“Nooo” he drawled, his arms sweeping and simultaneously trying to get up. His hand touched the glass and it went sprawling over the cement floor, breaking into innumerable splinters with a loud crash. Roza shuddered. Sudhanshu staggered, and lost control. Roza raised herself to balance him, but could not; ultimately, both sank into the sofa. 

She had never been this near him, or any other man, for that matter. Their bodies touched. She felt a stirring within her. He held her tightly, sobbing. The spirits had taken control; he wasn’t aware what he was doing. 

She raised his face; his intoxicated breath fell on her. It felt hot and feverish. “She was with him today. I saw them. Together. Hand in Hand,” whispered Sudhanshu. 

Roza was shocked. Their faces were close. It was as if she could see into those eyes and witness the fire within Sudhanshu’s soul. She was deeply moved. In all that he had told her, she had not expected this to happen. 

“…I am a loser…loser…” said Sudhanshu. “I have nothing of my own,” he sobbed.

She looked into his eyes and shook her head; she felt like crying seeing Sudhanshu’s pitiable condition. Sudhanshu was drunk, he would not know, but Roza was not. Yet, she wouldn’t even understand it – it was partly a sexual attraction, partly care for the embittered man, partly due to his condition; she did not know; she did not comprehend, she just went along with the flow, unthinking. Sudhanshu’s lips were on hers, she did not resist. They kissed, sadly and bitterly as if he wanted to drown in them, and would gain his shore. 

Sudhanshu lips bore into hers, and moved towards her neck, passing through her cheeks – the touch was feverish, and the kisses small and quick; his mind was swimming, and he was whispering “Mamta, why did you do it? Why? I loved you” Roza’s hands held him tightly, behind his back, ruffling his hair; she heard him, but did not stop. He needed her today. She felt the saline liquid fall from her eyes; and the wetness of Sudhanshu's lips reaching her bosom, pulling apart the buttons of her dress. 

No, no, no, her mind screamed. Stop him. Stop him right away. Heavily, she tried to push him away; she tried to follow her mind’s command. But he was strong, and held her and was kissing her neck, his hands moving on her breast. With a tug she pulled him apart. He realized the jerk. There was a small gap between them. 

“Mamta don’t leave me please…please,” he whimpered looking at her. 

Roza was awash in tears. A gargantuan wave of love broke over her, and she hurled aside her mind’s warning. She cried and pulled him towards her. Like a child finding his mother he hugged her, and pressed his head into her breasts. She stopped thinking. With her free hand she opened the buttons of her dress, and allowed his face to touch the soft skin there. 

It was a strange love-making – on that small sofa, between two members who were not actually communicating with their souls. It was an act of the bodies, a relief sought to placate not desire but pain. She had opened his trousers, and he had found her way into her. She had opened her dress, without thinking, just like a duty. When he entered her, she felt a pain, and stopped a while to see his face. But he was too drunk, too lost. For him, she was Mamta and he was probably in his bed at night. He did not know his surrounding. She clutched him, and brought her lips to his, closing the gap – a gap between her body, mind and soul. 

After his climax, whether he reached it or not, she wasn’t sure (he had just dropped over after a quick rocking and a spasm), he lay over her. He was sleeping. Tediously, she got away from under him. He stirred, and grunted and for a moment she thought he would be awake. But thankfully he did not. She did not want to face him. She knew he would be ashamed. She did not want to see that. Not right now. Because her own mind was in a chaos. Tomorrow, or perhaps later in the day, they would have to meet. But right now, she wanted to run away. Quickly, she buttoned her dress, picked up her bag and moved out into the bright sunshine, trying to make sense of what had happened. 

She wouldn’t know that years later, she would have to explain this to Sudhanshu’s son, but by then she would be clear and would say, “It wasn’t love, it wasn’t lust - it was just a moment of weakness”

To Be Continued

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Four

More than a month later, and some few miles out of Delhi’s boundaries, Mamta sat in God’s presence at an opulent temple, built by a wealthy philanthropist – which would be emulated and exceeded in stature by another businessman GD Birla fifteen years later. 

It was a beautiful structure built of white marble and red sandstone, atop a small hillock, part of the Aravalli ranges and surrounded by forests. The main hall housed a meticulously sculpted image of the Lord; the sculptor had given a small enigmatic smile to the image. It did not revel, it did not reveal yet those who saw did not remain untouched by it. It stood benignly over the rectangular hall, opposite the main entrance – a gilded wooden door, with large brass handles. The walls were covered with framed photographs of various gods. They extended to a high ceiling, which had a sculpted lotus flower, from which erupted a minute crystal chandelier. The floor was white marble, and a bright red carpet strip ran through the middle, ending just before the idol. Devotees sat on either sides of the carpet, wherever they found room, erratically, haphazardly but with one consistency – the women were on the left side, the men on the other. Each one had a benign expression, that made them indistinguishable – an impersonal love, a universal brotherhood as they sang in praise of God. They spilled out into the verandah, which opened out to the steps – exactly 108, considered a holy number. 

After the ‘Katha’ was over, they sang hymns, chanting out the words, if some forgot the words, the others picked it up thus maintaining a cascading continuity, which had no semblance of order, yet it conjoined together into an harmonious whole. They were accompanied with instruments – the clangs of the cymbal, the thump of the dholak, the shrill rhythm of the ‘chimta’, soldered on to the chorus, but distinct if heard from a distance. It was like placing the eye near a book – the individual characters made no sense, yet take the vision afar, it all merged into a cohesive piece; perhaps this is what the gods sitting from their heavens saw. The music, the chant, the voices carried out into thin December mist, gravitating within itself potent prayers, and it slipped into the night calling the heavens and earth into its womb. 

Mamta’s heart and mind was not in the prayer. She sat listlessly, without clapping, without listening and looked disinterestedly at the interested gathering. Behind her, towards the door, she saw the few who stood outside near the verandah railing, leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the idol. And amongst the men there, she saw him. Her heart skipped a beat, and she blinked rapidly. His was covered in a thick shawl, and his face was barely visible. But she recognized him too well. 

Ever since that fateful day at Parade Ground, she had not met him. She had discreetly tried to seek his news from the local Congress office. But none came forward. His corpse had not been found, but neither had he contacted, was the information she received. She lost hope. The marriage preparations were underway. And lifelessly, she partook in them. Her father explained his stance; she did not blame him, but she did not exonerate him either. It was a handout from destiny, which she accepted without thought. Her mind was numb. Her heart was frozen. 

She peered over the heads, and their eyes met. He blinked his eyes in affirmation. Immediately, she got up to leave. Sitting nearly at the center, it took her some time to reach the aisle. Looking back, she saw her father’s eyes closed in devotion, who sat with her would- be-husband and father-in-law. She walked towards the entrance, pushed her way through the crowd, and reached the verandah railing. He was not there. But she saw a figure descending the stairs, reaching into the darkness below. 

Barefoot, she ran down the marble stairs. She had worn a traditional sequined mirror-work choli with ghagra, and it trailed behind her loosely. Her red pashmina shawl was wrapped over her body. Her loosely tied hair flew open against the wind’s friction, but she did not stop. Her eyes held the vision receding into the dark. Nimbly on her toes, she descended the 108 steps, the sounds dimming as she did so. 

She followed the apparition-like figure across the dirt road, towards the cluster of trees that ended on the lips of a small slope. He stood there, covered in a rough-blanket-like checkered shawl, tall and broad-shouldered, looking out into the flowing mist. The chanting was in the distance, and her anklet’s rustle could be heard distinctly. 

She hugged him from the back, sobbing and said, “Oh Anindo, where have you been? Take me away from this place? Take me away!” Her cheeks rested on the coarse cloth. 

He did not move. His breath was shallow. 

“They are making me marry Sudhanshu. You don’t know what is happening here! I cannot marry him. I will die. I cannot live without you,” she urged. 

She made him turn, and looked at his face. She recoiled in horror. The eyes were sunk, the face weather-beaten and there was three-day old stubble. 

“What happened?”

He looked at her, his eyes sprang to life and his pupils flickered nervously. “Mamta, I know what is happening here. I came to know about it today. I learnt about your ordeals. But what is happening is correct. After that night, this is logical.” 

Immediately, she stepped away from him. She was hurt. The pain pierced through her heart. “Oh, so even you think I soiled myself that night with Sudhanshu!”

“Mamta!” exclaimed Anindo. Reaching out to her face with his right hand, he said, “How can I ever think like that. Believe me I trust you more than myself.” 

His heart cried for Mamta; he could understand her pain, but he was helpless; destiny had written a story way different from what he had wanted. If Mamta was not meant to be his, then in her own interest it was better for her to be married to his friend. He knew Sudhanshu; there was a complete lack of romance in his life; but even if Sudhanshu lacked in romance, he would more than make up in duty.  And then Anindo had seen that look in Sudhanshu’s eyes that day before going to the Parade Ground. They conveyed more than what they meant to. He had not minded Sudhanshu’s keen stare that day; he was so sure about Mamta’s love. He could never distrust her!

