by Gabbar Singh
PARIDHI: But mostly they do. Or maybe it’s the way you say them that makes me think there’s more to them.
AARZOO: Maybe. PARIDHI (tugging at the ends of her stole): There’s still time, we could talk some more. AARZOO: Alright. What about? PARIDHI: Anything. Tell me about the Australian. AARZOO (Waving her hand): That’s not interesting at all. PARIDHI: Fine, then tell me some other story. AARZOO: Any other story? PARIDHI: Sure, yes. But make it short. AARZOO: Then don’t interrupt. PARIDHI: Okay. AARZOO: Wait, we have to sit differently for it. PARIDHI: What, why? AARZOO: You should be on the left and I should be on the right. PARIDHI: Is this one of your elitist jokes?
AARZOO (Wearily): No, no. People are elitists, not jokes. It’s just crucial to my story. PARIDHI: In which way? AARZOO: In every way.
PARIDHI: You never make any sense to me, do you know that? Come now. (Standing up and moving to the other side. Aarzoo shifts to the right.) Begin.
AARZOO: Alright then! This is a story about two mad women. PARIDHI: All your stories are about two people. AARZOO: Don’t interrupt. PARIDHI: Oh, right...sorry, sorry. Go ahead. AARZOO: Okay.
*** Freeze, he commanded. My moment of genius, he thought.
His fingers deliberated and cogitated, but his vision had magically cleared. He could seehis masterpiece, just a canvas away, a few colours yonder, some hundred brushstrokes to completion. For so very long, he had struggled to paint the perfect woman, and today he had found her, in two. These women–slightly cross at each other, deeply scarred by one another, and yet endearingly close to the other –them, the essence of his masterpiece.
He fixed them on the stone bench, broken at the edges. Now, they sat imprisoned in that moment – a moment so immense that it revealed the complexity of their relationship. Aarzoo sat on the right and Paridhi on the left. Paridhi leaned on the backrest, her childlike eyes turned towards Aarzoo’s face in curiosity and anticipation. Aarzoo sat cross-legged, her fingers entwined and her posture stiff. The bag acted as the only vis- ible barrier between them. He sketched it all in a frenzied haste, until he reached the most important piece of the puzzle–their faces. Then, he freed himself of his pencils and brushes, and stretched out his fingers. His eyes ogled at the painting; there were beads of sweat on his forehead; his greedy mouth fell open. He began.
The first face he smeared with a furious crimson. With his stubby fingers, he dabbed at it, circling around the dark lines in pencil, adding shades of orange and yellow, mixing one emotion with another. Nothing seemed to separate the woman and himself; he had become one with her. Her face became a kaleidoscope; the curvature of her smile suggested a mystify- ing grin. With a final touch to the large-rimmed spectacles, he reluctantly pulled away from her.
For the other face, he dirtied his palette in olive green, navy blue and white. His fingers worked methodically, rhythmically, patiently. He fell for her too, and lost himself in the brightness of her clothes, the cheer- fulness of her silence, the vivacity of her still figure. He encrypted his affair with her into a twinkle in her eyes, and chuckled to himself. Then, he stepped away from his easel. He surveyed the calmness of the setting sun, the fort, the lake and the ducks, comically juxtaposed with the chaos his women seemed to invoke. He looked at them, talking to each other, sharing lives, breathing, coming alive. Aarzoo passed him a conspiratorial smile.
He hurriedly dragged a chair and seated himself before his work of art. And then he listened to her story.
6. The 37th Milestone
Abhishek Asthana
“Sir, we’ve got just four bottles of platelets left,” said Dinesh, my as- sistant.
“Don’t worry, they’ll be enough. By the way, are those pamphlets ready? We need more than 500 of those.” With my sleeves rolled up, I stood squinting at the lazy October morning sun, unloading stuff from our minivan – the kind which was the standard abduction apparatus in a ‘70’s movie, before the Maruti Omni, quite un- ceremoniously, took over.
A lot of unloading was needed. There were standees, a folding table with a questionable fourth prong, and a decently sized flex with the tagline, “Government Check Up Kemp,” printed in big, bold letters. When you are the person responsible, you don’t laugh at a typo. It laughs at you. I sighed.
