A Love Story!

“I love thee, I love but thee

With a love that shall not die

Till the sun grows cold,

And the stars grow old...”
-Bayard Taylor

“She is beautiful!”, he might have thought it hundredth time. He has been staring at her photograph for last one hour. He smiles and turns to the next page. It is Sunita again- she is holding couple of books in this picture and coming towards the camera. It is a very special  snap. It is the first photograph of her, the very first that he clicked. Sunita was completely unaware of the fact that he was about to click and as soon as she realized, she held books high to cover her face. Abhay couldn't capture her face completely, but he was able to catch her beautiful pair of eyes. The photograph is pretty old, yet the memories are fresh. He can feel Sunita's presence around and hear her foot-steps.  Unknowingly he holds the album like a camera and poses to take a photograph of the window in front of him, waiting for Sunita to appear any moment. He holds his breath and can't afford blinking. He waits and waits, but finally the cruel reality hits back. Tears roll down over his cheeks, and he resumes visiting old memories with a deep sigh. This time his heart is filled with grief, sorrow and unbearable pain.

The next photograph shows his hostel room- full of books. Although there are many memories attached to this photograph also, he rushes to the next one. Sunita is posing with him in this snap. It is probably their first snap together, the happiness and love  are written all over of it. With a couple of snaps,, his past resurfaces again, with more intensity this time.

Abhay was an orphan before coming to the college, there he found all the relations that he lacked. He found Sunita. She was his best friend and soul-mate. His childhood was not that remarkable, he studied hard and won a scholarship to cover his tuition fees. He started doing a part-time job at college-canteen, there he met Sunita the first time. The eyes met and then the hearts. Soon they were in love. Sunita was from a middle-class family, a shy, introvert and mature girl. So was he- shy, introvert and mature, but the combination was simply awesome.

Sunita gifted him a camera,  an old-fashioned black analog camera, on some occasion and Abhay started capturing every special moment then onwards. Every moment with Sunita was very special to him and the most of the photographs pictured Sunita. The college picnic, award giving function, Sunita & Abhay participating in a quiz, he captured all shades of Sunita's mood. Be it her shyness of posing for camera, or a mere smile to greet him, he wanted to seize every single emotion, and he was mostly successful.

He dives deeper and recalls a particular incident, when Sunita came late.

She hardly came on time to meet him, but Abhay never complained. She would come-up with new reason each time though.
“I can wait for you forever! ” Abhay replied after clicking her.
“Why do you waste your camera-roll on me every time?” Sunita asked grabbing a chair next to him. She knew the answer, but this was her favorite question to ask.
“Because you are wasting your life with me.” Abhay replied.
“Shut-up!” said Sunita and offered him her lunch-box.

The memory of this incident stays with him for few more minutes. Then he turns to the next snap. Sunita is not clearly visible in this one, she seems to be waving hands from a bus window. Abhay, being an amateur photographer, couldn't take the snap well. Abhay stares at the photograph for long time, more tears rolled down over his cheeks and he closes the album. It is the last photograph of his album.

They were going for a college-picnic that day. Abhay joined her in the bus after taking the photograph. Everyone was enjoying Antakshari during their journey. Suddenly all of them felt a jerk and the bus lost its balance. Something struck Abhay's head. He held Sunita's hand tightly and covered her head with his body. The bus fell straight into the river and soon water started suffocating every on. Some were already dead by the shock, few were bleeding and many were shouting, crying for help. Some tried and succeeded coming out of the drowning bus. Sunita's body was not moving at all, she was unconscious. 
“Sunita! Sunita!..”, Abhay screamed in deep pain and fear, but she didn't respond. He couldn't afford losing her, but his efforts were dying and Sunita had already died, he was bleeding profusely. He too lost his senses soon.

The camera was safe in a small bag around his waist and the last photograph was the last memory of Sunita.

He never complains being an orphan. But can he bear the pain of losing his soul-mate? He feels helpless. He frequently revisits old memories by cherishing the moments spent with Sunita. His love is alive in his memories. As it is generally said, love is immortal, and every time he thinks of her, he feels her presence.

******

She checks mail-box, before opening the door. Generally, there is no post. She slowly walks across the small lawn that she has been gardening for years. Arriving at the main door, she looks for the keys in her purse. Before opening the door, she pauses for few minutes. This wait is the most difficult part of her daily routine.  With all her courage, she presses the door bell, and waits patiently. She expects no one to open the door for her, still she waits. When  the door bell receives no response, an strange emotion grips her heart. It's the same routine everyday, and the same strange emotion. She is still not sure, whether it's fear or pain or relief or a rare mixture of all of these emotions.

She unlocks the door enters into the living room. Keeping her purse and umbrella on a small table, she heads towards the inner room. She generally finds Abhay sitting there. He usually sits near the window. The road is clearly visible from there and he can watch vehicles and moving people outside. He never turns back to acknowledge her presence, neither she expects. She stares at him for a while and goes back to her room.

It is a decent size house, with a spacious kitchen and three small rooms. There is a garden in the front yard, and the back yard is merely an open space. The mango tree in the backyard hosts nests for many types of birds. Unlike Abhay, these birds always welcome her, and make all sorts of sounds to acknowledge her presence. Maybe they do it all the time, with or without her presence.