Anindo had come from Calcutta as a child after his father, a civil servant, got posted in Delhi. He was the only son from his parents’ late marriage. They lived in the less affluent area behind Boulevard Road; but the lack of riches was compensated with large amount of idealism and patriotism which his father bequeathed him, who left his service to join the revolutionaries. From adolescence, Anindo was attracted towards the freedom struggle. His parents gave him their support, till the end, when they died their natural death. 

At five foot nine inches, he had a sinewy body with a personality that exuded confidence. His strong tanned face and deep set eyes attracted attention of all female eyes. Sudhanshu and he were in same school, but in college they took differing paths.  

He had met Mamta at a college function. It was an instant mutual attraction which walked the path of common thoughts and ideologies; in no time they were weaving dreams of witnessing India’s independence.He had planned to reveal the friendship to Sudhanshu in near future but fate intervened! 

Hearing his assurance, she relented, and took a step towards him. 

“Then please take me away from this.”

“Where will we go? It is not correct. I cannot see you or your father being given bad name. We have to live in this society. We have to bear its burden. The talks that the washerwoman and others spread were vicious. This is a sacrifice that we both have to make. Like Ram and Sita”

She cried, “Tum toh Ram ho, par mujhe kyun Sita bana daala!I don’t have that strength and courage. I am very ordinary, Anindo. Very ordinary.”

“Because, Sita can only be of Ram, whether she stays with him or not. Moreover Mamta, my path is very difficult and I cannot take you with me.”

Behind them, at the temple, the final prayer had begun. Everyone there would have stood up; this time the music was more vibrant and louder.

Anindo filled her with details of his one month. “That day I saved Mishraji’s life. They have promoted me to a senior position in the party. Our plan for November 20^th attack had to be postponed. We have all been preparing for that because of which I had to be away; also, the British are searching for Mishraji and his nearest coterie. I had to be in hiding. In all this, how can I think of putting your life in danger?” His eyes pleaded, and he caressed her cheek softly. 

“Yes, yes Anindo,” she clutched his shawl at the chest. Feverishly, she whispered, “That was my dream: to work with you, along with you, for you to get our country’s independence. This is what I want to do rather than be the queen of some rich man’s household!” 

“No Mamta. I cannot do this. It will be too selfish for me to include you in the dangerous path I have chosen for myself. And, it is not fair on me to impose myself now that…” he averted his gaze as he planned to speak the next hard sentence, but before he could do so, she was hysterical and sobbing hard, pulling his shawl. 

“No, no, I cannot be happy ever!” 

Suddenly, the shawl gave way; a strong gusty wind pushed it off further to the ground. She stepped back in horror. Her eyes bulged out. She did not know what she was hearing but he was speaking, explaining while he looked away avoiding eye contact. “…the bullet tore through it and …”

The chant reached a numbing crescendo, the wind howled, the mist danced wildly, the leaves rustled and there she stood staring blankly at Anindo’s missing left arm which had to be amputated. 

The quietness that followed were like the remnants after a fire, with the wind’s howl an echoing aural smoke; in that, hidden between the trees observing them and taking it all with pathos they did not notice Sudhanshu standing – he had followed her when he had seen her go out of the temple hall.                                                    

 
                                            **************************************

The evening of 29^th December was heavy and melancholic. It looked as if the heavens had chosen to be unhappy that day – the sun had stubbornly not shone, the fog did not disperse and the chilliness strengthened. 

Mamta was near her bedroom window. Sorrowfully she looked outside at the bright ornamental lights of the opposite house – her new home in a few hours. She was dressed in rich red wedding attire. She suffered agonizingly beneath the jewelry and bridal finery’s weight. Her heart squeezed her veins till they pained. She knew that it was the end. Till now, she had a tiny flickering hope that fate would intervene and she would be saved from this marriage. But now, as the evening advanced and the preparations to receive the baaraat were underway, that final flicker died. Her love would die in the embers of the fire that she would encircle with Sudhanshu soon. 

In the past few days the huge wedding arrangement activities had taken precedence, forcing her not to think, though often she lay awake alone late in the night. Even till the day before, when the neighborhood ‘henna’ girl had come to apply an intricate design on her hands, she felt she could run away from all this. But now, it was over. It was time for the act. 

All the anxieties and doubts that she had suppressed sprung up to engulf her. 

There was a shuffle. She turned. It was her father. He was dressed in a shining sherwani, with a huge pink ‘pagdi’. She had expressed her displeasure in a subtle manner, spoken out once, but not expressed in as many words; she would never have done it openly – it was not in her upbringing. But he understood. Her cold attitude and silence was too loud for him to miss. 

Seth Amirchand hesitated. Unsure, in a mumble he began, “The baaraat would be here any moment.” 

She nodded. He was avoiding her eyes. She wanted to cry and felt pity for her father. She felt guilty at being distant from him for the past many days. 

“Close the window. You will catch cold. You should take care of your health.” 

She nodded again. Her eyes smarted. She closed the window. Suddenly, there was quietness within the room. 

Between the two there was an emotional tug of war. Each wanted to say a lot. Neither could articulate. Yet once again silence conveyed it all. 

“Your trunks are ready” He said. After a pause he added, “And I have packed your shawls in the bigger one. There is a list on the inner side attached of each trunk, it will help you find things easily ” he continued. Inane things. This was not what he had come here for. 

She bit her lower lip. A lump hurt in her throat.

“Your blue suit had a small tear; I have got the tailor to mend it. I know you like to wear that one often.”

She allowed the tears to well up. She could not hold them any longer. 

“I wish your mother was here to explain. Do take care of that household properly. Don’t let them find any excuse in your duties.”  His voice was hoarse.

Her tears rolled down. Papa, please stop, she wanted to cry. Whatever you have done even mother couldn’t have ever achieved. 

“I will miss you, my child”

She ran to him, and hugged him, weeping profusely. He held her tenderly. It was such a cruel tradition. The girl that he had held in his arms as an infant, who had stayed with for twenty years was now leaving him forever. 

Together they stood, crying, each consoling the other, each unable to comfort the self. 

“Beti, will you ever be able to forgive me for the sin of this marriage?” he asked, his voice pleading and cracking and disintegrating. 

                                         **********************************************

Sudhanshu and Mamta were married according to Hindu rites.

They came face to face with each other to exchange garlands, a part of the ceremony. Before she could raise her hands her eyes fell on Anindo standing a little away, behind Sudhanshu. She wanted to jump from there and place the garland on his neck. Her hand hesitated. He shook his head, almost imperceptibly to avoid observation from other guests. His eyes pleaded with her to complete the ceremony. She held back her tears and continued with the procedure. Sudhanshu saw her hesitation. From his eye’s corner he noticed Anindo giving her assurance. He was disgusted. What sham was he a part of? The woman he liked and was marrying was his best friend’s lover? He hated Anindo for not telling him the truth earlier. After all, they professed never-ending friendship to each other. 

At a few steps behind, Ms. Roza watched them. 

The rest of the ceremony passed in a haze; they took the holy seven circles around the pious fire and he filled her hair parting with vermillion. The red streak scorched in her head. 

Shehnai players played a vigorous tune through their instruments. It sounded like a wail to Mamta, Sudhanshu and Anindo.

When Mamta crossed the street to enter her new abode she did not merely cross a road; she crossed a lifetime, leaving behind her childhood and all things she was accustomed to in the past twenty years. She stepped over her love, leaving the morose Anindo standing at the gate, a deep farewell look in his eyes. She strode over her personality, because she knew she would never be the same girl again. 

She clung to her father feverishly, sobbing and not letting him go, and had to be literally pulled out of his arms by Chunnilal, who consoled her with sweet platitudes. She hugged her uncle. 

“Beti, apna khayal rakhna,” said Chunnilal. Over the years, for whatever reasons he came in for, he had developed a bond with his sister’s daughter. She had grown with him. 

Slowly, uncertainly she took small steps, trying to delay as much as she could towards Lala Kirorimal’s sprawling mansion. 

The white house was richly decorated with lights and flowers. Eager relatives waited to welcome the new bride. Lala Kirorimal gave her his blessings and a luxurious gift of jewelries. More shehnai flowed with laughter and gaiety. It looked surreal. But it helped her to take her mind off her thoughts. 

Eventually, the time came when she was left alone in Sudhanshu’s bedroom. Marigold petals were strewn over the huge wooden bed; there was a tender net made of chameli hanging over it. The air was fragrant. She looked around the room. This would be her domain from now. These things – the chest of drawers, the almirah, the side-table – would be used. They did not seem much different from her place back home, yet they felt alien. Unsure, she sat on the edge of the bed. She dreaded Sudhanshu’s entrance. She wanted to be alone. 

She sat with her palms overturned. The auspicious henna was bright maroon in color. It burnt. As if to assuage the fire, tears dropped on them. 

Outside, in the drawing room Sudhanshu was urged by everyone to go to the bedroom. They joked about the new bride and his wedding night. He had no will to meet Mamta. Yet it could not be avoided. Reluctantly, he got up to leave. Lala Kirorimal stopped him on the way. 

