THE STRANGER.......

Ridhdhi was too excited to contain it; it was all about her forthcoming trip to the Blue Mountains.  And why wouldn't she be!  She hardly visited new places like her hostel mates did, every summer.

Uma’s heart filled with joy when she witnessed the mad mad gleam in Ridhdhi’ s eyes.  And why wouldn't she be!  In many years, this time she could find out some opportunity to take her teenager to a vacation.  

Ridhdhi’s vacation was usually spent at her hometown Bhopal, while Mum worked hard.  A busy corporate officer, Uma found little time for her child who visited her during her summer vacations.

She, in the first place, always felt guilty about packing her off to a boarding school, since she had a transferable job and a job which demanded a lot of travel across the globe.

This time Mum and Child duo were escaping to the Blue Mountains, away from the city smoke and noise.  Being a meticulous person that she was, Uma had taken care of all the details, including the lodge, the places to be visited, doctors’ numbers, pills, first aid, different types of shoes..everything.  She was ready for the travel.  Nothing, however could have prepared her for the surprise she was to receive at the Blue Mountains!

Uphill, Uma’s energy could not match  that of Ridhdhi’s.  She often missed the sunrise and the morning tea whereas Ridhdhi helped herself to the Sunrise Point and jogged back to her waiting mother, who was often found snuggling inside the quilt, reading Business India.  Ridhdhi would soon snatch away the newspaper, push her mother to the dressing room and pull her out to the beautiful whispering hills.  “Age..” Uma thought.  “Age…” Ridhdhi thought, too.

It was one such evening when Uma decided to stay in, finding a warm place in the library of the lodge,  Ridhdhi took off on her own, on the hired bi-cycle. 

(Since past five years, Ridhdhi had been staying in a boarding school and managing quite well, on her own; that was reason enough that her Mum allowed her to move on her own even in an unknown area.  After all, she was all of 15 now!)

Ridhdhi reached her favourite spot, the Echo Valley and sat there, admiring the hills, the chill, the flowers, the far off stream and everything in general.  There were not many people around, except for a few couples with children and a person who seemed to be working on his canvas.  Ridhdhi’s interest grew.  She approached the man, who was lost in the painting.  She could see an amazing play of colours on the canvas.  The man was distracted but not annoyed. He smiled at her and continued his work.

Ridhdhi gathered enough courage to go closer and examine the work.  It was a beautiful oil-paint, almost done.  The beauty of the surrounding hills was magically translated into the painting.

“Very very beautiful, Sir.” Rihdhi said.

“Thanks that you liked it.”

“You are from this place?”

“Yes my child, what about you?”

The conservation warmed up and now the stranger had pushed aside his paint brush to listen to Ridhdhi.  Where she came from, why her Mum is not with her, how she manager to move about on her own.  Uma’s advises about not be-friending strangers never was effective enough with this vivacious teenager.  It was clear that the stranger totally enjoyed the conversation.

They found a place to sit near the fence, overlooking the beautiful misty valley.   He told her about himself, his love for painting, that he did painting for earning a living too and about this little town embraced by the mesmerizing hills.  It was clear that this man was in total love with this place.

And then, suddenly, without much warning, the clouds gathered fast and sharp, icy rain drops came down.  Ridhdhi hurried towards her bi cycle but before that she thought of helping the stranger in gathering his things, lest the painting is spoiled by the water.  They successfully put them inside his car.  “I must rush now.” Ridhdhi said.

“No, wait, you will be drenched fully.  Come to my place and wait for sometimes.  Once the rain stops, you can go back.

“What about my bi-cycle?”

“Nandu will take care of it”.  While saying this, he took the bicycle to the nearby tea and snacks stall and asked the owner to guard it till they come back.  Ridhdhi could see that this person and Nandu knew each other well.

Nandu agreed and so Ridhdhi jumped into the car.  “Have a cup of hot chocolate in my place.” He said.  “I am not a baby anymore. Can you make some coffee?”

The stranger smiled at her.  He wondered, whether he should drop her to the lodge where she was staying, but then what about the bi-cycle? And moreover, some precious time over coffee, celebrating the new friendship was not a bad idea.