While the backyard is generally noisy, it's completely different inside the house. Silence is the only noise there. Only the big old wall clock  shows sign of life and registers its loud breaths time to time. The ticking of the clock, sometimes finds a cheerful company of the sound of water from tap, or the clinching noise of the backyard door.

She is only in her late thirties, yet she has started feeling old. However, every look of Abhay makes her feel young again. Abhay's presence rejuvenates her spirits. But she feels his pain also immediately.

“Why can't he live a normal life?”, she asks this question to herself on regular intervals. The bus accident gave him a deep shock. He lost connection with reality after the accident. Although he is around forty years old, yet he can only feel himself as a twenty-two year old guy.

“There is no cure for this, you have to wait and watch.”, she remembers clearly what the first doctor said. She has changed doctors, but can't change the prescription, i.e. “Wait & watch”

“He will lead a normal life, this is another form of Comma!”, one doctor explained her once.

“He was connected to something very closely when that accident happened. The sooner he is out of it, he would start having a perfectly normal life”, added another doctor.

“When I was kid, I was passionate about my little cycle, when I grew up, I forgot that. It will happen to him too. Sooner or later he will forget the thing he is so passionate about. Then he will start living his normal life, but you have to wait & watch!”

She knows that it's his infinite love for Sunita, that makes him so sick. His love for her. Fortunately or unfortunately Sunita survived the tragedy. Now she is living with him, waiting for his normal life. “Poor Abhay is moaning for the same person he lives with!” she regrets.

He never talks, he never asks for anything. He lives by himself. He is fit physically and doesn't need constant care. His body works fine, his mind works fine but he has lost the track of time. His senses work perfectly for him, but his mind doesn't interpret all scenes in the correct time-frame.

"What does he actually think when he sees me?", Sunita wonders every time their eyes meet. "Maybe he never realizes that someone exists next to him. Being orphan for so many years, should have made his behavior so isolated."

Around twenty years have passed after the accident, she is still waiting. Each day brings her a new hope and a strange fear. The Hope of Abhay's normal life and the fear of losing his passion for her. As the doctors say, he will only realize time when he loses interest in his current passion. Sunita is aware that the very day Abhay starts behaving normally, he will have no more passion left for her. That's why she always feels strangely when she presses the door-bell. The day he opens the door, she will probably lose him for forever.

Her decision was never welcomed by her family and society, so she took him to a small city. Now, she is working as a lecturer in a local college. She still goes to the every new doctor she hears of, she still has hope that one day Abhay will become normal and will have some feelings left for her as well. It was Abhay who was ready to wait for her forever, but it is Sunita who is actually waiting for him. She has been waiting for last twenty years. Sometimes she reflects that her decision is wrong, she should have left him in his old orphanage, but every sight of sick Abhay gives her immense support to go on. His very presence has been keeping her strong for last two decades. The support  is so strong that she can hope for a future that she can't imagine. Isn't it love?

“Love is the triumph of imagination over intelligence.”
-Henry Louis Mencken

Gandhi - 'da UltiMate Coder'

Gandhi - da UltiMate Coder

A man is born free, but his freedom is short-lived. A man without a name is a free creature in true sense, with no bias attached to him. He is stripped off of his freedom at a certain day after his birth - when he gets a name and enters into the cruel world of discrimination. His name, henceforth, will indicate his religion, his ethnicity, his nationality, his culture and the prejudices attached to them. Different days of a week will treat him differently, according to his name. If the name is John, Sunday are for Worshiping, and if it's Abdul, Fridays are sacred. Seafood will be his favorite, if the name is Sudipto or he will be a complete vegetarian if the name ends with Sharma. These names even provide general information about physical appearance. How often you come across a Yoshi, who is six feet tall, or a Sunil who is white? It won't be difficult to guess that a Turner likes baseball but a Surendra is a die hard fan of cricket. These prejudices come free with the name and stay attached to the person forever.

He was also born free, but got his set of bias on the sixth day. Unfortunately, he got a worse lot, as he was named, Gandhi Gupta. It was a weird name at the very first place. Technically speaking, not even a name in true sense, but a combination of two common surnames. Being Gupta was not a problem, but the problem was with his first name, Gandhi. The day he got admission in school, the registrar cross-checked his name twice.

His school days were not easy. His name attracted everyone's attention. No matter how average he performed, his teachers always knew him. His name was even discussed at length in his absence. But that was not a problem, the problem was to face all mundane questions followed by his introduction. 'What? can you repeat your name?', 'Who gave you this name?', 'Isn't Gandhi your surname?', were usually the first reactions. He learned to answer them patiently. Unfortunately, it was not the end of his troubles either. His classmates wished him on October 2nd, and mimicked a gun-firing on January 30th. He was rumored to be bald, just like the Gandhi printed on indian currency. He was asked to carry a stick. 'Slap on one cheek and he will offer you the other', was another common joke that he had to listen several times a day. On many occasions, he was asked to wear only Dhoti and not the western outfit. He often returned home with a dull face. His mother used to assure him, 'With time, everything will be fine.'