“Doctor sahab, I haven’t seen anybody in our village infected with this disease in my entire life, then suddenly a dengue check-up camp?” The headmaster of the school arrived with a cup of tea in his hand.
He seemed apprehensive about our visit, as he would have been about any other visit by a government official, be it the auditor from the Minis- try of Education or the indifferent doctors from the health department. No doctor was going to ask him, how a truck-full of school uniforms were unloaded at his cousin’s, Gupta Readymade Garments near Hanu- man Mandir.
“Guptaji, it’s not exactly a check-up camp. We are just taking some pre - cautionary measures, some gyanbazi, distribution of pamphlets, some stethoscope molestation and we are going to hurry home sooner than you’d expect,” I said, suppressing the urge to add a “so don’t worry” at the end.
The Headmaster disgorged a well-rehearsed laugh from his belly.
*** The previous evening, while I was attending the patients at my private clinic in Bhopal, I’d received a call from the dean of the government hospital where I worked. As it turned out, Madhya Pradesh, our glori- ous home state, was allegedly the only state with zero cases of dengue reported. The state health ministry wanted to maintain the status quo and they couldn’t find any other doctor. I was designated to leave the plush air-conditioned chamber of my private clinic and organize these checkup and awareness camps in Jhabua.
Jhabua, a village tucked in a forest, was populated with tribesmen who had taken to civilization recently. One could now see them cackling on their China-made cellphones. However, Jhabua would often grace the newspapers for other reasons, reasons that were not for the faint-hearted. Witchcraft, parents sacrificing their own children, and sometimes, even drinking their blood to please some deity. The news proclaimed that their ancestors were cannibals, who weren’t too fond of outsiders.
It was a five-hour drive from Bhopal, taking into account the state of the roads, which had more potholes than the population of Jhabua. Potholes are anti-incumbency triggers; every time you encounter them, you how corrupt the government in power is. You then continue with your life, spitting the paan out of your car window.
*** Meanwhile the headmaster, a portly gentlemen showed me around the school, harping on everything ranging from the inadequate government funds (while rubbing his belly) to the tales of spoilt students, who, ac- cording to him were fit only to intern at the nearest tea shop.
I looked at the pillars supporting the roof of the school building. They were replete with graffiti. Several arrowed-hearts etched on the pillars, disclaiming,
Raja + Geeta
Gopi + Geeta
Naresh + Geeta etc.
Clearly, there was no a need for a beauty pageant at Jhabua; we had a clear winner. When we reached the back of the school, I saw the boundary wall con - veniently knocked down. Though I was a doctor and it was none of my business, I threw a questioning look at Guptaji. He grinned in response.
It was the emergency exit for the students. After finishing their free midday meals, they would jump over the debri to freedom. I understood why there were more hawkers and street vendors lined up here than they were at the main gate. Along the wall, which was newly whitewashed, I encountered something that made my feet stiff. “Ek bar yaha aa gaye to wapas nai ja paoge, once you are here, there is no going back.”
Guptaji held my hand in reassurance. He continues totell me that this was a routine affair. Every time any government official visited Jhabua, he was greeted by such words. “It’s nothing to worry about. Nothing,” he said, while looking away. I could feel he was hiding something.
I went closer to the wall. The writing was fresh as the paint was dripping. Gupta Ji tried to pull me away from the place. By George! I w
as horrified because of what my profession had taught me, for what Gupta Ji could never imagine. It was not red paint dripping down the wall but blood, human blood. I could have put my fifteen years of medical experience on the line claiming that was human.
Guptaji and I hurriedly walked back to the camp location. Neither of us uttered a single word.
*** I didn’t mention the incident to any of my junior doctors lest they panic. They had set up camp, the banners were put and the handouts were ready to be distributed. But something else was playing on my mind.
As we reached camp, I saw a sixty-year-old man with a smattering of grey hair and a dense moustache, perched on a chair, looking in our direction. Guptaji introduced him as the Sarpanch of Jhabua. As we exchanged pleasantries, I caught him looking at Guptaji eerily. I had absolutely no clue what was going on. I was offered a village tour, which I hesitantly accepted.
The Sarpanch related to me the problems he faced here while dealing with the local people as his roots were not tribal. I was barely listening, being a little scared. While doing the rounds of the narrow lanes of the village, I saw hostile eyes peering at me from within the curtains of the tribal houses. They didn’t like me.