In 5 minutes, they reached his place.  It was a small little cozy cottage with lots of flowers and a small fountain.  Ridhdhi liked it immediately.  They rushed in to avoid getting drenched further and once they were quite settled, Ridhdhi took out her mobile to inform her mum.

“I must call Mum.  Her Highness, Uma Singh will be, otherwise fretting and walking up and down.”

“Uma Singh? From Bhopal?”  The stranger’s eyes broadened to reflect some familiarity.

“Yeah, my mum.”  Ridhdhi answered and walked towards the large window, while dialing her mum’s no.

From a distance, he could see that Mum and daughter were having a long and somewhat frantic talk over the phone.  Obviously, thought the stranger; her Mum should be worried about her little one spending time with a stranger.

“Mums are like that you know.”  Ridhdhi explained as she came near him.

“She wants to have a word with you.” Ridhdhi handed over the mobile to him.

His hands were already shaking as he took the mobile.  Uma Singh’s mention had sent known thrills and unexplained doubts throughout his mind.

“Hello…” he somehow managed to speak.

“Listen gentleman.  I request you to drop my child to the lodge NOW.  Her bi cycle, we will pick up later.  I want her back in 15 min or else…you know what..”  Uma switched off then.  The emergency was now strongly felt between the strangers.  Both hurried towards the gate.

“Uma…from Bhopal.  By any chance, is she from Academy of fine Arts?

“She is…” Ridhdhi said; not yet recovered from the reprimand she just received from her mum.

He knew Uma was from the Academy of Fine Arts.  Her voice had not changed through the years. She was the same Uma.  He just wanted to be reassured, by Ridhdhi.

Angry Uma.  Super Confident Uma.  Uma, who did not give this man a second chance when he was in doubt about walking into matrimony.  Uma walked off, instead and was lost in time.  He never could find her.

But what about Ridhdhi?  “What you said, was your dad’s name?”

“I said I never HAD a dad.” Ridhdhi was evidently very disturbed.

The stranger’s thoughts took a trajectory straight towards what he feared it would take him to.  He shivered now and almost lost the control of the car.

“Watch out..sir.”  Ridhdhi cried.

He looked at Ridhdhi.  So, this the THE child.  She never HAD a dad, she said.

 

He looked at her searching for his own reflection in her.  But this child was completely an image of the same Uma.  He felt a fierce pang somewhere near his stomach which moved up and up to almost choke him.

And he was now about to meet her!  He could feel his limbs going totally numb as they approached the pathway leading to the lodge reception.  There he knew, would be Uma, ready to shower her rage on him.  He wanted to turn back and leave but then there was this little one who had to be safely placed back into her mum’s lap.  After all, that is how she had brought her up.

What would be Uma's reaction when he saw him? Clouds of doubt gathered inside his mind.

Once they reached, Ridhdhi rushed towards their room.  Thankfully Uma was not waiting at the reception.  This was a God sent moment for the stranger to regain some of his senses. 

He was still in a complete dilemma, confusion and haze in the mind as Ridhdhi went forward and pushed the door bell…………………………………………

 

Pumpkin eater___________________Uncle Peter !

Peter, Peter

Pumpkin eater

Had a wife and could’n keep her

So he kept her in a pumpkin shell

And there he kept her very well…

And he remained in the shell too and loved it.  Uncle Peter thought social interaction was a complete wastage of time.  After all, life is too short to look at others when the self is so over-looming!

We were (un)fortunate enough to be his neighbor.  We cannot choose our parents.  Alright.  Uncle Peter also proved it that we (many a times) cannot choose our neighbours too.  Okay. His thoughts may have been similar to ours, as far as choosing ones neighbor is considered.

Uncle Peter was often seen riding a Hercules bicycle, wearing a simple slipper, a strap of which had given way and examining fish against the day light in the morning market.  He preferred painting the town red (!?) on his bicycle although he proudly owned an old, elegant, stylish BRAND Ambassador.

Uncle Peter did not believe in those curves of the mouth called SMILE.  He rather placed his faith on the curves of upper part of his face, like the eye-brows and fore head.  He was often spotted with those, highlighted by thick hair, painted black, abundantly with some dye.