He survived the trauma of the primary schooling, and with time, got used to it. The second phase of torment began soon afterwards, and surprisingly at his own home. He was always asked to live up to his name. His lies were not tolerated, he was supposed to control his anger and behave like the real Gandhi, the father of nation. A person that was loved by the entire nation, but hated by Gandhi Gupta. All the time, he wished for another name.

He joined an engineering college and aspired to become a software engineer. The college, unlike his school, was a better place. The ragging was a mere repetition of his early school days, but he was well-prepared. Soon the ragging days were over, and he got new friends and a new name. He created his facebook profile in the name of 'da UltiMate Coder', to show his inclination towards software and obviously to get rid of the Gandhi attached to him. Apart from the occasional teasing from his old friends, he had successfully freed himself from the Gandhi, ironically this freedom was also achieved without any violence.

His inclination towards software stayed with him for long time. He mastered the art of programming and grasped the intricate concepts of Computer Science. His friends sought his help for all kinds of programming assignments. He was really good at living up to his name. Fortunately, this time he was not forced to do so.

It was no surprise that he grabbed the best job the very first day of the campus placement. The interview panel was impressed with his programming skills and in depth knowledge of his field

When everyone around him secured a job, the college became an entirely different place, at least for Gandhi aka 'da UltiMate Coder'. He had been spending most of his time in computer labs for the last couple of years. After a job in hand, and a cheerful environment around, he was relaxed just like his friends.

One day his friends arranged a party, and he was offered a cigarette.

'Cigarette! But I don't smoke', Gandhi exclaimed.

'Abbe! Kar le... why gandhi-giri all of a sudden?', one of his friend insisted.

'Even Gandhi-ji had his share of fun in South Africa...', the other one winked.

And there was Gandhi, smoking his first cigarette. It was tough, apart from the nausea from inhaling large intake of smoke, there was something else that was troubling him. He realized that the Gandhi in his name had never actually left him. It was a scary thought, all pranks and jokes regarding Gandhi, that he had faced earlier came alive. It was a spine-chilling thought. His conscience was forcing him to follow the same person he had hated all his life. His freedom was at the stake. He had to overcome his feelings. His determination gave him extra strength, and in-spite of initial coughing, he finished his first cigarette. What a fun that was! It was followed by another round of smoking and multiple rounds of drinking alcohol.

The night lasted for long time, and the next day was even longer. He had severe head-up. Although he was well aware of all sorts of potential malfunctioning in a computer, he was new to hang-over. He was also feeling guilty about the last night, and in his pain, he started reading about his namesake. So far, his only association with the father of the nation was to share the name, carry currency with half-naked but smiling Gandhi on it and be butt of the every joke originally targeted at the real Gandhi. His hatred made him skip the history pages where the cursed name was mentioned. He seldom participated in events at August 15th and January 26th. He often bunked the school on October 2nd. Unlike the real Gandhi, he never had the courage to face his enemy.

He was relieved to find out that his friends were right about Gandhi's younger days. 'da UltiMate Coder' felt much better after reading about incidents of Gandhi's smoking. The guilt vanished and a  treaty became effective. 'The real Gandhi was not a born saint. He had his share of fun, so could I',  he concluded.

The ceasefire lasted for couple of years. There was no room for cruel name-jokes in a professional life. He was known to his colleague only for his skills and not for his weird name. His moral also permitted him occasional boozing, as he once settled in the college. His mother was right about time. With time, he had learned to coexist with his worst enemy – his name. Ironically, it was the time, that gave him another set of worries.

He had a lucrative job, and a settled life. He was working with one of the software giants, his dream company. Everything was well organized. There was nothing much to challenge him. The tasks assigned to him were trivial. His days at office were long and boring. Despite of his regular activities at social networking sites, he had ample time to do nothing. He spent most of the spare time reading about  his namesake. His hidden curiosity to know more about the bias attached to his name was motivating him. He had started questioning his existence. He had done nothing significant in his life so far. He hadn't even used his voting right once. Never did he witness flag hoisting on national holidays. He was also aware of the fact that his treaty would expire any time in the future. Like young M.K. Gandhi, he had been having normal life so far, but for how long. The burden of greatness was waiting for him to accept responsibility.

He had several rounds of arguments with himself. 'Not all persons named Sachin, hit centuries. Neither do all Bhagat Singhs die for the country', his basic arguments never held enough water. Somewhere deep inside, he wanted to do something special. Maybe it was his old habit of living up to the name, he was craving for fame and meaning in his life. He once dreamt of having initiated a youth movement, against the government. It was a wonderful feeling, but it didn't last long. Soon, he felt over burdened and stopped thinking about it.

'Greatness doesn't come with a name. It's a pure need-based phenomena. There is a hero, because there is a devil and not because the hero is named a hero.', he once argued. 'We live in a free world, there is no foreign government to oppose to, no rules against Indians. We don't need a new Gandhi today', he concluded. His reasoning was valid for couple of days until he reflected over the news section. Blood shed over the demand of a new state, regular terrorist attacks, another hike in fuel prices, irregularities in public construction work, 'Man! A hero is never out of demand.', He couldn't deny existence of the true need.

