Life In Words

The post has been written with the thought that Life is like a game of scrabble. All of us are like individual letters who come together to form a word. Then slowly more words are formed around us and a journey begins and ends as the game gets over. A new journey begins again with a new game.


Many years earlier, I was a mere letter,
I was single and yearning to give meaning to life,
You were a letter too, leading your own life somewhere,
Then we came together to form a word.


As words formed around us, the game improved,
But soon the board became congested,
We became stagnant and so did our importance,
We realised we were now entrapped in our squares.


Then we were removed from our squares,
We were now placed in different ones,
There were empty squares now between us,
We now led different lives.


And then one day we bump into each other,
This time the words around form slow,
We spend more time and find new meanings,
We enjoy as we know the game shall end.


Then in one moment, the game ends,
I shall be picked out soon and so shall you,
But we shall meet again, so lets just smile,
We shall form a beautiful word again,
So we shall meet another time.


V.V.Vikram

A Wall At Harisava Street

The Harisava street comes alive on a sunday. For that an outsider would say that a Sunday is just an excuse for the Bengalis. But Harisava street is an exception. One of the darkest streets in Calcutta, the Harisava street is in Kidderpore.

Close to the port, Kidderpore historically was inhabited by the fisherman clan. Hence even today the street is mostly inhabited by the lower-middle and lower classes and not to mention the faint smell of dead fish throughout the day. The Harisava street has tall buildings which are no sky-scrapers but are the old chawls built for the british soldiers to rest. The buildings are so high that they cover the sun almost till noon and for the rest of the day a little after noon. And in
one such building lived Dibyendu Bhattacharya and Proloy.


The Vintage writer
--------------------

Dibyendu Bhattacharya looked out of the window, his hand held on to the rustry grill. He was waiting for the 'Jhalmudi' wala to come. Sundays was when he would come a little early than usual. Dibyendu coughed and cleared his throat. He had kept all the empty packets of milk under his bed and his writing table so that he wouldnt have to walk to the bathroom every time to spit the phlegm. He would spit in the empty packets and dispose them once a week.

The Jhalmudi wala arrived at the window. He mixed his spices to produce magic. That is what Dibyendu called him-'The Magician'. The Jhalmudi always tasted the same, not a pinch of spice less or more, just as Dibyendu wanted.

Dibyendu picked up the Telegraph. It pained him when he read through the paper. So much had changed about the paper in the last two decades.Dibyendu had retired as the editor-in-chief of the telegraph in 1988. Since then the standard of news had degraded and the sanctity of the media had been lost.

Dibyendu had not stopped writing though. He was known for his views on politics and his anthology of political essays was widely read and appreciated. Just as Dibyendu finished with his Jalmudi, the bell rang. It must be Joyeeta, his maid who had been with him and taken care of his since his wife had passed away.

As Dibyendu stood up, the bell rang again and then once more. It could not be Joyeeta then. She would wait for him to open the door. It was Proloy, Dibyendu's neighbour. Lean and Nimble, Proloy was the irritating neighbour of Dibyendu or at least that was what Dibyendu thought of him. The irritation had nothing to do with Proloy's attitude but it was to do with what Proloy and his generation stood for. It was something Dibyendu could not relate to and unfortunately every mannerism of Proloy's reflected that standpoint.The other unfortunate part for Dibyendu was that Proloy was a columnist in the Telegraph as well. He wrote a popular column for the youth, the content of which Dibyendu detested. He must have come to borrow a packet of milk, as always, thought Dibyendu.



The Gay Columnist
------------------

Proloy had been living in Kidderpore since he was born. He could not imagine himself living outside. Hence, after he became a columnist at Telegraph and started earning, he shifted within Kidderpore itself. He adored Harisava street and somehow Proloy felt that the darkness stimulated him to write. It was as though his creative stimulus reacted to the faint luminiscence than anything else.

Though there was one more reason to move. Since his childhood, Proloy was a loner. Both his parents were highly read and had a bent towards literature and there were no marks for guessing Proloy's professional bent. Yet, somehow Proloy was different. He would never go out and play and rather go out with his mom to buy clothes, vegetables and loved it when she bargained. He loved watching his mom putting on make up. He always felt that men were deprived of a lot when it came to fashion. As years passed by, Proloy realised that there was a woman inside him that yearned to get out but could not because of social stigmas
attached. Worst things happened when he hit upon guys and could not control it.