We youngsters were the reason behind much of his irritation.  He either thought that we took too long to grow up or he was too jealous of our age.  His anger was manifested by his frequent sermons on his life which would end with the wisdom, “Work to talk”.  As if we were a bunch of lazy bones, bent on ruining our own and the nation’s future!

He had special dislike for me.  My fault no 1. I was a non-resident Bengali who was….fault no 2. also convent educated.  According to him the convent educated non resident Bengali girls always wore an ‘ATTITUDE’.

He had dislike for every living thing walking on hind legs, actually.  We often found his wife absent for months together; apparently she often went to her parents’ place searching for some retreat.  Anyone with XY chromosome would face his wrath when they posed the question, “How is Mrs Peter? We have not seen her since long”.  His single pointed answer would be, “Why are YOU so concerned?”  That’s how the older XY chromosome bearers stopped asking about their wellbeing and that’s how younger ones took to frequently throwing the same question at him, for some fun.

Uncle Peter had hired a Security person, Ghosh, to guard his ‘Pumpkin Shell’.  The person was, as we had heard it, fired from the military when he showed much timidity, refusing to go for some tough relief works.  The Security Person happily accepted his new job.  He had only one small problem; he could not hear well.  So, whenever our Uncle Peter rung the calling bell on his study table, summoning him, Ghosh continued keeping his guard outside, beaming happily on his chair and musing! Uncle Peter had to often storm out and rebuke Ghosh to which he with equal élan would admit that he thought it was a bicycle outside.  Many a times, when Uncle Peter was engrossed in his work, Ghosh would rush in to enquire if he had rung the calling bell.  Uncle Peter had to explain that it was ACTUALLY a bicycle outside this time.

I once got caught with my insufficient knowledge.  Uncle Peter once asked me if I had an email id.  That was the time when the E-mail era was just stepping into our lives.  He asked, “Where did you open your account?”  I said, “AT Yahoo.com, Uncle”.  Uncle Peter was angered once again at the lack of coherence exhibited by the Non Resident Bengali Convent Read girl.  He vehemently clarified, “I wanted to know in which Internet Café you opened an account?” J J J  I was too meek to reply anything that would displease him.  So I quickly replied, “Oh—K. In the café near my house, the Connection Next Café” And took an eternal flight from the place.

Later, I heard that Charlie, a young(prank)ster enlightened Uncle Peter by informing that he needs to submit his PAN card photocopy, Bank Account statement, Age proof and Marriage Certificate in the nearest Bank branch to open an Account in the neighborhood Internet Café.  (Charlie’s funeral will, sooner or later happen!)

Moron marooned Uncle Peter once asked me to type his CV.  His was a 6-pages CV which included saga of even the one day workshops he had attended, during his 35 years of professional life.  I offered some professionalism by suggesting that a CV should not be more than a page or a two.  To which he replied, “You prepare a one page CV for yourself. I have EXPERIENCE.”  Needless to say, I let the 6-pager make its way to some organisation.

Uncle Peter was a man of formats, formulas and time frame.  Once he asked us to join his family for a prayer service.  We wonder what made him do that, knowing how much he loved us.  He fixed the itinerary.

Well, I have not met Uncle Peter since then.  We had to move out of the city and never saw him after that.  Before moving out, I met him to inform about my matrimony fixed with a person living at the other side of the country.  He replied, “Well…wrong choice.”  Well, I really had no much expectation from Uncle Peter.

However, the incidences are the ones which make us laugh and many of us old neighbours share, whenever we meet.  Uncle Peter, as we heard, is still enjoying his Pumpkin Shell and Aunt still peeps out at times for some breath of fresh air.  The 3G Generation continues asking about her wellbeing and gets the similar answers..…

Some people and some things never change..

Long live Uncle Peter….

Anindita Baidya

4 July 2013

Photo: from Internet

The Heart of Giving

My child and I were in the middle of scanning her toy basket for giving away some toys to our domestic help, for her grandson.  This is a regular activity; her dresses, especially, go away to some children at the roadside temporary shacks, to the auto drivers or the domestic helps.

“Amma, give away this doll, I do not like it anymore” said my child.  I, with all the detachment philosophy I could master, preached, “Come on, the real satisfaction of giving is when you give away something which you like, which you are attached to.”