No matter what was the need of the nation, he badly needed better reasoning against his conscience. His name, was trying to force him the heroism that he was not ready to accept. He needed an escape route. Another keen reading of M.K. Gandhi's life, and he came up with a new theory, a better one this time.

His namesake was born in a slave country. M. K. Gandhi witnessed the injustice for long time. Only when he was kicked out of a railway compartment, he got the vision for his life. It was all hazy in the beginning, but gradually shaped in the form of true Gandhism. 'Thus, greatness is a time-dependent phenomena. The vision gets better with time and one refines the theories after testing them over time...'

'That's it... I should wait for the real kick, the moment meant for my glory...Till then I am fine...' It was a soothing thought. He was relived again. He got convinced that his moment would come one day. 'I should probably go to Australia, and face cruel racism... I will resist, without violence, and set another example of Gandhism'. What a day dreamer Gandhi Gupta was!

The harmony lasted for sometime, and his latest reasonings were strongly defending the fort, until the day he heard about a rally against the nuclear liability bill. The Bhopal gas tragedy had been revived by  Media, there was social outcry against injustice. Some clauses in the newly proposed liability bill would provide more shielding to industry owners. A group of socially aware citizens organized a rally and called for participation. As soon as Gandhi read about the rally, he knew his moment had arrived. He would join the rally, and later the group. With the group, he would organize more rallies across the nation. He would be the front-runner of the protest - fighting on behalf of common men, fasting for a social cause, bearing resistance from the violent police. He knew that the government would yield one day, and would make necessary changes in the bill. The plan was simple. His greatness was in his reach.

The rally was supposed to start on Sunday morning around 7 am from a location far from Gandhi's apartment. He calculated that he would need around one hour to reach there and another 20-30 minutes to get ready. He planned to get-up around 5:30 in the morning, and set the alarm. He had the most peaceful sleep that saturday night. He was going to find the meaning of his life the very next day.

The morning came rather unceremoniously. He was half awake when he realized that the alarm was disturbing him. He looked at the time, and suddenly recalled about the rally. 'Maybe next time...', he decided and slept again. He was right, his time hadn't yet arrived.

Freedom

Ameya was preparing for his speech for the independence-day celebration. He had been exempted to attend last two class periods so that he could mug-up the typical my-country-is-great stuff. He had to sit away from his class-mates, in the practice sheds next to the school play ground. For that he had to walk across the school playground in scorching sun. Although the rainy season had hit Mumbai, yet some days were horribly humid. Those were few of those days.

Ameya never liked all this speech business, but it gave him a good excuse to bunk the boring classes. And these practice sessions were not that boring either. There were different groups of students preparing for different functions. One group of students was rehearsing for a short play on Jaliyawala-Bagh, other bunch was reciting Vande-Matram again and again, and there were bunch of kids dancing on different odd tunes, ranging from ‘Yeh Desh hai Veer Jawano Ka’  to ‘It happens only in India’. Music was generally not allowed in school, but on few of those occasions, exceptions were observed, and Ameya, like all other kids, waited for all those exceptions.

As the independence-day was approaching, the practice sessions were becoming intense and rigorous. Ameya was not sure of his speech, but he had memorized dialogues of General Dyer by that time. A group of teachers were invigilating the efforts. One teacher approached Ameya and asked him to deliver his speech without looking into his sheet. Ameya went pale, it was like running in the scorching sun, running across the playground, his throat became sour and sweat flooded across his face. He wasn’t sure about his speech yet. There were many difficult words in that. Yet he started blabbering. He was half way through, and the school bell struck. The school bell came as a rescue signal, as it always appeared to him. He promised the teacher to learn the speech by heart the next day, and fled outside.

The school bell had rescued almost every other kid from one trouble or another. All were wildly happy and rushing outside. The silence of typical mid-day was being ransacked by excited kids; everyone else was just a mute spectator. The watchman, the teachers and the sun, the excitement of kids had shadowed everyone else. And then rung another bell, it was not as loud as the school bell, but it gave another wave of impulse to already excited children. It was the ice-cream vendor.

As it turned out, it was not the normal milk-ice-cream vendor, it was burf-ka-gola waala. Like all other kids, Baraf ka gola was Ameya’s all time favorite. He had a big sweet tooth for the crushed ice with different flavors of sweet as well as colorful sherbet. He always waited for local ice-cream vendor daily after school days. Few kids were already standing on the side-railing of the vendor's cart and staring at the ice-cream crushing zestfully while other kids were vigorously attempting to have a gaze of the whole procedure. The vendor, pleased with his enthusiastic audience, was performing the whole process with full devotion and concentration. He first broke an ice-bar into smaller chunks and started grinding a chunk with his crusher, a small manually operated machine that looked very similar to the one used for crushing sugar-canes. The kids were watching the entire procedure in awestruck admiration keeping an eye on colorful bottles of sherbet. Red one would be every one's favorite; hence there were generally two red bottles, one at each side of the crusher. Green and yellow were other sherbets. After shaping the crushed ice into a sphere on a thin piece of stick, the vendor poured colorful nectar, forming jig-jag shapes. Finally a pinch of spice or coconut powder consummated the process. Every kid would know these steps by heart and love to watch them again and again, reminding the vendor to put some extra red sherbet or coconut powder. Even Ameya would have done it, but that day Ameya just watched him. He was given strict instructions to avoid eating any cold stuff. He was asked to keep his throat perfect for his speech. He counted the remaining days and walked past the vendor.