“Son, thank you and I am proud of you; you have retained this household’s pride, do maintain it forever” said the man. Even when he thanked his son there was a dignified arrogance in his voice as if it was a favor he was doling out to him. 

Sudhanshu nodded but did not say anything. Partly out of respect, partly out of tradition, he touched his father’s feet and strode towards his bedroom. 

She heard his footsteps, and the click of the bolt. She squeezed her hand, her breath stopped. His presence triggered anger within her; it wasn’t her father, it wasn’t her uncle – it was Sudhanshu’s evil shadows that had befallen her life. She blamed him. She knew what was to follow. She hated that. He came forward towards her. He did not know what to say – the lawyer who held center stage in the courtroom with his glib words was lost; he was tongue tied. 

He looked at his bride, and remembered the first time he had seen her. The night she had sat opposite to him across the fire in a dilapidated house flashed across his mind. It cut sharply with her standing against a rough wind hugging Anindo. His blood boiled, but he held back his frenzy. Years at the court, speaking with the wily British and some third-rate personnel had conditioned him enough to control and contain his irritation. Plus, he also somewhat realized it was not Mamta’s fault at all. Destiny had brought her to this room. He would have to win her over. And the only way he knew were words, and their usage. But they deserted him at this point. Desperately he tried to find them. 

“Mamta, I understand what you are going through. This is not how I wanted it as well. It is a cruel joke by fate that has brought us together.”

Sometimes courage is  not found out of conviction; it is triggered off by a voice, a thought, a fleeting glance; and in that one desperate moment, reason and logic are brutally swept aside; and then, the built up frustrations erupt out like hot scalding lava. In that macro-second, Mamta also found hers. 

“Paap kiya hai aapne,” she spoke – steely, cutting and piercing. She did not get up. She looked at him, her eyes red and burning. “You could have stopped this marriage. You are a man. The society gives you power to choose. But you abused that power. You decided to have me – knowing fully well that I belonged to someone else. You have destroyed me. You have ruined a life. Now don’t cover your act by putting the blame on destiny. Paap kiya hai aapne, bahut bada paap kiya hai!”

Stupefied, he heard her. Behind his back his hands wrung each other rapidly in anger. His ears reddened. His jaws clenched, and he fought a losing battle with his fury.

“This is not correct,” he hissed. “It is true that when I saw you, I fell in love…”

“No, that was lust … just lust,” she broke in – suddenly she got up, making him stagger a few steps backward. 

“This is all you wanted,” she hissed frigidly, pointing to her body. “Here I am. Ravage me. Satisfy your thirst!”

She stood erect, her body taut, which was shouting at to him, her bosom heaving and her eyes unwaveringly staring at him. He looked at her with disgust and horror; his eyes bulged out, his nostrils flared. The dam broke. The boiling point crossed.

Grasping her with rough hands, he screamed, “No, this is not truth. No No No …” He shook her wildly and threw her over the bed. 

His voice resounded in the closed room, hitting the wall and bouncing back like a coin dropped in a glass bowl, and it carried away into the night, picking up along its way the loud choral strains of shehnai and mirth of relatives, and tore its way through the fog and darkness…

…and it traveled far off, crossing time and distance, shedding off its loudness and it reduced to a solitary despondent note,  to another heavy night – where, three weary passengers sat in a black car, zipping over a dusty unbridled highway. 

Ms. Roza paused in her narration. 

Satyawan wet his lips, and looked out of the window and ruminated on the shredded myth that he harbored about his parent’s marriage. Beside him, Saroj did not stir, but he knew she was awake, and she had also heard the narration without interruption. 

“There is a small dhaba here,” informed Ms. Roza. “We shall stop awhile. The engine needs to cool down. We can also have something to eat”

The shehnai strains increased in volume. It came from the village ahead; they were on its outskirts. It was a note filled with pathos, a pain so deep that it oozed from the earth clamoring upwards to the uncaring sky, crying for relief, begging for succor. 

INTERVAL

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Three 

The dawn broke from its cocoon, spreading its soft arms over Delhi. 

The day was still in its infancy when Mamta and Sudhanshu walked back to their homes. Their street was empty, except for the sweeper brushing over the tarred surface with his long porcupine-like broom - a solitary scratching sound breaking out intermittently every few seconds. Somewhere in the distance they heard the temple bells. A few birds chirruped excitedly. The rain had stopped and the entire atmosphere looked washed and cleaned. 

For Sudhanshu, it had been the longest night. Till then he had not known rejection. Brought up in an affluent family, he had always thought that whatever he wished was to be fulfilled; whatever he thought was correct; whatever he perceived was the truth. Having lived a life in his own shell, the reality beyond it hit him hard. He had never sought companionship till then, content with his studies earlier and then making his career. Mamta was the first girl that he had actually seen carefully. But her truth shook him. 

They had passed the night in silence; sleep came uncomfortably. When the rain subsided at the crack of dawn, they proceeded towards their home. Neither uttered a word. It seemed as if dialogue between them was lost. 

The sweeper stopped for a few minutes eyeing them suspiciously. They ignored his stares and moved towards their houses. 

When they neared, they saw Seth Amirchand, Mamta’s father, coming out of the gate. His expression was dull, and his eyes red; he had spent the night worrying about his missing daughter. Due the rain last night, the corpses couldn’t be identified. When Chunnilal returned without her, he was devastated. But still, he had clung to a small hope that she would be alive. Mamta was his only daughter, and his life’s biggest asset, especially after her mother’s death he had defied society and reared her like a son.

Seeing her father, Mamta rushed towards him. Sudhanshu stood a few steps behind, uncomfortably, hesitatingly. Behind Seth Amirchand, he noticed Chunnilal appear. 

“Beti, are you ok?” he exclaimed, his face breaking into a spontaneous smile, his raised arms inviting her to hug him. Only he knew how much relief cascaded through every pore of his body. Inwardly, he thanked the Mother Goddess for protecting his daughter. 

She sprinted to his outstretched arms, and collapsed in them, sobbing. “Yes papa, I am fine” She clung to him like a small child, and Sudhanshu felt a fresh wave of emotions overcoming him. Despite her defiant tone last night, she was still a small girl who needed to be protected and loved. 

“We were so worried about you,” mumbled his father, kissing her head. “If something had happened to you…”

“Arre, jijaji, why do you worry? Your daughter is smart and intelligent and knew what she was doing!” broke in Chunnilal, stepping forward. He narrowed his eyes and peered at Sudhanshu and back to Mamta. Their clothes were dishelved and dirty, and still quite damp from the rains; Sudhanshu’s coat hung limply over his broad shoulders.

“Mamaji” sobbed Mamta, breaking away from her father. 

“What do you mean, Chunnilal?” asked her father. 

“Arre, isse yeh toh poochho saariraat iske saath kya kar rahi thi!” retorted Chunnilal, cunningly staring at Sudhanshu. 

“Mamaji!” Mamta exclaimed. 

“Beta, hamare ghar ki ladkiyan raat bhar gair-mardon ke saath nahin raha karti” continued Chunnilal. 

Seth Amirchand was too shocked to react, but soon found his voice. “Chunnilal, control your tongue. I am shocked that you are not happy to see Mamta alive!” 

“No no, jijaji, I am very happy to see her alive. But then…” the man left the sentence incomplete and shook his head. To his limited brain, it was incomprehensible why his brother-in-law was unable to see the simple fact that a man and woman had stayed the night out together. In his conditioning, he had been only brought to understand that two unrelated members of opposite sexes can share only one relationship, and that is the one which has to be sanctioned by society after a proper ceremony – marriage. Anything prior to this is sin. 

Sudhanshu was disgusted at hearing the conversation. He broke in, “It’s nothing like that…”

“Beta, this might be correct in your Britain, but here a man and woman don’t spend nights out together” spat Chunnilal. 

“This is 1923 now! We are not living in some old age”

“Modernity does not mean loss of morals; this is our culture and tradition and our thinking”

Sudhanshu’s anger rose, but his voice did not.  “Then this thinking should be changed!” His rage did not lash out like a wild wave, rather it carried weightily like a gargantuan fathom-less river.

“Tumhare kahne se sach pe parda nahi padta, Sudhanshu Babu” Chunnilal said rebelliously. 

Mamta was crying. “Enough!” she exclaimed, and ran inside the house, her arms wildly flailing to wipe out the tears that were dropping copiously. 

“It would be better if we talk about this later,” said Seth Amirchand tersely and turned to follow his daughter. 

Chunnilal and Sudhashu stood on the road facing each other in defiance; a low wind had caught up, portending a fresh lease of rains. Behind them, they could hear the sweeper’s swish at regular intervals. The morning unzipped its daylight further, spreading across the horizons on both sides. A few pigeons flapped their wings towards them, as if in disgust at the two men who stood below, unwavering in their beliefs. 