Revealing the same to his parents had caused a huge hue and cry. His mother was supportive but lost hope when she realised that it was not a passing phase. His dad had threatened him and told him that he should get out of the house.And that is what Proloy did. His columns gained popularity and he soon became one of the leading columnists in the Telegraph.

He was proud of it and hoped that his parents thought the same. Then one day, tragedy struck when he heard of his mother's death. His 'maa' was no more. He was shattered. For once he thought his 'baba' would call him back. It never happened.


A Birthday forgotten

--------------------

It was Proloy's birthday and he wanted to see his Baba once and get his blessings. Every year Proloy would go with a cup of Kheer to his Baba's house. His ears would yearn to hear a wish and his shoulders would warm up for a hug. The ego though was too huge and the shame too damning for his father. Today was yet another birthday and there was yet another hope. He rang the ball. He rang it twice and then again. The door opened. The disgruntled Dibyendu looked on.

"Eei samanya kichu apnar jono" (This is something for you), said Proloy. His father did not utter a word.

"I thought it was Joyeeta", said Dibyendu. "Hows is work and all?", he asked.

"Good. My columns are being appreciated by everyone", said Proloy.

"No heart and no soul. Your generation is about quick bytes and short cuts. They will never understand true writing", said

Dibyendu skeptically. "And by the way, how has the taker become the giver. What is this kheer for?".

"Have you forgotten Baba? Its my birthday today", said Proloy in a strangely innocent way.

Dibyendu stopped walking. It was his son's birthday and he had forgotten. His Tuktu's Birthday. Thats what he called him when he was young. Thats what he named him when he was born. His heart felt heavy. He turned around. He put his hand on his head and said, "Happy Birthday Son. Hope you have great year ahead."

Proloy was hoping he would say more but Dibyendu kept the kheer and did not say a word. Proloy understood and took leave. As the door closed behind him, he could feel his eyes turn misty. He wished things were normal. He wished his baba understood. He wished so much that his baba would call him back.

Dibyendu on the other side was experienceing the same. Pain, emotions, guilt. He wanted to forgive his son but somehow could not. He felt ashamed of his son for what he was and that ashamed him about himself.

Life had to move on. Inside the chawls of the Harisava street lived many Dibyendus and Proloys and yet the street looked and sounded ecstatic on a Sunday.

V.V.Vikram

To Ayesha...with love

The story is dedicated to all those women who are trapped by traditions and yet smile only to defy this world. It is also a message to women who undervalue the essence of freedom and love.


Dear Ayesha
I know this would be like a shock to you. Its been long since we last met. In fact, you would wonder right now as to how I managed to get your address. Thank or blame this technology age, I can even trace Hitler's address when he was a child. Something has propoelled me to write this one.Well,its more of guilt accompanied by a curioisty to know how you have been. That night when I hung up on you, it was probably one of the coldest days in London and I felt colder as the feeling, that I had let you down, wrapped around me. I’ve always been ashamed I didn’t speak to you, and this letter is an attempt to rid myself of that feeling.
I cant forget the day when I saw you at the swimming pool. You were with your friend, all gigglining and splashing the water at each oother. Jordan was not for bold women. You stood out. Your eyes spoke millions about the revolt you felt within as a modern women living within an orthodox country. I noticed you and I shall admit that it was lust at first sight. It was the skin I remember clearly and the droplets of water that clung to your skin. They shined under the sun creating an aura. You were clad in a yellow bikini and at the moment I really desired you Ayesha. I did not know the consequences then.
Jordan was a break away from the hectic schedules of life. Mr. Hamid along with Mr. Ali accompanied me to the hotel. They were my travel guides and had been arranged by my company, Some of the perks I "suffer" for beig in the the IT industry.
I saw you at the lounge of the Meridian in a while again and this time I could not resist. I came up to you and asked you your name. You smelt of liquour and you were high and still giggling about something. You looked at your friend and pronounced your name shyly with a typical arabic accent that really turned me on.
I went back to Mr. Hamid and told him that I had dinner plans. I told them that I was going out with you girls. He looked at me suspiciously and angrily both. "Who are these girls?", he asked. And then came a barrage of questions. Are they Jordanian? Are they students? How old are they? Give me their surnames.
I just let them know that it was none of their business. I just came out of there.