The day finally arrived. The morning was the most colorful morning one could expect in a school, and Ameya’s school was not an exemption. It was decorated well. The chief guest was about to arrive. Kids, who were going to present exercise, were standing in queues. Every teacher was supervising the assigned tasks. From stage management to seating arrangement, everything was under control. Patriotic songs were being played on loud speaker. Kids, who were not performing in any function, were being seated and hushed again and again by the staff. The kids under the practice sheds were the most nervous. They were repeating their steps/roles. Ameya was still not sure about his speech. His speech was just after flag-hoisting.

The chief guest, a prominent political figure, arrived in time and delivered a fabulous speech after flag hoisting. He narrated the whole concept of nationality with such zeal and enthusiasm that a wave of patriotism went past everyone. Everyone felt proud of being Indian. He re-iterated sacrifices of freedom fighters. He narrated the dreams of our great leaders and envisaged the dreams of progressive nation. Everyone had already listened to these speeches many times in past, but every time the same words instigated a different vigor in them. The whole atmosphere became patriotic and the chief guest concluded his speech with a round of heavy applause.

Ameya’s speech was next. He almost had a panic attack once he reached the stage. He never expected every single student to turn up for the day. To make the matter worse, everyone was staring at him. He started anyways, and after a few blabbering, he gained his pace. He suddenly realized that he could have Burf-Ka-Gola, that day onwards. The thought itself amused him, and gave new life to his words. He recited every single word he learned earlier. The greatness of country, the dreams, the progress, the equality, the bond, the diversity, the unity… everything came out smoothly. The crowd enjoyed it and his burden of the much awaited moment was relieved from him. The overall celebration went fine and chocolates were distributed among children.

Ameya, was waiting for his ice-cream treat. He had waited for burf-ka-gola for last two weeks. That day he truly achieved freedom, like the nation. He felt happy and rushed outside. But there was no ice-cream vendor. Other kids were also waiting for him. All of them waited for their familiar ice-cream vendor for long time, but he never turned up.

Kids got disappointed for next couple of days. The ice-cream vendor had suddenly disappeared, disappointing his restless fan-following. Every single kid missed his presence.

It was later became known that the ice-cream vendor, a Sharma-ji from UP, was beaten up to death by the followers of the same politician who was the chief-guest of the function. According to the party policies, Mumbai belongs to local guys; there is no notation of nation, when it comes to working in Mumbai. Like other petty workers from other states, the ice-cream vendor faced the fury of politically disillusioned mob. He was penalized to work in his own country, unfortunately on the same day the country was celebrating its freedom.

Collage

Chintu loves all kinds of ice-creams like any other ten year old kid does. Baraf ka gola is his all time favorite. He has a big sweet tooth for the crushed ice with different flavors of sweet as well as colorful sherbet. He eagerly waits for local ice-cream vendor daily evening. As soon as the vendor arrives, Chintu rushes to him with his neighbourhood friends. Whoever reaches there first, stands on the side-railing of the vendor's cart and stares at the ice-cream crushing zestfully while other kids vigorously attempt to have a gaze of the whole procedure. The vendor, pleased with his enthusiastic audience, performs the whole process with full devotion and concentration. He first breaks an ice-bar into smaller chunks and starts grinding a chunk with his crusher, a small manually operated machine that looks very similar to the one used for preparing sugar-cane juice. The kids watch the entire procedure in awestruck admiration keeping an eye on colourful bottles of sherbet. Red one is every one's favorite, hence there are generally two red bottles, one at each side of the crusher. Green and yellow are other sherbet. After shaping the crushed ice into a sphere on a thin piece of stick, the vendor pours colourful nectar, forming jig-jag shapes. Finally a pinch of spice or coconut powder consummates the process. Every kid knows these steps by heart and loves to watch them again and again, reminding the vendor to put some extra red sherbet or coconut powder. Even Chintu does it every time, but that particular day was different, since he was not paying any attention to minute details, he was not even looking at the crushing machine, instead he was cautiously scanning the area around him.

It was a normal sunny day and Chintu was standing under an old tree near a busy road, having his baraf ka gola. He was not completely engrossed in his treat as he generally would have been, instead he was closely watching human presence around him. After a while, he calmed down and sat there. It was a peaceful moment after a morning full of exciting adventures.

There was a huge campus building behind him, and when he got bored of watching the road, he turned to the college. It was a private college named after some local businessman. Seth Ram Bihari College of Arts & Science was the only private college of the town but not a crowded place, especially before noon. He had been there twice with his elder cousin Rohan, but he was alone that day. Even the slight memory of Rohan scared him, but he comforted himself reminding Rohan's trip to Agra, hence his presence was impossible there.