                                 *******************************************************************

Jaggu was tall and dark with a lined and hard face – one that has weathered the storm of being a living person; a person born to the lowest echelons of society. He had a lean body, sans any fats, primary because his meager British municipality job paid him just enough to sustain for survival food, and secondly, because of the strenuous work he did. As a sweeper, he would wake up before the sun, cleaning the road off its fallen leaves and grime, before moving to the households to clean their toilets. He did not hate his job, neither did he love it – the reason being his mental faculties were not developed enough to reason, or question, or think. In a way, he was animalistic, following the natural urges and the laid down society norms- like the cattle that followed the herd; his blinkers were intact, and he did not know that if he tried, he could remove them. Born of poor family, one of the many siblings bunch that his father sired without any sense or planning, probably just a consequence of penile relief at nights, Jaggu would remain a sweeper his entire life; education, reading and writing were things alien to him. 

The only time he displayed human traits was in Basanti’s presence. Basanti was the washerwoman, living a few sheds down the ghetto in which he resided. After completing his daily routine, he would often go to the ghats, where Basanti would have arrrived with her clothes-pile. That was the time when Jaggu looked like a living being – animated and happy and contented. 

She responded to his overtures, though she often teased him about his work. Initially, she empathized with him but gradually felt an attraction, despite his being below her caste. 

“O Basanti, aaj toh phulwa ki tarah mahake hai re tu” he would say, sitting down beside her. She would look up naughtily; her hands wet with foam, smile and pretend to be coy about his wooing.

“Chal hutt, roj roj wahi baat, laaj na aave hai kaa?” she would make a face, but inwardly would smile. 

Jaggu chuckled. “Ab tere se kaisi laaj?”  He started to move towards her; she looked at him demurely. 

With a sudden shock, she exclaimed, “Baapu aa gaya”

Immediately Jaggu lost control and slipped, his face in shock.  “Baap re, yeh piyakkad kahan se tapak padh” 

Basanti broke into a spontaneous laughter – almost child like in its innocence. Picking up a handful of foamy water she sprayed it on Jaggu. “Darr gaya!”

Realizing that she had joked with him, he got up smiling and advanced towards her.

“Dekh, mere paas na aa” she warned him, playfully while the naughty smile danced on her lips.

“Kyun ri, majaak karti hai – mai bhi darra nahin tha, bas tujhe rijhaa raha tha” he said, making a false bravado show.

“Chal chal, baatein na bana…”

“Dekh lena, ek din tujhe ussi piyakkad ke ghar se doli mein bitha ke le jaaoonga” 

He advanced and wrapped her in his arms. She struggled to get free. Her wet hands touched his hardened torso. 

“Jaane woh din kab aayega,” she sighed, wistfully. “Chal chhod mujhe, kaam karne de – saamne potli mein se baajre ki roti khaa le” she said, her eyes pointing to a small packet wrapped in white cloth on the ground. 

He left her, but before doing so gave her a small peck on the cheek. Immediately, she gasped, “Haaye daiyya! Bahut besaram ho gaya hai tu aajkal” 

He smiled, and went to unpack the ‘potli’. She went to her work, scrubbing the linen with her might. 

“Arre, besarmi isse na kahe hai,” he said, sitting doing cross legged, and breaking off a large roti bite. 

“Toh phir kisse kahe hai?”

“Woh apne Seth Amirchand ki beti hai na Mamta?“

She nodded.

“Kal saari raat Lalaji ke bete saath thi” 

Instantaneously Basanti left the shirt she was scrubbing, and in her squatted position, turned to look at him. “Kya kah rahe ho, peeke aaye ho kaa?” 

“Na,” he waved his hand, gulping the bite he had just taken; he knew Basanti would love this juicy tale. “Mai jaanta tha tu meri baat na maanegi. Par, apni aankhon se dekha hai maine unhe subah aate hue,” and with a small all-knowing nod of the head, and raise of an eyebrow, he added, “Kapde uljhe hue the, haath ki choodi tooti hui thi!” 

“Tch tch,” clucked Basanti, her wet hand on her chin, near her lips in expression of disgust, “Raam Raam Raam, kya jamana aa gaya” Her heart was beating furiously. She was excited. This was news to be told to Chameli, the flower-girl, instantly. For once, Basanti had an upper hand in the neighborhood gossip, else staying at the ghats most part of the day, she would miss on the happenings. 

“Ghor kaljug hai Basanti, ghor kaljug hai” said Jaggu, wiping his hand on the white cloth. Satisfied – after the good meal, and a good ‘piece of news’ to Basanti- he gave a loud burp, and lay down to take his afternoon nap. Basanti could hardly wait to finish off her work, she pushed aside the shirt she was doing, ignoring the small stain – that she will explain to the owner later on – right now, she had to complete everything else and run to Chameli. 

                                                        *****************************************

The brick house was a strong contrast to the white mansion opposite – in color, in design and in size. Lala Kirorimal’s spectacular house was a beefy statement, almost a replica of some Gothic-British architecture, spread over acres and dwarfing every other residence on the posh Boulevard Road – almost as if it were some muscular giant. On the other hand, Seth Amirchand had studiously avoided an-on-the-face affluence, his house was like a demure lady – petite yet dignified. Single storied, there was nothing thick or gaudy about its presence. But due to its stark red color and an elegant design, which would be the norm a few years later, it stood out. 

Seth Amirchand was originally from Punjab, where his father was a small-time spice trader. However, with the capital shifting to Delhi, Amirchand realized early on that future lay in this city. He also understood the game of demand and supply, a natural knack because Amirchand never completed any formal education. He started off by selling carts and spares but when bicycles came in vogue and almost a fashion statement, he switched to that. By then, his goodwill had increased immensely and he secured the sole distributorship of a prestigious British bicycle company. Fortune smiled on him, and he made his thousands.

However, Seth Amirchand was not ambitious in the ruthless manner. He did all his duties as part of his ‘karma’. If there was any living proponent of Bhagvad Geeta’s virtue of ‘do your duty, forget about the result’, then Seth Amirchand would have won hands down.  Born in the ‘vaishya’ community (the trader class), he felt it was his duty to just do his business to his best ability. Just as he knew that being a man, and the eldest son in his family, it was his duty to be the bread-winner for the family. His priorities were clear – his family, followed by society, followed by the nation. It was his duty to earn money to keep family in good spirits, hence even taking a British-owned company’s distribution was justified. 

He was a quiet man. He spoke when required, and did not have many friends. Articulation was not his forte, and if anyone irritated him the most, it was his neighbor Lala Kirorimal and his pompousness. For Amirchand, it was difficult to state his thoughts. 

His marriage to Kanta was a boon; she completed his silence, and in her he found a fabulous outlet to siphon off his thoughts; and this, she did without his having to state them obviously. She held a bizarre ability to read his thoughts. She was a perfect housewife, and life was smooth. In fact, Amirchand was not given to any bumpy rides in life’s journey. Apart from the minor business squabbles, he knew his life was set – marriage, children, their marriage and then retirement, probably on the Ganges banks in Benaras – again, all these to be part of his life’s duties. The first major hiccup in his life shook him; his wife died during child-birth. The shock would have been unbearable had it not been for little Mamta crying forlornly in his lap. He had his mission set: rear Mamta to be an excellent individual. 

In this endeavor Chunnilal, his wife’s brother, stepped in to help him. Amirchand did not realize this, but Chunnilal’s motive to step in was not wholly driven by his love for his niece. He had a lazy disposition, and was averse to work. By offering his services as a care-taker at Amirchand’s house Chunnilal in one stroke had access to easy money, without seeming to be a parasite. 

Amirchand’s second set back was Mamta’s absence the night before. It hurt him. Over that, Chunnilal’s remarks were scathing. Even though within himself he trusted Mamta not to betray him, yet he knew that it would be difficult warding off Chunnilal’s glib tongue. He missed Kanta more than ever today. She would know how to deal with her brother and not allow Chunnilal to coerce him into doing something that he did not want to do. 

Amirchand sat in the simple but functional drawing room. It was filled with austere cane furniture. The only lavish item was the hand-woven Kashmiri carpet. 

“Jijaji!” exclaimed Chunnilal, entering the room from the hallway. Amirchand winced; there was an overt excitement on his brother-in-law’s face; it smelled of some terrible news. 

“Chunni, I am right now not in the mood to talk, can we do this later on?” mumbled Amirchand. 

“We can, but it would be advisable to do it right now, before things get out of hand. There is no point in being an ostrich and burying one’s head in the sand thinking that the storm will go away on its own,” said Chunnilal, making himself comfortable in a seat next to his brother-in-law. As the official household care-taker, he felt he had to do this dirty job of warning about a disaster – self-made, or absorbed, it did not matter to Chunnilal. 

Amirchand took a deep breath, and braced himself for the attack. “Theek hai, theek hai bolo” 

“Jijaji, this talk has reached epic proportions now and crossed all limits. I am just coming from the market. Even the phool-waali Chameli was hinting about Mamta’s escapade last night. And just now, right here outside” – he raised his hand to indicate the front gate outside – “I bumped into Sarita Bhabhi and you know what she said? Uff, the sun is setting and I shan’t lie” – he shook his head, as if recoiling at the memory – “but I can’t even make myself repeat it. I tell you we shall not be able to move in this city with head held high if this talk goes on!”