To that, my baby picked up her Indian-Barbie doll and said, immediately, ‘Then let us give away this”.

It was my chance to be upset now; all the inflated Buddha-ism of sacrifice was out, as if someone had pricked in a pin into my ego!  I was shocked. I had bought that particular Indian Barbie for my daughter, online, shelling out about ` 800 for that doll and it was just about few months ago. I explained to my child that this doll was not okay for a little child since its long synthetic hair may chock him and that is how I saved the doll and kept at home.

But my child had shown me my mirror image.  I wondered, where did all my preaching about letting go, vanish?

I once got a phone call from my dear friend who had to lighten her heavy heart, she said.  She had just viewed a photograph of her ex-boy friend with his wife.  What disturbed her mostly, was that he was holding his wife’s hands very affectionately.  It has been 20 years that they had parted ways, very amicably and they had remained good friends. She told me that she never had imagined that even after 20 years, the photograph of her ex holding his wife’s hands would cause such turmoil!  She felt  cheated, again and her wounds bled fresh! She felt those hands belonged only to her!

Had not she let go off her past, even after 20 years, even after she was a happy lady with a very happy family and three sweet kids?

How does a person let go? How does one forgive and how does one forget?

I remember reading a book where the author says that the mind saves its first memories.  It does not apply logic.  When my friend was with her ex, the mind knew they were together for life.  Any new developments in her life and new entrants were unsaved files as far as mind was concerned.  She and he belonged to each other; that was it!

The book also talked about using rituals to let go.  For example, the author herself actually throws her previous wedding ring into fire before saying she said ‘Yes’ to her new partner.  Her previous marriage had been an utter failure and she had found a real partner in her new man but she was unable to say yes to any kind of long time commitment, marriage, to be precise.

When memories are left lingering in the air, those bubbles tend to return and hit us softly.  Do we need to prick them, burst them to bring us back to the reality?

The biggest letting go I have done in my life was let my father go.  No, not that we could anyway hold him back.  We are only pawns in the game of providence.  But sitting beside my ailing father, I prayed the Almighty to do what is best, for Almighty knows what is best.  My mother and my brother did the same, they said.  And my father left for the heavenly abode, never to be with us in the body he had received during this birth.

And in no time, we believed, heart and soul that he was no more.

People depart or leave our lives but memories remain.  Mind is a selective memory keeper and some of these feed our emotions times and again.  Memories feed our need for that sheer joy of pain, sheer satisfaction of sorrow, the pleasure of self-pity and sometimes feeling of helplessness.

And yes, it has no logic…….

At times most illogical repentance, grievance, house in the most logical hearts and minds.   Even after my father long gone, I feel helpless when an incidence surfaces my memory.

While traversing the long hot and windy lands of Gujarat once, my father wanted to have some Sprite to cool off.  Always vigilant about his diabetes status, I asked him not to and he immediately complied. But I keep telling myself that this man was tired and thirsty and he really needed that but should have I let him have his cold drink or was I right in caring for the diabetes? It has no logic; at least, no logic any more since the person concerned is no more.  But this guilt, I could never let off. Even within an hour of his death, I cried, saying that I did not put some water into his mouth at the last moment.  My neighbors told me that being a science student, I should not feel guilty of such things but then, what has heart to do with science!  For months to come I would dream of my father asking for water and that dream no more comes to me.  Many would have many interpretations of that dream, I have never asked anyone but I only know that illogical guilt of not letting him have that cold drink still has a place in my mind, I have not let go off it!

Travel light, they say. How light? What is the measure?  Lightness has not measure, weight has. 

Most of us have a clear account of what WE have done for others and what OTHERS have NOT done for us. Spiritual texts says in charity, one hand should never be aware of what the other gives away . “Neki kar, dariya mein daal”. 

I had read somewhere, “In fights, never bring up the past”.  And how true is that.  Fight, don’t sulk, fight fairly, fight about today, they say.  Let go off some baggage, in day to day basis…..or else the travel will be too tough.

But, then, while travelling, we need some food and water.  Those are the lessons we learn, which we need for safe keep.

So, while I am not travelling empty, questions linger my mind.  Even when I think I have forgotten, forgiven, how much have I done that?  Am I so graceful? No, I don’t think I am.