The watchman guarding the big iron gate smiled at Chintu when their eyes first met. It was not a good sign, for the watchman could be a relative of their apartment's watchman. Chintu's heart sank but he soon realized that the watchman was smiling at some other guy passing on the road. He felt relieved once again.

The red coloured iron gate was half open to allow pedestrians and two-wheelers. Students in different outfits were going in and out of the gate. He liked the way the watchman was not giving a damn to the visitors, so unlike of the school's watchman who would ask silly questions to every kid. The world beyond the gate looked so different; teachers without sticks in hand, students without heavy bags and in no formal dress. It was very undisciplined yet so cool and exciting. He even liked the red colour of the main gate more than the gray colour of his school's main gate. The huge board above it was looking more effective than his school's glowing sign-board.

'Seth Ram-Bihari Collage of Arts & Science', he read, 'How cool!', he thought, 'wait... is there a spelling mistake?... shouldn't it be College and not Collage?', he reflected. He remembered learning that word recently. He read it again and confirmed his catch.

Compelled to get the mistake fixed, he stopped the first guy passing the tree he was sitting under and asked him to check the board. He was a young boy but looked very sad. He was wearing a ragged jeans and a colourful t-shirt, and smoking a cigarette. His face was unshaven and hair were uncombed, giving impression of a typical college student. His mood wasn't matching to a youth of his age. He appeared dull, lifeless and troubled by an awful pain, as if he had recently lost a family member or had been struggling to secure a job. Whenever the real world takes pleasure to peep into unrestrained college life, it scares students. That young man might have faced a bare reality lately.

'Oh Boy! Even you have been discriminated by the merciless fate', he said comprehending Chintu's finger pointing to blue heavens and not to the sign-board. His pain, surely, was unbearable and above earthly redemption. 'She doesn't want to meet me. She doesn't even pick my calls, never replies to my SMSs, tell me is it fair?... We have been best buddies for years, and now suddenly she behaves so abruptly', the young man spoke completely ignoring the original question. He had his worries to take care of. His pain was not unbearable yet over-hyped. Inspired by contemporary cinema and infatuated by the first interaction with opposite sex, most young guys fantasied themselves as ardent lovers. Their imaginary world collapses by a single strike of reality and they loose all controls. They feel dejected and tend to ignore the real world. They would regret more for unanswered emails or phone-calls than a terrorist attack or any other real life problem. He was definitely another such romantic loser.

Chintu understood nothing and expressed his intentions in plain words. The young man sighed and sort of laughed at himself. It was full of despair. He, then, threw another philosophical reasoning and correlated the mistake with his misery. Another rant against cruel fate and he disappeared. Chintu understood nothing but the fact that his attempt to fix the problem had failed.

He talked to another group of boys. They looked at the board and confirmed the catch. They blamed the newly appointed student president. They must have belonged to the opposition party. They at once started planning an aggressive movement against sheer negligence and irresponsibility displayed by the newly elected president. One of them clicked and saved the image on his cell-phone and they rushed to their party office.

Chintu was not sure of the outcome, so he asked two girls who crossed him after a moment. They must have been freshers as they appeared pale and frightened of ragging. Their outfit confirmed it. Hair greased with excessive coconut-oil and parted in two braids, they were dressed in same coloured salwar-suits. They appreciated Chintu's intelligence but offered no help since they were too scared to talk to anyone in the college.

His hopes were about to die when the watchman called him. He must have been watching Chintu for long time. He must have assumed that the kid was lost and he generously offered his help. Chintu, on the contrary, asked him to look at the board and told him the spelling mistake. The watchman laughed and acknowledged his illiteracy. He, further, added his disgust for his profession and hoped to get a better job only if he could read and speak English. He looked at his wrist-watch and asked Chintu to stay and talk to the college principal whose arrival was expected anytime.

Mention of the principal made Chintu sick and he inquired time.

'It's about to twelve', the watchman replied.

'What....', said Chintu and ran away. The watchman was taken back by Chintu's sudden move but couldn't chase him and ask reasons behind the unexpected withdrawal. 'Naughty kids..', he thought and resumed his duty.

Chintu was running out of breath. He reached the school in time and greatly relieved to catch the school bus. What a daring adventure he had, he thought while securing a seat near a window. He had never bunked his school earlier, but that day he had no other option. He forgot his note-book that morning and couldn't sit in Sharma Sir's class without his homework. Had it been any other subject or any other teacher, he would have boldly accepted his fate. He had to vanish somewhere away from the class for five hours. He first hid behind the school bus and when everyone had entered the school, he quietly slipped into the main road. After walking around two kilometers, he reached the private college's campus. It was a safe place since he expected no one to catch him red-handed there. Rohan was out of town; his apartment's watchman must have been sleeping at that time; his house-maid wasn't crazy enough to visit that part of the universe. Moreover the place was far from the local market, thus he could safely assume no surprise appearance from anyone of his neighbours. His hobby of playing various video-games and watching cartoon-network helped him devise such full-proof plan.