We decided to go for a drink, an activity which in my ignorance I assumed was acceptable for young people in that tourist town. We sat upstairs on a restaurant terrace and I ordered a beer. You asked for one too. The waiter, a young toughie with an adolescent moustache, shook his head and tutted. You and Maryam spoke sharply to him in Arabic. Reluctantly he brought bottles and glasses. See how we are living, you said. Even this guy thinks he can tell us what to do, how we should behave. In a while your hands rested on my leg and squeezed it. That look. I cannot forget that look. I wanted to make love to you that very moment. I just wished for a moment that the restaaurant was dested and I could lay you down on this table and make love to you on it. What had you done Ayesha?What had you done to me?

I noticed others staring coldly at us. I didn’t feel we were doing anything wrong, but I began to feel nervous, as if I were walking through customs or talking to a policeman. We chatted a little, finding out about each other. You told me you were twenty-one, studying literature. You wrote poetry. Your parents wanted you to get married to a banker, the son of family friends. Reading between the lines I realised you were a rich girl. Rich and bored. Then it all tumbled out, how you were sick of living in Amman, sick of being told who you could speak to and what to wear, sick of being called a prostitute just because you were having a conversation with a man. Is that what the waiter said, I asked. You shook your head angrily. He didn’t like it that Arab girls were with a foreigner. He didn’t like it that we were drinking alcohol. What did his honour have to do with anything? What business was it of his?
I sympathised with it all and yet I felt petrified somewhere within. But there was something about you Ayesha that made my heart feel warm. Your eyes. They twinkled irrespective of what you thought or did. It was like a sincere effort to be happy and gay all the time. It was like you tried all your best to keep the sadness hidden inside. Niceley and Tightly tucked. Yet I could see it.
Lets go and dance you said. You teased me saying that the british were a bunch of hags all born wih two left feet. It was again the same scene there. The guards had a constipated look again. They whispered to each other about your outfit and the look turned shameful. We danced till we could not anymore. You, I and Maryam finished an entire packet of Marlboro in a span of 30 mins.
Maryam decided to drive me back to my hotel. She drove as we lay cuddled behind, all sloshed. I kissed you fiercely and you reciprocated. Maryam turned a blind eye to all of it though I felt emabarassed at one point.
It was the next day that really turned it around. We walked all along athe beach, kicking sand at each other. We talked and talked. You said you hated that the world was inching towards a technological revolution. You thought it was alienating people from nature. For a moment I wanted to argue, but I let go. It was all so beautiful. You, the sea, the light around.
We returned to our room from the backdoors. I did not want Mr. Hamid to catch us both going into our room. It was then things changed. We kissed passionately. We had stripped each other of all clothes. It was when I pulled out the condom from my purse that I saw you expressions change. You asked me with surprise and fright whether I always roamed with one in my purse. You asked me how many women I had slept with. You asked me whether she was just one of my deals as usual. I was not ready for this. Somehow, then suddenly you yourself let go and called me towards yourself. But by then the damage had been done. The questions ashamed me. I was not serious about you and I realised that even though you were wild by nature, you yearned for love.
I asked you to wear your clothes and told you I could not do this. That is when you started crying and asked me if you were not good enough for me. I could never explain it to you. You left and left your number. The next day as I was leaving, I really thought you would come. you did not and it was over. I thought I had buried you Ayesha, somehwere deep in my heart. But after months the phone rang and it was you . Your voice asking me if I recognised it. I hung up.
I apologise Ayesha. I really do.
Love"You know who"

V.V.Vikram

OF ETHICS...

And suddenly in a span of two days, the sound of ethicism seems to be reverberating loud. It started with Tiger woods, then Rocket singh and then Satyam (Its been a year since the Scandal today). Each of these entities has a different story to tell but all boil down to the fact that if you do wrong, you shall not be spared.


It can be pretty confusing at times. To be ethical and be right always can be nightmare in today's world. Its like, walking not only on a tight rope but also walking on it hundred feet above ground level.The question:Should there be a choice at all between being ethical and not?

Just take the case of Tiger Woods. One of the best in his field. To be honest, his face looks like the epitome of innocence and somewhere he does seem to be a good guy. Accenture banked on his personality and have come up with some real good advertising and promotional strategies. Then disaster strikes.It turns out that Tiger isnt really that innocent and Accenture not really that sparing. The question:Is it easy to say that "with great power comes great reponsibility" when you really dont know what it takes to be a celebrity and handle it? There is no doubt that what Tiger did was wrong because mind you, kids in America take up golf soon and they looked upto him and so does the rest of the world. But what about media? Is there respect for a Human's privacy? God save the media and their heartless souls.