So, while my good friend still sulks at the photograph of her ex and I still bear the guilt about my father, I am happy that my thoughts have at least travelled to this path and one day I may be more graceful in throwing away unwanted baggage’s in some unknown well, never to be dig again.

Happy travelling to myself….

 Photo: from internet

Words' Worth

As I was waiting for my food at the restaurant, I watched different people around; this being my favourite pass-time.  A pot bellied gentleman, with quite snobbish ways, ordered the food.  It was clear from his behavior that he was the one, receiving the guest.  As the waiter was moving away, he called him again and with a lot of attitude, added, “Aur tomato soup ke saath woh TOSS bhi le aanaa”.

I took me some time to understand what toss he wanted.  Well, he wanted the Bread Toast. 

We, jolly Indians do not speak the Queen’s English; nor do we speak Kings Hindi or any other Indian language..for that matter.  Dialects change here with every district and it is a pleasure and sometimes a surprise to note the little but interesting variations.  I admit I could hardly understand my grandma’s Bangla!  And my hubby tells me which is ‘Tam Brahm Tamil’ and which is a ‘Typical Madras’ Tamil when we watch some Tamil movie together.

I was brought up in Ranchi, which was a part of Bihar, then.  My mother refused to learn Hindi on the pretext that she will blissfully remain unaware of any bad words the neighbours would mouth, although with time, she did pick up bits and pieces of it: only bits and pieces.  My father, on the other hand, took to local style of Hindi with much élan.  So, he would break into those ‘Jaibey karenge” and “Khaibe Karenge” with no mercy.

My mother should receive some kind of Premchand Award for Hindi or so..!  She would address my boy-classfriends as ‘Anindita ke Dost” and my girl-class friends as ‘Anindita kee Dosti!

Once I overheard her saying this timeless sentence to the girl who helped us with the domestic chores, “Tumhara Uncle bahut achcha badboo waalaa chaawal laaya”.  My mother’s audience rolled and roared with laughter.

But my mother’s spirit was not to be dimmed!  She still continues to say ‘Dal-Chaal’ for ‘Dal Chawal’ and that makes me feel she is going to serve raw uncooked rice (Chaal refers to the uncooked rice in Bangla).  She asked my Tamil father-in-law once , “Shombar achcha hua?” She was actually seeking feedback on the Sambhar she had prepared.  My father-in-law took time to understand it and now refers to Sambhar as Somvaar and plain Daal as Mangalvar, for my mother’s benefit J J

My father-in-law, himself, has his own credentials.  He speaks the Vivid Bharti and Bollywood Hindi. He told me once, “Unn dino Ravi-vaar ko film dekhne ke liye hamaare ghar mein huzoom lagti thi”.  He sometimes complains of ‘Julaab’ and still gets the Tarkari from the Bazaar.  (Well, we do still refer to veggies as Tarkari in Bangla but in Hindi, it is quite a long lost word.)  So one day he said, “Tarkari lekar aa raha tha, dekha faatak par santri khade hain”.  He also gets ‘Achchi Baas waali chawal’ from market and when he met me for the first time, he wanted to be sure that I really liked his son.  So, in a very filmy tone, he asked me, “Kya tum uss-se mohabbat kartee ho?”

Raising toasts to the AIR, he loves to listen to ‘Vidhva Bharti’ / विधवा भारती (he loves to twist the names) and one day made me laugh as he broke into his own twisted version, “Yeh mera prem patra Phaarkar..tum naraaz na hona’.

My meighbour whose name is Ranganayaki has been nick named as Nayaki by her family.  For many days my mother would mistake her name as Nightie.  L

Once in West Bengal, I was talking about the responsibilities of a farmer’s Board.  I enquired how they refer to Chairperson in Bangla.  The answer was, “Oi paati Banglaaye Chairman ke President boli” (We refer to Chairman as President, in our colloquial Bangla).

Yes, many of the English words are now part of Hindi vocabulary.  So we provide ‘Motivation’ not ‘Utpreran’ and conduct ‘Monitoring’, not ‘Anushravan’.  It is like, “Anushravan kya hota hai….hindi mein bolo na Monitoring…..”