He, however, had an exceptional experience that day. He always wished to be in a college instead of being in a school, but the complete episode was slightly confusing to him. He couldn't discuss that with anyone and forgot the whole incident in a few days. The spelling-mistake was also corrected in a week. But the world of excessive ragging, aggressive politics and absurd romanticism keeps waiting for him; the world where powerful knowledge is protected by illiterate guards. Fortunately or unfortunately he will be a part of this college culture in few years.

Omen

It wasn't quite eleven o'clock, for everyone was watching Kyunki Saas bhi..., when all of a sudden everything went black.

“Mommy bho!!”, an innocent voice penetrated the silence.

“Roshni beta! Stay wherever you are. I'll get the torch”, a female responded while walking across the dark room. After some careful steps, she reached the other end of the room and lit a candle. It wasn’t a big room and by no means a luxurious one. It had a television set and a refrigerator in one corner, and an almirah and a small bed in others. Two odd chairs were placed near the almirah. Roshni, a nine year old girl, was sitting on one of them. Her textbooks and writing kit were scattered all over the place.

“Mommy! When will papa come?”, Roshni’s asked casually.

Her mother who was arranging news-papers in the T.V. stand, reached for the cell-phone.

“Soon!”, she replied while dialing a number on her cell phone. Unfortunately there was no network coverage.

“It's raining! It's raining!”, Roshni screamed from the balcony. Her mother rushed outside to get the washed clothes before they got wet in the rain.

“Mommy! What for breakfast?”, Roshni joyfully shot another question at her mother. She wasn't concerned about the answers but shooting random question was fun for her. It was an irritating exercise for her mother to entertain these inquiries. She was mechanically arranging clothes, putting slightly wet ones on the chairs.

The sound of continuous coughing caught her attention next. It was probably the old man who lived in the apartment below. There was a shop and a single room-kitchen set at the ground floor. The old man had been living there for long time. He used to work at the shop during the daytime and struggle to sleep at nights. He, however, never quitted smoking. He must have smoked another bidi. His pain was clearly audible.

“Mommy! My teacher says that smoking is a bad habit”, Roshni shared her wisdom. Her mother nodded and added that Daadu should quit smoking. The old man was not their blood-relative but every one used to call him Daadu. His age, fragile body and caring attitude earned him the title. He was one of the oldest residents of the locality.

It was a three storey building. The floor above was occupied by a widow. She had no immediate family. Her social life was limited to her monthly visits to the post-office for collecting pension. The petty amount was enough for her regular doses of supari. She couldn’t sleep without consuming tobacco and watching daily soaps. It was either an over age addiction or a way to kill time. The pleasure never came for free. Her toothless jaws were too delicate to chew the raw supari. She couldn’t afford expensive tobacco powders. She, however, enjoyed the pain of shattering it into tiny little pieces every night. She would gradually hit it with some heavy stone while humming old tunes. Her weak bones would never allow her to crush it in one blow. She would spend around half an hour, meticulously preparing a single dose. The complete process would create a rhythmic churning sound accompanied by her feeble humming. It was surely both an addiction and a time-killer for her.

Had there been no power-cut that night, all outside sounds would have gone unnoticed, but everything was clearly audible. It amused Roshni and annoyed her mother. She never liked that neighborhood. It was not a very promising place for a growing kid like Roshni. There was no play ground. It was very close to a heavily crowded road, but it was the only place Roshni's father could afford. He was working hard to save some money for an apartment in a better locality. He, at that time, was on a business trip to Delhi and was expected to arrive anytime.

The news-papers and the clothes couldn't keep Roshni's mother engaged for long time. She was steadily staring at the wall clock wishing to catch at least final few moments of her favorite television serial. As the clock struck eleven, her all hopes died and she went blank for a moment. The old man was still coughing at irregular intervals while the widow was vigorously grinding her tobacco. It annoyed her. She, out of frustration, pulled out an old magazine and started reading it in spite of dim lights. Roshni, on the other hand, was cheerfully playing with her doll, singing jingles occasionally.

A dog started crying suddenly. It was a scary howl and for a moment all other sounds were checked as if everyone got scared of it. Roshni also noticed it and found it cool. She was slightly over excited and was about to dance to these odd tunes when her mother grabbed her hand and forced her to sit peacefully. It was not a good omen. According to a common myth, dogs can see future, especially evil spirits who come to take someone on the final journey. When a dog cries in front of a house, a death is sure there. Roshni's mother shivered with sudden fear. The old man had stopped coughing by then. She looked out and saw a dog sitting opposite to their building. It was crying in deep pain.

“Mommy! Why is it crying?”

“It must be hungry beta!”, She guessed. She was actually convincing herself. She was not a superstitious lady. She was from a well-educated family who never believed such myths.

“Yes! It must be hungry”, she concluded and sat near Roshni.

“Is someone gonna die?”, Roshni asked innocently. It was not her another casual question. She demanded an answer that time and looked at her mother who was completely taken aback. How could a little child know about this myth? They never discussed these myths in front of her. She must have learnt it from the old lady or someone from the school.

“Who told you?... This is all wrong.” She furiously replied. “The dog is hungry. That's it. Go sleep now. Ain't you going to school tomorrow?”. She asked Roshni.

“But I won't go to school tomorrow.”, Roshni cheerfully declared.