I saw Rocket Singh day before. The emphasis ws on doing business with ethics. It was about values and thinking from the heart. It was about thinking first for the people and then about making money. The movie showed in the end that righteousness prevails over everything else like all movies do. Yet, the question remains about sustenance of the value system. The movie ended with a positive beginning for the Rocket Corporation. But the real test is to continue in the right way. The question is :What happens when money and fame start pouring in? Will a company or an individual be able to handle the pressures of governance? Will a company or an individual be able to handle greed or will they succumb to the normal ways of life?

Satyam was a great company to work. I have worked there and I owe a lot to the company. Unlike many IT companies, it managed to show me a very positive side of IT. The result is that today I know that I want to stick to this industry. It showed me a direction. Yet, today it has failed because someone somewhere believed that money was way more important than doing the right thing.

In the end it is a choice and the choice is a tough one. It pays to be right but you pay the price for being wrong. No man's a saint and mistakes are made but at that one instant when you have to make a tough choice and you sense hesitation within you, say NO. It shall pay in the long run.

The Rendezvous

Certain things ought to be impulsive in life. Certain journeys ought to be taken impulsively. Certain phone calls should be made at an instant from the heart. Certain words ought to be said impulsively. Certain moments ought to be lived impulsively. Otherwise friend, where is the fun!! Huh!!

The journey
-----------

Many a times I have regretted certain decisions I have made in life. In fact I think my love life has been a comedy of errors. I have always been a ‘One-woman’ man...every 2 years since I was 21. I have had a spate of breakups. Well, sometimes she wasn’t good enough and most of the times I wasn’t. Every time it happened, it took me a while to recuperate. Some girls showed promise; some just flirted away to glory while I got carried away, while some just wanted to move on because they got bored. Well I warned them. And yet after every breakup, the one relationship I can never forget was when I was in school. Well, trust me, it was the purest of them all. Now it gets more mushier.

I cannot forget those feelings. We hardly spoke and yet we did. We chatted on the phone and yet could never muster courage to have a 5 minutes conversation face-to-face. Shyness I guess. They were conversations of loud heartbeats and mumbling voices. Tara was her name. I was in my 11th. We were studying in State school inside the Tata Campus in Jamshedpur. She lived there. Her father was a professor there. My father was a central govt. employee then and we were on the run always. I cannot forget the last day in the school. We were moving away to Trivandrum, my hometown. I managed to tell her that I liked her a lot. She did too. The smile on her face, I cannot forget. Well she promised to write and so did I.

We moved and she wrote. I never did. I got engrossed in my life. I never wrote back and then she faded away from my memories. A guy who was just learning to shave had learnt it was time to move on. I called her on her birthday and told her it would be my last call.

After a long time again, Jamshedpur summons. A client meet and a hidden desire. I decided to give Tara a call. I had known her number all these years and yet I could never call. I called her. The phone rang twice.

‘Hello’, said a faintly familiar voice

‘Tara, its me. Vinay. How are you?’

A long pause and an eerie silence. It was as if she was waiting for my call all these years.

‘Hi Vinay. How have you been?’

‘Good. I am working in Calcutta with TCS. What about you?’

‘Well. I am working in the state school. I teach English’

I was excited to hear that. But I did not know what to say.

‘Thats great’.

‘So how come, a call after years?’

‘Well I am sorry for not calling. In fact, I am sorry for many things. I was coming to Jamshedpur this weekend, so i thought I could meet you.

‘Hmm. Well let me see. I have some plans but I can surely take some time out. Give me a call before you leave’.

Memories Galore
----------------

She was waiting for me near the cafe coffee day near the Tata foundation hospital. She looked stunning and had changed a lot. Her hair and she was so skinny then.

A warm handshake and we were off chatting. I knew though at some point I had to tell her why I wanted to meet her.

‘Tara, I had your number all these years. I somehow could not muster courage to call you. I had broken your heart and you liked me so much. You kept it going whereas I just gave up. I have been in many relationships and today I am single and yet I have this tingling pain which keeps resurfacing. The pain of breaking your heart. I am here to say sorry for everything. We were kids and yet that something between us was the most beautiful I have ever felt. I am sorry.’

Wow!! That was right out of bollywood. She looked at me and smiled. I just hoped that she would not laugh it was because it was kiddish in a way.