We were here to look for possible cases of dengue, to warn people about the dangers of the fatal disease and suggest preventive measures. But I felt like I was the one who needed help.
The Sarpanch helped sanitize the mosquito breeding areas and arranged for the pamphlets to be distributed among the villagers. I returned to the school with a nagging feeling. The junior doctors ceased idling around as soon as they saw me enter the school premises. I chatted with them to lighten my mood. We waited for patients to come to us as the pamphlets clearly said that any patient could come directly to the camp for a free check-up. But I didn’t expect any of them to turn up.
*** There was still an hour to go before we wound up as per instructions from the dean. At half past four, a man carrying a feverish-looking child walked briskly past the school main gate. I immediately signaled a ward boy to help the child on the folding bed.
The boy looked abnormally pale. He stared at me coldly when I plugged the stethoscope into my ears. The man who brought him was tall, frail and had a loose shirt hanging about his frame. Only rarely did he say a word. I checked the boy’s heartbeat. Soon enough, it appeared to me that it wasn’t a normal fever, so I ordered the junior doctor to administer a blood test. This could be our very first case, I feared. Meanwhile, the frail man sat by the side of the boy, brooding for the entire duration, waiting for the results to come.
Before we arrived at the results, there was an extended power cut .We had forgotten to bring the most important thing - a generator. It was already past the stipulated time for winding up. As the junior doctors seemed to get impatient, I asked them to leave on the minivan. However, I chose to stay on to return on my fiat. Out of courtesy, the juniors hesitated, but eventually gave in and packed their stuff into the minivan.
After the power came back on at 8 pm, I initiated the pathological pro- cess. The first results came at around 11 pm. To my respite, it wasn’t den- gue. The boy had caught some minor flu. I prescribed some analgesics and antipyretics and discharged the boy. The man left with the child and as he reached the main gate of the school he turned around, looked at me and smiled.
The night was pitch-black and I could dark clouds looming. As I was about to get into my car, the Sarpanch arrived and asked me not to leave since the roads were not deemed safe at night.
“Arey Sarpanch Ji! I am a doctor who drives a defunct fiat returning from a free check-up camp. Who would bother robbing me?” I chuckled. He wasn’t amused.
“They are not there to rob your money, doctor sa’ab, they are looking for something ...else. There have been ‘sightings’ on the road…need I tell u more?”
“I’ll drive non-stop and I shall reach Bhopal by 5 in the morning.”Sarpanch Ji could only grumble. As I walked to get into my car I saw a strange symbol painted on the bon - net of my car with the familiar ‘red paint’. My heart sank. I looked at the Sarpanch. I wanted to ask him “Is this the reason you want me to stay in this hell of a place for the night?”
He maintained a stiff face. I quickly got into the car without saying a word. I turned on the ignition and after a few hitches the engine growled. After bidding a hasty good bye to the Sarpanch and Guptaji and a few other helpful villagers, I set forth at a good speed. Half way, it began to drizzle. I toggled the switch of the wipers, which had to be turned to their maximum speed to counter the heavy showers. It was difficult to make out what was looming ahead. There was thick forest cover on either side of the road; the trees seemed to twist, twirl and bend over the road with the gale, as if furious with the car’s headlights.
My rickety fiat was pushed to its limits. Even after two hours the storm showed no signs of settling. However, in a short span of five minutes, everything became quiet. The wind ceased to blow, the rain stopped, and even the trees seemed dead. I could only hear the engine’s roar. I opened my windows. On the roadside, a child, probably in his early teens was sitting on the 37th milestone wearing his school uniform. He was wailing loud enough for me to hear. I slowed my car. A boy in his school uniform in the middle of nowhere at 1 ‘o clock in the night was not normal There were no inhabited areas within miles from that place. I brought the car to a complete halt; the engine was still on. The boy stood up upon and started walking towards me. I watched his every move with one foot on the accelerator and through the windows that wereshut.
Peeping inside the rolled up window glass, he said, “Uncle please! Mujhe bachaa lo mujhe yahaa se le chalo uncle! Mujhe ghar jaana hai!” (Uncle, please save me! I want to go home.)