Amirchand took a hard gulp; he realized that people would whisper, but the way Chunnilal put it across it seemed as if this was the only thing being talked about in the city. Plus, he knew Chunnilal’s ability to jump at conclusions – if a person said ‘one’ Chunni could be trusted to hear ‘four’! 

“So? What do I do? I can’t go and seal everyone’s lips, can I?” asked Amirchand, avoiding Chunnilal’s constant stare.

“That we cannot ever do; but there is a simple solution to keep the mouth’s shut forever. Marry Mamta with Sudhanshu”

Amirchand sat up in shock as if bitten by a snake.

“Come on, jijaji. Mamta is of marriageable age, and we have to find a suitable husband for her. And come to think of, Sudhanshu is a good suitor for her – young, affluent and educated and belongs to a respected family. Plus, think of this, marrying her into Lala Kirorimal’s house, she would never be far away from our eyes.”

At long last, Amirchand looked directly towards Chunnilal thoughtfully. Logically Chunni’s rationale made sense; especially his last sentence. Ever since Mamta had grown up, he knew that she would have to one day go away and the thought was painful; he had tried to push it as far back as he could, yet it couldn’t be forever avoided. One day it had to turn reality. 

“So what do you say?” urged Chunnilal. 

Amirchand sighed, and sat back. “Your words are true,” said Amirchand pensively. Chunnilal smiled knowledgeably. He knew this would work, because what he did not tell Amirchand was the fact that he had met Lala Kirorimal in the market. The latter was equally displeased about the incident, and did not seem averse to the idea of this alliance when Chunnilal had joked about it. 

To end the discussion, Amirchand said, “I will think over this and talk to Kirorimal” and closed his eyes. 

What he left unsaid was that he was not very fond of Lala Kirorimal, and to marry his only daughter to that household did not seem correct. She would not adjust to its loudness. Another thought tore its dagger into his heart – how would he explain this decision to Mamta? She would think that he did not trust her. He did not want to lose her esteem and affection. 

Through the parted windows of Amirchand’s mansion, one wouldn’t know the storm that brewed within the old man, who sat with closed eyes, and head reclined back. 

Outside, November winds were picking up momentum.  Autumn was giving way to winters. The trees had shed their clothes, and lay bare crying their souls out to nature’s vagaries. The sun hurried towards its horizon, as if too scared of the impending cold darkness. The street was empty; people preferred to be in their cozy environs before the night came. The house that Amirchand built with care and affection today seemed oddly incongruous in its redness against the deep violet skies. The walls did not stretch upward very high, but they seemed to be jumping to catch hold of the sun’s last rays before they expired. And above, on the terrace, Mamta strolled pensive, and scared, wrapping her shawl tightly around her to ward off the chilliness. 

Mamta had turmoil in her heart; an emotional commotion impossibly entangled. There was fear, because she had not heard from her lover. She could not even talk to anyone about it. It was a liaison under wraps. There was sadness, because if anything did happen to him, she would be alone. There was foreboding, a sixth sense that ticked within her, which told her something wrong was to happen. She knew the reason for this. It was the night spent outside home. She shivered as her uncle’s voice echoed in her brain. She had done nothing wrong. But who would understand her? She thought about Sudhanshu, and his sudden proposal. It irked her. She stopped in her thoughts, and walked towards the parapet. Leaning, she looked across the street at the magnificent bungalow. It was mostly dark, but in the hall below the yellow lamps flickered. There, she saw two figures. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to concentrate on them, and leaned a bit forward to view. 

The figures were Lala Kirorimal and Sudhanshu.

“I cannot do this” stated Sudhanshu flatly. His lips were pursed tightly, and he stood with his hands behind his back. He looked firm and resolute. But behind him, his hands were rubbing each other nervously. 

“I am not used to listen to a no, my son!” roared Lala Kirorimal. “I have always got what I wanted, and I am not ready to accept defeat from my own blood.” His heavy voice reverberated in the filled room. His fair round aged face was reddened, and his heavy whiskers shook when he spoke. His lips, below the mass of hair, wobbled. He wore a spotless white kurta and dhoti, crisp like his tone.

The two faced each other. Apart from the difference between the girth, which Lala had put on as age and affluence advanced, both were equally tall, and represented a near mirror impression of each other. 

“I am your son, and not given to defeat myself,” stated Sudhanshu. His father had given an impossible command – to marry Mamta. Had this come a day earlier he would have gladly jumped at the proposition, but now he felt it to be a crime. 

“So you want the waggling tongues to destroy this household?” asked Lala incredulously. “I did not know that British education would wipe off your sense of morality and responsibility also” 

“This household’s foundations are not that weak to be shaken by a few tongues. And it is my British education that gives me this strength to stand by my responsibility and morality!” 

“Those moralities do not work here. In this land, we follow our dictums, and in this house, we follow my word,” bellowed Lala Kirorimal, quavering at his son’s indolence. 

“Then it is time for us to lead the change. By selling khadi we will not change mentalities. That needs to be the priority here.”

“Do not mock my patriotism.”

“Do not confuse issues”

“I have allowed you enough freedom”

“I respect that”

“No you don’t. Because you don’t realize what your yesterday’s act will rake in!”

“Yesterday I saved a life. If that is an offense, I am guilty. Beyond that nothing has happened.”

“You wear blinkers, my child!” mocked Lala Kirorimal. “Sitting in your high office and fighting absurd cases in the courtroom, you are removed from the grime that lines the bazaars and streets of Delhi”

“I’d rather stay away from them, than dirty myself by touching it, which you seem to be content doing”

“You insolent boy!” thundered Lala Kirorimal, his face crimson, his eyes bulging out and his whiskers quivering. 

“I am not insolent. I am just saying a fact.” In contrast, Sudhanshu’s tone was even and steady. 

“But mark this and note it where ever you can. I will have you married with Mamta. This is not a request, it is a command. Tomorrow, I shall give my word to Seth Amirchand, and it is the last I want to hear about this subject!” 

Saying this, Lala Kirorimal turned on his well-polished ‘jootis’ and walked out of the room.

Helplessly, Sudhanshu stood watching the receding figure, his hands fingering his suspenders. A tender but chilly wind entered through the open windows. He shivered, but stood on his spot, unmoving. It was a futile situation, and he felt frustrated. From the corner of his eyes, he looked out. Turning his head, he peered out into the late evening, across the street, at the red bungalow and finally rested his gaze on the forlorn figure strolling there. 

Somewhere outside, perhaps in the neighborhood, someone played violin – a single thread of a note that swelled and receded like the ripples on River Yamuna, which flowed not far off. The notes did not play on the strings, but on the hearts, pulling it with a sharp melancholic twang, and it buoyed on the wind, spreading itself on the atmosphere, caressing the trees, touching the buildings and pecking the flowers and melting into the evening far away into the deep, dark horizon.

To Be Continued

where the heaven meets the earth
Edited and Plot Idea by Priyangini Mehta
Written by Deepak Jeswal

Episode Two 

The colossal stone bungalow stood in the middle of Boulevard Road, just off the British Army Mess, in the older sections of Delhi. The newer city that Lutyens was commissioned to build was still some eight years away from completion. Huge Victorian style arches and pillars supported the white façade; a mansion built as an ultimate tribute the masters that ruled the country. Peering through thick crème curtains, out of heavily grilled windows, Sudhanshu Aggarwal viewed the marching mass of men in white kurta-pyjamas: the Congressmen, shouting subdued chants of ‘Inquilab Zindabad’ – a protest march against the Britishers, yet sober enough not to disturb the masters into vile action from their afternoon siestas. 

Sudhanshu shook his head in disdain at them. 

“Why do you deride them, Sudhanshu? They are after all doing something for the nation,” his friend, Anindo Bannerjee remarked, walking towards him after placing an expensive china-cup on the mahogany side-board of the bedroom. 

“My foot!” exclaimed Sudhanshu. “As if staging a walk-march and burning British clothes will gain them independence! So many have died -for what cause? Does it matter to the goras?”

“It is a seed sown, it shall reap awards”

“No it won’t. They have enough power to crush these seeds time and again. It is simple. The British are businessmen; one has to give them solid reasons for trading them to return our nation. We have to offer them a price which they cannot resist. And blood of Indian men and women is not a currency they would like to trade with” 

“You are a lawyer, and hard to win by words. But still, I personally believe, everyone has his own means of gaining them. At least they are trying, and not eating into the hands of the goras and imitating them by wearing flannel trousers with suspenders- and even employing a firang secretary!”

Sudhanshu eyed him suspiciously. “Was that a remark towards me?” he asked. His tone, however, was flat. It never changed. There was evenness in it, reflecting his restrained demeanor.