‘I forgive you’, she said. ‘I say that because I was hurt and that too for many years and I got over it. But hey!! No hard feelings any more. Honestly, I was looking for a guy with moustache. I never expected you’, she said laughing out loud.

‘You have changed too, you look beautiful. You single??’ ,I asked pinching myself hard after that. What an idiot I was. Somehow hoping though that she would be.

‘Well, I am engaged. My marriage is slated to happen next month’, she said.

I was a little taken aback. I was a little disappointed too. I wasn’t expecting it.

‘Oh! thats great. Congratulations!!!’

‘Thanks’.

‘Should I show you around the school? Interested?’, she asked.

‘Yep’.

We took a long walk. Somehow we pretty easily discussed the places where we had sat and spoken. The basketball court where I would deliberately sit close, to where she would sit with her friend, to eat. The bus stop, where I would always say bye to her before leaving for home. The arts class, where I would sing aloud so that she could hear and smile. The Labs where I tried my best to team up with her but never got a chance.

I remember the roads where one fine day I managed to walk back with her on a rainy day. I missed it all. The innocence.

Well, it was time to leave and I said goodbye knowing well that I would never meet her again. The heart did feel heavy for a while. I had done what I had come to do. Somehow though, I felt a lot more lonelier than ever. Probably it was a mix of Tara and the nostalgia of school days.

I sat for a while at the bus stop after she left. I looked around. The sun was setting and the smell of the Ashoka trees rose. Something had not changed. I smiled and realised that it was good that I had come here.

Certain things ought to be impulsive in life. Certain journeys ought to be taken impulsively. Certain phone calls should be made at an instant from the heart. Certain words ought to be said impulsively. Certain moments ought to be lived impulsively. Otherwise friend, where is the fun!! Huh!!

V.V.Vikram

The Hangman from Tibbar

Dedicated to all the extraordinary and weird professions in the world.


The Hangman From Tibbar

---------------------------------------

I walk back home everyday. Over the years I have taken a liking to the narrow muddy road that takes me back home. In fact, given a choice I would just walk the rest of my life. Just me and the road to ourselves. The condition of the roads in Gurdaspur has improved over the years. Yet, this road has remained the same over years. Covered with trees, the walk on this one during monsoons is a sheer delight for a loner like me. By the way, my name is Chander Singh and I work as the Hangman in Gurdaspur Jail.

FLASHBACK

---------

As a 3 year old, I remember my father taking me to the Jail at times. He worked there. I was intrigued and thrilled whenever I went there. A massive structure, the Jail gave me an eerie feeling. I would immediately dream of dark dungeons, princes, swords and the villains of course. I always wanted to go in but my dad never took me in. I would sit with the two scary Guards outside. I always wondered what my dad did in the jail. My dad was a six footer. He had a typical villainous look that would scare the hell out of kids during nights when he got back home. With a large dark mole on his cheek, he was a monster. I pitied the convicts.

As a youngster I remember, noone would come to my house. Moms would warn their kids not to play with me. The colony never acknowledged our presence. It was as if I was living in a dead society bustling with people. My father was a quiet person. He would come back home, call for my mother to lay out the food. He would eat, kiss me goodnight on the forehead and promptly sleep.

I had no friends. None at all. In fact, after a while in my life I realised that I had stopped yearning for them. I got used to things this way I guess. It was a normal day and I got back from school when I saw a huge crowd gathered in front of my house. I saw the all the ladies sitting together and weeping. There was a murmur amongst the men standing to one side. As I went in, I saw the corpses of my father and mother. Both covered in a white cloth, the one my mom used to lay the food upon. I did not cry. I was shocked and lost. I was told that the house had been robbed and that the robbers killed both my parents. It was the first time in years that I had spoken so much. People came upto me and consoled me. Some I knew but most I did not.

After a month or so, I was paid a visit by the Jailer of Gurdaspur. He offered me the post of my dad and said I could join whenever I was interested.

THE JAIL AND HOME

-----------------

It was not as scary as I thought it would be. Of course, I was just a kid then. But the eeriness was still there. The walls were built of Huge dark stones which added to the spookiness. As I entered the jailer's room, I saw a couple of convicts being handcuffed and taken away. They looked at me as if they were ready to commit another crime.

"So Chander, ready to step into your father's shoes?"