“Why?”

“Because someone is gonna die tonight.”, Roshni presented her logic. Some months ago when Daadu's wife died, Roshni got a three day break. She was sent to her grand-mother's house. She learnt that day, ‘How cool deaths are!’. She loved to be with her grand-mother who would pamper her with interesting stories and delicious food. She would play with her cousins there. The crying dog gave her a hope of another such break.

“Stop saying it? Everything is fine.”, Her mother emphasized.

“It's just hungry.”, she added. “Just hungry.”

The next moment she was thinking over the possibility of a death in their building. Both the old man and the widow were potential candidates. The old-man was looking sick that very morning. She decided that she would ask Roshni's father to move to the ground floor after Daadu's departure. They would finally get rid of the daily supari-drama. Roshni would also love to move down; she thought and looked at her. Roshni was playing near the candle. She had just killed a small insect and was celebrating her victory.

“Stop it Roshni! One shouldn't hurt anyone.”, Her mother summoned her and resumed her death-hunting thoughts. She would probably not mind moving up in case of the widow's death. They would get a better cell-phone coverage there. Moreover, she could use the terrace for papad, mangodi and drying clothes. She felt delighted.

“Mommy! When will papa come?”, Roshni asked once again and unknowingly invoked a different thought process in her mother’s mind. Her mother got worried about Roshni’s father. Delhi recently had a series of bomb-blasts and it’s never safe to be outside. The old man and the widow were safe at the home, but anything could go wrong with Roshni's father. Another bomb-blast in a crowded place, a train mishap, a road accident; anything could possibly materialize the bad omen. She felt scared.

The dog was still crying. The drizzling had stopped and the painful howling was growing scarier every moment. She was completely lost in her thoughts and frozen to death. Roshni, all of a sudden, mimicked the crying dog, and howled. She started laughing after one howl, she was enjoying it. Before she could repeat it, her mother slapped her.

“Shut-up! I said”, Her mother was shivering with fear. The slapping was followed by three independent events. First, Roshni stopped howling and realized that imitating a crying dog wasn't a cool idea. Second, the locality got the normal power supply. Every electronic appliance breathed heavily for a moment and resumed the normal chorus. The candle slowly died down. And finally the cell-phone rang. It was Roshni's father. He had missed the train because of a traffic jam and would catch the next train after two hours. Everything settled down in a few minutes.

The old man was coughing next morning also. The widow was sleeping peacefully and Roshni was getting ready for school. At the far end of the street, the dog lay dead. The poor creature must really have been hungry last night.

Champa

The morning brought another ray of hope for Champa. “Will it happen today?”, she thought, and the mere thought excited her.

“There is a completely different world there, kind of fairy-land. I am dying to go there.”, Chameli contributed her theory. Although no one knew everything about the D-day, but everyone had a theory or two. Muniya, the mother of Champa, was the last to depart. She waited long before the D-day, but she was lucky enough to be selected. Before leaving, she told many stories about D-day to Champa, her elder daughter.

'Only selected one goes there.'

'and Ma! when does one return from there?', Champa asked her mother when she was a very young.

Muniya smiled at her child's innocence and said, 'No one wants to return from there. That is such a good place.'

'But Ma! this place is also good. I have so many friends here', Champa asked.

'Darling! that place is lot better, my mother used to tell me about the place. She once said that you will live like a queen there... I will meet my mother also there. Your grand-ma will love to hear about you.' Muniya was very excited about her journey.

'But I want to go with you Ma, and can we take Chameli also with us?', Champa asked. She was convinced by now that her mother was going to a much more beautiful place for forever.

'No honey! everyone goes there, but at the right time. I will go first, and then you and Chameli will come. Don't worry, the time will fly soon. I will wait for you there.' Muniya would surely miss Champa.

Muniya left after couple of days, and never returned. No one was expecting her return. Everyone was expecting the next departure. Only a fortunate one will be selected. Everyone had a belief that Champa would be the next. Champa's endless wait begun with her mother's departure. She started feeling amalgam of excitement, happiness and curiosity.

Champa and Chameli were best buddies. They were looking forward for Champa's departure. They would play together as usual, but now they started discussing the D-day, the departure day when Champa would leave. Chameli would tell her the stories that she had learned from others. These stories and theories fueled Champa's curiosity.

'You know what! Sonu says, you will get royal treatment there. You will be free to go anywhere you wish, free to eat whatever you like, free to meet whomever you want to meet and free to play whenever you want to. Isn't it great?'

'Yes! It is. I wish today is the D-day', Champa couldn't wait any longer.

Her wish was heard somewhere in the blue-heaven and that day became her departure day. Chameli and others came to see her off. Chameli was very happy, now she should be the next.

Champa's dream came true. She had so many stories to tell to her mother. She was eagerly waiting to meet her Grandma, and other friends. She knew she would soon be treated like a queen.

She looked outside the window and gazed at the blue sky, the flying-birds, the playing-children. Everyone looked happier, as if they all were happy for Champa, the fortunate one.

Soon they reached the final destination. Farqu came near to Champa, and smiled at his lovely goat. He took her rope in one hand and headed inside the meat-shop.