Anindo laughed. “Well, you are intelligent enough to understand that, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah, yeah you can mock as much as you want. But then, let’s face it, I have to eke out a living, and earn for myself – even if that means pandering to whims of the British law. And by the way, Ms. Roza is not a firang. Her father is as much an Indian as you and I. Her mother is a British lady, however”

Anindo sighed. “It’s a good thought to satisfy one’s guilt. At least you could be like your father. I hear he is trading in khadi only these days.”

“Anindo, I was not meant to sit and check those god-awful red ledger books. They don’t motivate me at all. I have an ambition, and a will to make my own name, and be successful.”

“Well, this huge mansion has been built through those meticulous checking of ledger books that you hate, my friend. And it has also given enough money to enable you to study in London.”

“Agreed; and I am not denying that one bit. But the hard work there was my own; and if today my law firm is known, it is on my own strength”

“Lala Kirorimal is a name to reckon with in business circles; I am sure he would have loved you to join him in his trade at least – especially after…”

Sudhanshu turned sharply. He knew what Anindo was referring to – his elder brother, who had died five years back in a protest march at Meerut Cantonment. The shock and the pain had almost left his father an invalid. At that time, he wanted to console the old man, to hold him and to hug him – but theirs was not a family given to overt display of affections; he just stood quietly – his heart wanting to join the family business, his mind running behind ambition; and as was expected from Sudhanshu, the mind overruled the heart. 

He had known Anindo since childhood; they were part of the same social circle. It was a well-knit friendship, which lay with loose threads dangling as their ideologies over India’s independence crossed swords in sharp clashes often. Sudhanshu knew his friend was a staunch Congress supporter, and was part of their cadres. It irked him. 

Sudhanshu did not say anything; quietly, he turned his gaze outside; his thumbs running along his suspenders absentmindedly. The contingent had moved on. The sun shone over the cold November road in front of his house, beyond a well kept garden. He looked across the road at the red brick house; a girl was coming out of its wrought iron gate – Mamta, Seth Amirchand’s only daughter. 

He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Will you come to the Parade Ground today?” asked Anindo. 

Absently, and without thinking, as by habit and impulse, Sudhanshu shook his head in the negative. 

Anindo shrugged, and sighed. “As you wish my friend. But I would seriously suggest you listen to Mishraji once – maybe your opinion will change.”

Saying this, he moved towards the bed, while Sudhanshu fixed his stare on the scene opposite the road. 

Mamta stood near the main gate – there was a raw sensuousness on her face, outlined by the sharp curve of her lips; her angular face was bordered with two pigtails tied at the ends in shining pink ribbons. Often, Sudhanshu had felt a strange desire towards her- certainly not love, for that was an emotion unknown to him – perhaps a late sexual awakening within him. 

“Mamta” he heard a voice calling from behind the girl. She turned; as she did, Sudhanshu’s eyes fell on the smooth white skin of her neck that entered the printed and embroidered sharp pink suit. 

“Jee mamaji” she said. 

“Beta, chalo – We will be late for the Parade Ground meeting.” 

 “Mamaji, I am ready, and waiting for you only, let’s go” she said cheerfully, flashing a deadly smile. She opened the gate, and with a swing she waved her hand in the most stylish fashion allowing her uncle to take the lead. The man, in a white dhoti-kurta, smiled and moved out. 

Sudhanshu turned towards Anindo, who sat on the bed carelessly reading a law journal. “Anindo, may be you are right. I should attend these meetings once at least. Let’s go today itself.”

Anindo looked up, his brows raised, “And can I know the reason for this sudden change?” he winked, his stare passing Sudhanshu towards the road outside. 

“You bastard…” laughed Sudhanshu. 

Anindo closed the journal, rolled it, and hit Sudhanshu on the thigh good naturedly, “Betelal, tumhari rag rag se waakif hun main…”

“Arre,” protested Sudhanshu, “You are reading much too much than required”

Anindo, sighed and got up. “Let’s hope so. Knowing you, I think I am really reading a bit too much” After a small pause, he said, “Nice girl she is though I cannot say the same about Chunnilal, her uncle. He keeps coming to our meetings; all air without any concrete ideas”

“You seem to know a lot about him?” questioned Sudhanshu.

Anindo gave a low chuckle. “Well, I know a lot about many people in this locality. After all, I have stayed here instead of running off to Britain”

Sudhanshu threw up his hand in mock-disgust. “You will never change. Ab chalen?” he asked. 

“Yeah yeah sure – the first crush of our grand lawyer awaits him. But stay away from her – she might bite” he warned, his eyes wide. Sudhanshu looked at him for an instant, and then laughed out, realizing that his friend was joking. 

He picked up his brown coat, and brushed off the remark as his friend’s overtly sensitive nature; in any case, there was nothing between him and Mamta; but then, he did not know what destinies often have stored in their secret boxes.

                                                *********************************************

“The time for awakening has arrived; we cannot dismiss off last year’s incident at Chauri Chaura as a mere ‘crime’; it needs to be understood and appreciated. Those were ordinary people fighting for justice – like you, like me. And what do these firangs do? Hang them! Send them to Kala paani! No – this is NOT acceptable”

The voice rent through the public announcement system spreading over the gathered crowd and echoing away into the horizon, where dark clouds had accumulated; Mishraji, the local Congress leader, had the audience enthralled; they stood transfixed holding on to each uttered word; he whipped their emotions, churned their passion, stirred their patriotism as his voice modulated from the tiniest whisper to a bellowing crescendo. 

The large square ground, bordered with a low wall, opened on all sides through tiny gates. 

Sudhanshu left Anindo to hear the passion; to him it felt more like a stage-show, a good one-act soliloquy akin to Marc Antony’s arousing speech in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar; it would be a folly to fall for words, he prided himself to be educated enough to rise above this diatribe. Looking around, he saw his object of desire; she stood some rows behind him, her uncle standing by her side. He knew he this was a chance to be close to her. The society would otherwise not permit him to speak with her openly, even though they lived across the road. Somewhere down the line, Victorian prudery had percolated into Indian society, a thought that irritated him because India was several decades behind in aping that model. The British themselves had moved ahead pretty much in societal aspiration. 

Shoving and jostling, he made through the crowd, occasionally getting a disgruntled look and an angry stare. He neared Mamta. 

She looked ahead, without paying attention to him, listening with amazement. There was an obvious interest for the proceedings on her visage. He did not like it. 

“…and for this, we shall revolt against them. This is the time to unite, and not fight amongst ourselves. We cannot afford to have another Hindu-Muslim riot, because this is what the British are aiming at – to divide us and continue their appalling rule! Be it Hindu or be it Muslim, everyone is a slave today; and we have to unite. Friends, countrymen, this is the time to show that this city is not behind in its patriotism, that this city which once housed the grand Indraprastha Kingdom can wage another Mahabharat against the evil Kauravs, even if they come in white-skins this time. And the plan is that on 20^th November there shall be a grand uprising…”

Sudhanshu stopped awhile in his tracks. He sensed something wrong. This was not an ordinary meeting. There was a plan being discussed and told. He looked beyond the crowd towards the periphery. This was the official British Parade Ground; unofficially, it was used by the Congressmen to host their gatherings; of course, in the humdrum of daily life, the British had accepted such meetings. They were usually harmless, and the army would stand on the periphery watching the impotent speeches with boredom. But today, when he looked at them, there was a marked change. His blood froze. 

The army in their flashing red uniforms was taking charge. They were ready to fire, awaiting orders. Was this going to be another Jallianwala Bagh? 

With a quickened pace, he moved side-wards, but then a solitary command cut through the echo of Mishraji’s voice – “Fire” 

The guns rattled and loud shrieks broke out as the first line felt the bullets tear into their backs. Sudhanshu was some four rows away. Immediately, Mishraji’s voice stopped. There was a rush, a commotion, a wild frenzied movement. The red uniforms were moving ahead. A few men were battling with them with bare arms, but soon fell as the devil’s instruments tore into their bodies. He started to run, pushed by the inertia of people around him. He could smell the sweat, and the body odor; people shoved into him, and he onto the next bunch ahead of him. A little distance ahead, he saw Mamta’s scared expression. At the stage, a few enterprising workers had covered Mishraji, and were taking him out from the north gate – the leader must survive at all costs. His mind was numb, his heart beat furiously, his mouth was dry, his hand quivered and he felt weak. He was still some yards away from the gate, where he could see people getting stuck in the narrow opening; a few climbed the low wall, but he realized it was riskier as it exposed to the British gun openly; and when one such body fell from atop the wall over rushing crowd below, he heard more screams, and the pace slackened. He did not know when some bullet might just rush through him, but he had to save himself, somehow. He inched near the gate, nudging one on the left, hitting a woman on the right, who looked at him and cursed; all sense of fellow countrymen was lost; saving one’s life took precedence. The woman abused him. But he ignored her, and took one more step ahead towards his safety. The gate was just there, and behind him he knew people were dying. It was a strong push by another survivor that nearly made him reach the constricted opening in the wall. Suddenly, he felt a weight on him, and he fell. With horror he screamed. It was a dead body. He pushed it aside. His eyes widened as he saw the lifeless face rolling off him, and hitting the ground with a thud, which he never heard, but still felt in his heart. The dead eyes stared back at him, but for just a sliver of a second, before they were trampled by another rushing person. He was nearly pushed into the cavernous opening, and as his arms slid against the rough cement, he felt a warm body next to him pushing past the hole simultaneously. He was about to hit back, and heave the intruder away, but his eyes caught the face – Mamta, her eyes burning, her mouth shuddering. At this close level, he was besotted by her beauty. Instinctively, he wrapped his arm around her, and pushed her along outside, onto the slim street that had shops on the opposite end. 