"Honestly sir, I want to thank you from my heart first but also I shall confess that I have no idea what my father did in the jail. What did he do?"

"Ahem. Well, let me put it bluntly. Your father was a hangman. He helped executing convicts. He put them to death."

For a moment, my world turned upside down. I was shocked, aghast and disturbed. So many things came to my mind. My father's behaviour which I now undertood. His reluctance and apprehensions.

"You okay son?", asked the jailer.

"Sir, I think I shall return and let you know"

The walk back home on the muddy path was a mammoth task. With so much running through my mind, I cared the least for the puddles that had formed. By the time, I reached home I had soiled my pants. I just sat in a corner and wondered what to do.

'JALLAD'

--------

It had been three years since I had been a hangman. I had killed many with these very hands. They wept, they pleaded even though they were guilty and yet I had no choice but to do what I had to. I had become insane. I had the license to kill they said and laughed, the guards in the jail. Every journey back home was a journey of guilt. The pangs of conscience were unbearable. Noone would talk to me in the colony. Things had come back to square one, the day I had said yes to the jailer. Kids called me the boogey-man. Some called me 'Jallad' and some called me the 'Ruthless Murderer of Tibbar'. Tibbar was the place where the jail was located. Girls shyed away from me. But I did not stop, I kept killing them.

'The Terrorist of Kupwara'

-------------------------

Tibbar was on the border of India and Pakistan and many convicts brought to the Gurdaspur Jail were captured terrorists. Many notorios and many not so notorious. They were beaten everyday. Some were beaten to death. As a hangman, I know for a fact that all the executions I have done have not been legal.Some are killed and reported to media as died due to stress. Some are beaten to death and then hanged and later the bodies thrown back into their cells. They are the suicide cases by the way.

A young terrorist was beaten the same way. A young boy forced into becoming a terrorist. He was beaten to death almost. He did not reveal any information about his terrorist ring because he actually did not know anything. He would cry at nights and the wailing would be heard across cells. One fine day, I was summoned by the jailer. He told me that they had planned the execution of the Kupwara terrorist and it would happen at 12.30 am midnight. I never questioned him. At 9.30 pm I went this cell. I heard a brawl. They had stripped him naked and were battering him with a fat stick. He was bleeding and I knew would soon collapse.

After finishing their merciless assault, the guards left, leaving the almost-dying terrorist. I helped him take a bath and helped him change his clothes. I whispered into his years about the midnight plan. He stated weeping with whatever energy he had. He held my feet and shouted that he was innocent. For once I found my heart melting and I think I my eyes did become wet for a second.

At around 12.15, he came into the courtyard with the jailer and two cards. I covered his head with the black hood. He was crying and shouting loud that he wanted to see his mom and younger sister one last time. It was then for a second that I realized that I was the Satan from hell without doubt. I pulled the lever and down he went.

Nemesis

-------

Thats my story. Nothing much at all. I am an ordinary man in an extraordinary profession. By the way, only yesterday I got to know that I am suffering from Tuberculosis and I am in my last stages of life. Its been 20 years as a hangman. I have killed many and now its come around for me. My jail mates tell me that no hangman has died a normal death. I went to the jailer yesterday and told him that I had a wish. I told him that I wanted to be hanged as well. He smiled and said that all Hangmen of Tibbar had asked for the same till date. He said it was guilt.

V.V.Vikram

SHAME

This story is a fictional piece entirely and is not written with any intentions to hurt anyone's sentiments. The message is simple...anger and hatred kills. People in the process of venting anger and hatred do not realise that the same could change the life of the victim drastically. It could inflict him with wounds that would remain unhealed for life.


SHAME

I

--

"Keep your mouth shut and if I get to know that you are trying to mess around, we will cut you into pieces and hang your circumcised phallus right in front of your house. Understand, you mother fucking bastard? Your clan is a bunch of unchaste pigs"

Manu, the local leader in Aligarh was listening to the profanities and was quite embarrassed. Abdul, the boy being yelled at was after all a 10 year old kid. He had seen too much though, there wasn’t an iota of doubt in that. Yet, surprisingly, he found it cruel. Guruji was trying to scare this kid who was probably himself shaken up by what he had witnessed.

"Take this son of a bitch away and keep an eye on him. Manu, meet me after you deal with this kid", he said in a loud voice just to scare the little one a wee bit more.