I sat motionless. I couldn’t decide what to do. I was not able to see his face clearly. The boy repeated the same words mechanically and started banging the window glass with his little hands.
An abrupt lightning bolt struck, with thunder, illuminating his face. Christ! He was the same boy I had treated a few hours ago in the village. How could he have reached here? My blood ran cold. I stepped on the accelerator as hard as I could. The car lurched ahead. With my eyes halfclosed, I sped away at full throttle. I was running for my life. The boy tried to chase me, failing which he let out a blood-curdling yell.
My heart didn’t stop pounding for the next three hours until I reached Bhopal at about 4 in the morning. I parked the car in my garage and rushed to the main door. My wife, Sarita, was rubbing her eyes as she opened it. She’d woken up after hearing the car come in. I jumped and hugged her tight, startling her.
Before she could ask me anything, I told Sarita not to wake me up in the morning as I was too tired. Phew! I slept like a log soaked in alcohol. *** It was three ‘o clock in the afternoon, when I woke up. I had a slight headache. After freshening up I eased myself on a chair in the porch. The evening daily was kept on the center table. I casually picked it up. .
Tragic End to the Anubhav Aggarwal Kidnapping Case Bhopal. In a tragic turn of events, Anubhav Aggrawal, son of the famous builder Ravi Aggarwal, who was kidnapped last Wednesday while he was returning from school, was run over by a truck this morning around 5’ o clock. As per our sources say, the boy escaped from the captivity of the kidnappers late night. Eyewitness accounts confirm that he was asking for help to the people who passed by the Jhabua-Bhopal bypass. But nobody helped him out. The boy was probably attempting stop a truck for help which ran over him. The truck driver fled the scene leaving his vehicle behind. A shaken Mr. Ravi Aggarwal blamed the police for its incapability to nab the kidnappers on time. Anubhav’s body will be handed over to his family after the post-mortem confirms the cause of death.
I couldn’t read further. My whole body had become numb. How could I have been so stupid? So indifferent? I could have easily saved the child had I been a little more rational. I am expected to save people’s lives, but in this case, due to my very own stupidity and superstition, a life was lost.
I
had encountered him at 1’o clock. The poor little soul would have been begging for help for another four hours. Sarita arrived with a cup of tea and a newspaper in the other hand. The lines of her head were discernible. I had rarely seen her as worried. Be- fore I could quiz her, she said, “Why are you reading yesterday’s news- paper?”
“What!?” I checked the date; it was indeed yesterday’s. This time I was paralyzed.
“Here have a look at today’s headline,” she said, nearly weeping. It took me two reads to comprehend:
Minivan Collides With A Tree
6 killed including 4 doctors near the 37th milestone on the Jhabua-Bhopal bypass. ***
7. Valentine Lost
Sidhharth
“Doesn’t she look like Aishwarya Rai?” I asked my best friend Rajan. Raising his eyebrows, he signaled me to stay quiet while he looked at her through the maze of students between her and us.
It was an unremarkable April morning. The sun had just begun to emerge from its wintry retreat. I hated summers for two reasons in particular. First, I couldn’t eat properly and would end up losing a good five or six kilos that I had gained during thewinters. Second, I would sweat like a pig and wet the pages of my notebooks while writing assignments. But, still, summer marked the beginning of the new session at school. We would get new books to dirty, new notebooks to draw really bad portraits of our teachers, new classrooms that generously provided fresh faces to ogle at during a boring class.
The summer of 1996 was no different. It was the first day of ninth stan - dard. The teacher was helping the new ones introduce themselves. Anan- ya was one of them.
I couldn’t help myself from staring at her. The colour of her eyes was the perfect blend of green and blue, like corals in a tropical ocean. Her hair – long with chinks of brown; her skin, white as a lone cloud in the summer sky; her lips, the colour of cherries; and her chin, tiny like a table tennis ball. Eager to know all about her, I tried to find ways to initiate conversa- tion. But before that I had to know her name, and she had to know mine. I waited for her turn to introduce herself to the class; in the meanwhile, I took to preparing a mental list of questions that I would ask her the mo- ment I got a chance. The teacher helped me in my endeavor although she remained unaware of it; I gleaned knowledge of her address, her parents and others in her family.