The girl, terrified, pulled herself along with him. But once outside, she released herself with a sharp thrust. In disentangling, both stumbled backwards, and her dupatta came loose in his hands. In those brief seconds, they looked at each other, their eyes meeting for the first time. For him, it seemed time had stood still, he looked with amazement at her jaw dropped, her eyes wide in fear and also in recognition. Behind and around them, people rushed towards safety. 

Above, the dark clouds had traversed their distance, and it started to drizzle.

Instinctively, her hands reached out for her dupatta. 

“Mamta, come this way,” he beckoned, towards the crevice in between two shops. “The army will be around at both ends, I am sure.” He stepped forward and draped the cloth over her. 

A loud thunderclap sliced the silence between them. They walked into the narrow alleyway, their steps hurried – he led the way, and she followed silently. When he ran, his thoughts pulled backwards, thinking about Anindo, hoping that he was safe. But there was no way to return; the screams were receding as they went away from it, but they could still be heard, soaked in terror, and falling rain. 

He would not recall for how long they weaved their way through the city’s older part- alley network - tall and cold stone buildings loomed above them devilishly on both ends. It must have taken them long, for the rain that started as a drizzle picked up speed; the day was ending, and darkness had advanced several minutes. He felt his un-exercised calf muscles ache, as his suede shoes sloshed through the collecting water on the rough street surface.  

Soon, that was behind them, and they were on periphery of the area; ahead, there were some unkempt and unfinished buildings – either not completed or ravaged during some riot, he couldn’t be sure.

“We should stay here somewhere” said Mamta, gasping for breath. “The rain is strong”

He nodded. He stepped into an archway that led to a small square compound, which had a few empty houses encircling it. The relief from the assaulting rains was instantaneous. The floor was damp, with mud and loose hay. It looked like some feeding point for cattle. Through the rains and darkness, he peered into the compound; it was shielded from the sides by a few tall structures, broken and abandoned. Yet, he saw the flicker of light, from one window, on the farther side.

“There is someone living there,” he said. Taking refuge beneath the awnings, they walked towards it. She looked with horror into the empty, dirty rooms that had broken panes, and rusted grills. There was a dull damp stench. A mouse ran over her feet; she jumped in fright, and clung onto his shoulder, her hand grabbing his drenched coat. Without realizing, and without turning, his hand grasped hers, over his own shoulder. She let out a small shiver of protest. He stopped, and turned his neck, their eyes touching each other for the second time that evening. 

“It was a rat” she said, freeing her hand consciously. 

He nodded, and moved forward. Reaching the rickety wooden door, its blue paint chipped off, he knocked it sharply. 

“Kaun hai bhai iss waqt,” a dull voice came from the other end, followed by an incessant cough that refused to subside for several minutes. There was a shuffle, and with a creak the door opened. An aged man, in a coarse checkered grey shawl-cum-blanket, stood there, his lantern raised to his face level enabling him to peer at his visitors.

“Baba, madad chahiye”

“Toofan mein phans gaye ho…” said the old man, and nodded deliriously. 

Ten minutes later, the old man had them comfortably seated before a crackling fire in an adjacent empty room. They sat opposite each other. He had taken off his brown coat, and kept it for drying over an empty wooden crate. Disgustingly, he cleaned the mud off the lower portion of his trousers.

She sat on another empty overturned crate and had loosened her damp hair; she bent forward, her tresses on one side, in an endeavor to dry them. They fell over her fair cheeks on one side, like the clouds framing the sun; the fire added to the luminosity of her face. Catching her glimpse, he stopped his action, and straightened up.

He gazed at her relentlessly, his arms outstretched to take in the comforting heat; she averted his eyes, and was lost in her thoughts. 

“Mamta, what are you thinking?” he asked, and immediately bit his tongue; it was the most lame way to begin a conversation. 

“Nothing – just wondering if Mamaji is safe or not, and…”

“And?” 

“…nothing…” she brushed his query aside. Her eyes were lowered, and he saw a unique tragedy in them. 

Outside, the rain fell in a constant downpour with a dull drone. He looked at her wrists. Her bangles had broken, and two broken pieces entangled with the intact ones. 

“It’s strange that we are neighbors and have not got a chance to talk ever” he said, not wanting to let the dialogue die. “Isn’t it?” 

“Yes it is. You were abroad for a long time,” she replied, without raising her eyes. 

“True. I guess I missed quite a lot here in India”

She gave a disdainful laugh. “Yes, you were in the land of the masters,” she mocked. 

“It wasn’t intentional. They do have good education there”

“It depends on what you perceive as good or bad.”

“True” he repeated himself, a little less sure. “But today’s incident seems to be such a waste of lives”

“Again, it depends on what you perceive as waste or sacrifice.”

He pursed his lips. She was quite ‘into’ all that the Congress extolled, he thought. “So you believe this will get us independence?” he asked, flatly. 

“It is a dream that I wish to realize before I die”

“So do I – but my means to reach that is somewhat different, and does not seem so conventional.”

She did not answer. She did not move, except for her slender hands rubbing themselves. He was suddenly overcome with a strong emotion. “Mamta, you are beautiful and I love you,” he blurted out. 

She raised her eyes sharply, her breath caught. This time their eyes did not only meet but struggled in a strange tug-of-war. She did not blink, and he held steadfast as well. The tension between them was heated, and the smoke that rose from the fire could not douse the sparks flying from their eyes’ friction. 

“I did not mean anything wrong…” he started.

“Bas, Sudhanshu Babu” she broke in, her tone sharp. “You helped me, and I am indebted to you for that. But, please don’t misuse that gratitude. For me, personally it is a sin to listen to such talks”

“But what have I said that is so wrong to get this wild a reaction?” he enquired, his voice raising – a mixture of curiosity and anger. 

“Nothing. But it does not befit a wealthy and well-groomed scion to wear his heart out to a woman he has rescued. It stinks of lust” Jerking her head back, she got up, and went to the window, and stood there, wrapping her arms around her; she bit her lower lip, and controlled the tears that were ready to fall. 

Sudhanshu sighed, and got up to go near her. 

“Please, don’t come near me,” she said, without turning her head. 

Frustrated, he shook her head, looked at the falling rain outside, and ran his hand through his hair. Why was she reacting so fiercely?  

After a brief while, she spoke, her voice heavy as if a huge lump stuck in her throat – “I belong by virtue of my soul and body to another man – and he was there in the meeting today.” Then, almost in a whisper, “I don’t even know if he is alive or not.” Turning on her heels and facing him, she raised her hands, and cried, “Shaayad in tooti choodiyon ne mera shaadi se pahle vidhwa hona likh diya hai …”

Blood drained out of his face, his jaw dropped in shock. A loud thunderclap roared, accompanied by quick lightening flashes, but he did not hear them, nor did he see the flashing light. He stood transfixed on his spot, unable to move, listless, his legs shaking beneath his weight. 

The rain came down in a fresh furious bout! 

To Be Continued

where the heaven meets the earth
EDITED AND PLOT IDEA BYPRIYANGINI MEHTA
WRITTEN BY DEEPAK JESWAL

This story is a work of fiction; all characters (except historically known ones), situations, places and scenarios depicted are imaginary. Resemblance to any living or dead individuals is purely coincidental
 

Dedicated To
The Indian Film Industry
which has given me innumerable dreams and pleasurable moments
 

Episode One

The train chugged into the wet station, and halted with its weighty inertia. 

Satyawan looked at the packed compartment, and the weary eyes of his co-passengers - bundled together in the small cabin, holding their belongings feverishly, their lips mumbling unanswered prayers and their hearts clinging to unfulfilled hopes. There were old and young alike, but it seemed as if age had no meaning; everyone was swept with one dark brush of brutality which wiped off any traces of life or happiness. 

His eyes stopped at the girl on opposite seat, looking out at the track blankly; her soiled faint pink salvar-kameez hanging loosely on her frail frame, the dupatta lying carelessly on her small shoulders, exposing her bosoms as if they had lost shame and dared the world to ravage their modesty one more time. Her face, stained and dirty, was soft, and he could see the inherent beauty behind its sharp sorrow. The kaajal that once lined the large doe-like eyes left a smudgy trail of spent tears. She did not stir when the train jolted to a halt – if her parched lips had not quivered, he would have thought she had given up her life. 

He knew her; he had seen Saroj come as the effervescent bride of his neighbor. The bright red bangleson her wrists had once shone brighter than the twinkle in her eyes. Today, the ruins of those red bangles lay broken on her wrists, merging with her blood, clotted and darker in shade than her smoked eyes – a wreck of her emotions, her life and her dead husband. 