Manu held Abdul's hand tightly and took him out. He somehow did not want to be harsh but he knew their clan too well. They were not what they seemed. Yet this guy was just a kid and Manu could see both fear and helplessness in Abdul's eyes."You say a word boy and you die. Understand? Do not tell your friends or they die too." He handed him to the other guys and told them to take him home.

Abdul had the address written on a piece of paper which had become soggy from sweat. He was scared. He could not understand what was happening. It was just morning then and now the night had set in. What would he say to his uncle and aunt as to where he was all the while and they would be worried more so knowing what had happened to the train he had arrived in. The whole of Aligarh had been shaken up and he knew what had happened.

II

--

Manu was tired and exhausted. He had returned home after 16 hours. He had sneaked out of the house in the morning while his mom was asleep. It had been a big day for him or probably the biggest. He had won the trust of his Guruji. Guruji was the leader of the Hindu sabha in Aligarh and was one of the most respected leaders in India. He was also the mentor for the Chief Minister of the UP who was representing a party dedicated to Hindu Ideologies and ways of life. The party had faced criticism for this but the vote bank was dependent on them, the ideologies. The elections were scheduled for the next month and with dwindling popularity and anti-incumbency, Guruji was summoned by the CM.

The plan was to turn Aligarh upside down. A day that would change the lives of many. Manu had led from the front. Guruji gave him the responsibility to carry out the task and he did so with ease. Except that Abdul remained.

III

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Abdul had eaten and was too tired to even think and yet he could not sleep. His aunty cried when she saw him. He did not utter a word and just told them that he had lost the address somewhere in the train. He wondered if he would ever be able to forget what he saw. Suddenly he felt older. He was 10 years old and yet what he saw and what he experienced was rarely what a 10 year old would see or feel.

The one face he could never forget was that of the 65 year old woman who was going home the first time after her grandson was born. She told Abdul that he had been christened "Vikas" after her late husband. He also remembered her face when she was stabbed twice and then pushed into her lower side berth seat in the train.

He remembered the old man who was coming from a village all the way to get treatment for leukemia. He was giving a last shot at life. They chopped off his fingers and legs and then stabbed him right through his heart.

And the little one he was playing with. They were a little more graceful with her. They put a hand tight on her mouth and did not let her breathe. She died in seconds.

Why did they spare him? Everyone except for him was killed on that train by the hooligans. He remembered when one of them raised his sword on him.

Manu shouted," Leave that one. It will go against the plan. Only murder the Hindus. Let this mother fucker be spared. Anyways we will kill them in hordes after tomorrow. Let’s take him away with us quietly. Let Guruji deal with him"

Abdul wondered what plan he was talking about???

IV

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Manu still hadn’t slept. He had joined the Sabha, 5 years back as worker and today he was the leader in Aligarh. Over years he learnt about Hindutva and had developed a certain hatred toward the Green clan. He realised that Hindus were too docile and patient and the Muslims had taken advantage of it all the

while. Terrorists they were, no doubts.

The plan had gone off well. They had killed all the Hindus in the train. Now, it would only be a matter of hours when the anti-muslim sentiment would spring up and lead to the much desired riots. The CM had promised that he would keep the police forces in the state at bay when it happened. The Muslims would be butchered and the votes will go to the government. Guruji had a way to think out of the box.

V

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The riots broke out early in the morning. It was the news flash about 8 muslim goons butchering all the hindus in a train bogie at Aligarh, that made Abdul go into a shock. He realised what had happened and why he had been spared. He knew the truth and yet he knew the consequences.

The riots lasted a week. Abdul, his uncle and aunt hid inside their room with little food and water. They would be woken up by loud door banging during midnights. Stones would be pelted and fire sticks would be thrown in. Abdul could hear women screaming, men being tortured to death. Processions were led out where all muslims where forced to go around their colonies naked shouting "hare ram, hare krishna".

The muslims too killed many Hindus. The same was done with their women and children. Abdul was aghast at what was happening. He had come to spend the summer and what he was witnessing everyday was changing his life.

2 months later....

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Abdul returned to his village. He had still not told anyone what he saw on that dreadful day. He had become more silent and calm. There were nights when he would wake up with a jerk, drenched in sweat. He would question the sanity of people and the heights to which they could stoop to be in power.

The only part that he felt good about was that he had not developed a hatred for any clan because of the entire episode. Both the clans had been affected. He also thought about how some incidents change you for life and make you a little more mature.

-V.V.VIKRAM