He peered out of the grills, at the forlorn platform – unkempt and dirty, and slush with accumulated rain waters, with lazy droplets dripping from the overhead tin cover. He could not feel any difference from the mere look – but this was now India. The home he knew for past many years was a nation called Pakistan – the land of the pure – a land where he had witnessed Saroj’s rape, where he had pulled his own servant away from the wriggling and screaming girl; the servant’s face shook in anger, his wild efficient hands holding and jostling the girl’s delicate arms, his penis jabbing into the bloodied pubis; Satyawan had pulled him away, and the servant fell with a thud on the ground, his erect penis standing mocking the air – a black mass of skin smothered with blood. It was a horrifying sight, and he would have puked, but the girl, half naked and trembling clung to his legs, hysterical, crying, throbbing and shaking.

Satyawan shook his head, to wipe off memories of that morning, and the residual ones from his past. He saw the tired passengers getting up, wiping their dirty clothes, and picking the meager belongings. There was no rush, no hurry and no hope – the journey’s end did not mean anything to anyone; it was in fact a beginning of more woes. People bundled out of the compartments, their feet drenching in muddy puddles. 

As the passengers filed out, he got up from his seat, and adjusted his checked tweed coat; his grey trousers, made from a fine fabric, were dirty and felt moist with his perspiration. He got up from his seat.

“Come, let’s go” he said. 

Her eyes turned away from the window towards him, uncomprehendingly. He bent down, adjusted her dupatta, and made her stand up. She clung to him as she rose on her feet, her legs trembling. He averted seeing the dirty red smudge in front of her dress. She winced as the pain between her legs shot a sharp spasm towards her nerve-centers. 

Stepping out, they stood awhile; he was not sure of his next move. Beyond the crowd, he could see a government sign board, handwritten in Urdu and Punjabi, requesting Lahore Refugees to gather in front of the station gate. In a matter of three days, he had transformed from an aspiring law graduate to a homeless refugee. 

Holding the tremulous Saroj, he walked towards the exit, gently making his way through other passengers. The station exited to a small road, the opposite end of which was walled; towards the right and left, it extended towards the city. 

Outside, it was late afternoon; a rickety bus waited with a ‘Relief Camp’ banner, and people were piling into it. Saroj stumbled. He held her tightly, and steadied her against a large stone pillar, which supported the station building. He took a deep breath, and looked around. He needed to get water for her. His eyes scanned over tonga-wallahs, rickshaws and the brown and steel-grey bus standing. A black car stood besides the bus.

He saw a figure in black standing near a tonga. He reeled as he recognized the face. Their eyes met. 

The lady, wearing a black dress, her head covered in black scarf, stood with her hands clasped in front. She was over fifty, her face held mild wrinkles, and a few strands of grey hair loosened out from the tight grasp of the scarf. She had sharp features, her aquiline nose standing out prominently; her face held grace, almost defiance at whatever fate meted out to her. 

“Ms. Roza” he whispered to himself. 

She walked towards him in long business like steps. He wanted to run away, but was caught between a jostling elderly couple on one end, and Saroj clinging to him near the pillar. 

“Satyawan, please stop” Ms. Roza called out in an anxious voice. He looked at her with hatred, his mind numb – voices echoed in his mind – voices screaming through time and distance, tearing away his intelligence and ripping away his reason – You are a murderer, I hate you and don’t want anything from you.

But you have to hear me out, this once at least.

No, no never – not this once, not ever! 

The din was not within him. Immediately, he looked around. There was a sudden rush and loud screams, and then he saw them – turbaned, and strong, and wielding long swords, hurrying from the corner of the road. Like predators from the jungles, they were following two men, who were running, scared and screaming desperately for help. Death was in their eyes, yet they wanted to escape its clutches. The crowd around him went berserk; people pushed, and shoved, and burst into shouts. Some rushed back into the station; a few tried to climb the wall at the opposite end, and a few clambered onto the waiting buses.  The bus drivers started their engines and backed to move away. 

Ms. Roza ordered loudly, “Come with me” and pulled them towards the black car. 

It was a short distance; when survival takes over, humanity cringes into a deep recess; without realizing, Satyawan pushed an old lady aside, she stumbled and fell, her bundle of clothes unwrapped in front of her. Seeing the frail lady’s plight, for a second Satyawan stopped, and in that brief second the image of his mother fallen on the bed, with his father towering over her after he had slapped her, came back rushing to him; he could not dwell on it longer because he was pushed on by Ms. Roza, “Get into the car fast” she screamed hoarsely. He grabbed Saroj’s wrists and pulled her over the fallen woman into the leather-interiors of the vehicle. 

Quickly, Ms. Roza was in the driver’s seat and started ignition.  The car followed the bus towards the other end of the road, away from the murderers. In the commotion, Satyawan looked at the end of the road, and with horror saw that the two men had fallen. As the car turned corner, the last thing that he saw were the swords piercing through the hearts of the fallen men – a deadening scream rent the air. 

Beside him, Saroj fainted. 

                                            *****************************************************

The car wound its way through green fields, trembling and shaking over the patchy road. The feeble sun was on its descending journey, and the sky extended ahead in blood-red hues, smattered with dark, ominous clouds. The fields extended on both ends, endlessly. There was an eerie quietness broken only by the car’s loud engine. 

Satyawan and Saroj sat on the back seat. She had recovered, but was convulsively shaking. He felt her icy body against his. Ahead, in the driver’s seat, Ms. Roza drove, her hands holding the steering wheel steadfast, as was her gaze, which did not leave the road for a second. Her lips were pursed tightly, and she sat with her back erect, peering out of the partitioned windshield. 

“How did you know I was coming today?” he asked; his voice raspy; he felt his throat dry and the effort of speaking pained. 

“I didn’t. I come here everyday to check”

He was jolted at the reply. Why? But then another thought took over, “Where are we going?” 

“Delhi”

His blood froze. Anger welled up within him. And so did memories. Ten years back, he had left that city – as an adolescent, witness to what he felt was the biggest crime. He remembered with an ache the time he had watched his father light his mother’s pyre – the lifeless body lying on a cruel and hard bed of wood stack. His mind revolted when he saw the fire engulf the skin that he had hugged and touched. The Yamuna had flown quietly by, but the flow of his tears held torrents stronger than the one in the river. 

Since then, till two days back, he had made Lahore his home – doing odd jobs, living off grants and attaining his law degree – with just one desire burning within his self: to be a bigger lawyer than Sudhanshu Aggarwal, the famed solicitor of Delhi – his father! 

His jaws clenched, he viewed the passing grasslands with disdain; unruly blades tried to curtail the car’s rolling advancements, only to be trampled ruthlessly beneath the large rubber orbs. 

“Stop the car,” he said. 

“We are not stopping anywhere. Before morning, we shall be in Delhi. It is safe there.”

“I don’t care” he said harshly. “I am not going anywhere near that city or with you”

Ms. Roza did not reply, and neither did she stop the car. Saroj looked up at him scared; his eyes were bloodshot, and even in the impending darkness she could see his nostrils flared, and his breath sharp. 

“I am not meeting papa” he exclaimed rebelliously, sitting upright in his seat, ready to pounce on the woman if the need arose.

“You don’t have to meet him” she replied, calmly. “You don’t have to meet him ever now.”

“What do you mean?” 

“He is no more” she said, nearly in a whisper, barely audible above the engine’s hum. He did not notice, but as she spoke her clench tightened till her knuckles were white. The face that seemed to challenge destiny, was actually holding eyes wetter than deepest reservoirs. 

He fell back in his seat, like a deflated balloon; suddenly, he felt emptiness. His sole source of hatred was no more. There was a vacuum within. 

Saroj held his arm, reassuringly, but did not say anything. 

Yet, he did not want to forgive his father – not for what he had done to his mother, not for the trouble he had to undergo because of that one act, not for his spoilt years of youth, not for bringing into their lives Ms. Roza – the mistress who wrecked their household. 

“He missed you a lot,” she said. “He has left everything in your name”

“I don’t want anything. Why did you come into our lives?” he asked, his voice drenched in pain. 

Ms. Roza replied said softly, “Why did you come into my life? I suppose its destiny.”

“But why my destiny?”

“Satyawan – what I will tell you today is something probably that your father should have done. But then you were not ready to listen. Perhaps, that was not a time even; you were young, and wouldn’t understand. Now you are an adult, and can differentiate between good and bad, truth and lies. I have only my word for it; but trust me I have nothing to gain from lying. Your father is dead, and all that he had his yours. But beyond the material things that he left in his will, there was something more that he left for you – and on hearing about the riots in Lahore, I have been coming to Amritsar station daily in the hope you will return one day as well. Because, I have to tell you the truth”

The car tore into the late noon of 14^th August 1947, raising a dusty haze behind it: haze in the atmosphere, haze in the minds of people and haze within Satyawan.

To Be Continued