During one of my first visits to villages in the Malwa (MP), I had this interesting incident.  As I finished my discussions with some women of a household, I asked for leave. The said, “Baitho Didi.”  I sat down but again told them that I really had to leave, it is time.  They reperated, “Baitho Didi.” I was surprised and a bit irritated too.  I wondered, “Were they about to serve tea again? Why are they asking me to sit?”  Only much later I realized that “Baitho” is the way they say “Bye”.  Like, “Esho” in Bangla.

During some of those initial village meetings, when sometimes it would get quite noisy or agitated, I would often request, “Arey…Shant ho jaao Bhabhi…”.  And Shant Ho Jana in Malwa is ‘Bhagwan ke pyaare ho jaanaa’.  In Gujarat, the death is referred to as ‘Off thai Giu.’

It is interesting and sometimes hilarious to experience these local diversions which only add colours to our lives.  My mother, who is a plump lady was walking by some flower vendors near a temple.  A guy, with a lot of respect called, “Moti Ben, phool le jaao’.  Mother’s face turned puple with anger.  What an audacious guy he is, she thought.  I later explained that Moti Ben is Badi Behan.

People from some parts of Saurashtra has this habit of saying a sentence in both Gujarati and English punctuated with an ‘Etle ke..’.  So, “Aa hamaari potaani sanstha etle ke own organisation chhe.’

So while we take a ‘Jummevari’ for our own luggage in MP, we also count to ‘Gunnis’ (19) and ‘Guntiss’ (29).  We ‘helai di’ (Fele di—throw away) the rotten veggies in Tripura while have distinct rule for greeting ‘Pranam’ and ‘Namaste’ in UP (when and to whom).  Language is also like the Dosa which has a different recipe at different places and referred to Dhosa, Dosha or even Daunsa in different places. 

So let us enjoy this colorful rainbow of dialect which will make our life’s’ journey all the more enjoyable and I am sure I will be able to add some more to this post as time passes by…..

Rani's Keeper

It was a cold rainy and windy morning when he let Rani fly. The rains ploughed the wet ground and Raka stood there, threw a glance at the angry clouds and let Rani take its course.

Rani had been with Raka since last five years. The pristine white dove was a messenger from his beloved, the beautiful, doe eyed Noori, the daughter of the clan leader. Noori, brought up within the confines of the patriarchal household, was never familiar with the world that existed beyond the windows of her little room. The great Rann stretched for miles and she wondered what it would be like, to run across the dunes, hide from her father and cross the desert, to a newer world, if any.

During lonely nights she longed to hear her mother’s voice among the twinkling stars. Her mother had become one of those stars just after Noori took birth. That is what was explained to her, by her grandmother. After her grandmother left to join the stars, the shroud of loneliness covered her and she remained inside it, never knowing the smell of the rain on the ground.

Raka, the camel keeper delivered provisions to the clan leader’s house. They were just in their teens when Raka and Noori first met. Raka followed his father to the daily chores at Noori’s house and the two eyes met and the time took the youngsters to a different plane. They met every day, with a shy glance, at Noori’s house. Her father was too confident of the boundaries laid by him and was oblivion to the lights dancing in his young daughter’s eyes whenever Raka came in.

In the huge mansion guarded by high walls, Noori and Raka did not have difficulty in finding solitude for those few moments when the love blossomed.

Noori’s pet bird Rani then played messengers to the lovers. They sent little love messages to each other, while the world went on without any knowledge of the love that was now ready to come to a full bloom.

But…. Noori was married off. She was already 15 and it was a concern for the honorable Sardar to have his daughter unmarried even at this age. The two could not utter a word and in no time their world came down crashing under the harsh storm of providence.

Before leaving for her new home, Noori sent Rani forever, to Raka.

And Rani stayed with him. For Raka, Rani symbolized everything that Noori was. Childhood love, youthful desires, lost companionship and woes of a bleeding heart.

Rani stayed with Raka throughout the years. Rani stayed with Raka when Noori crossed the desert to build a new home. Rani stayed with him when Noori devoted herself to her marital duties. Rani stayed with Raka when Noori was sent back to her father’s home as a punishment for bearing two baby girls within three years. Noori’s family could no more take the ‘misfortune’ the bride had brought to the family by bearing girl children. So she was sent back.

Raka built little hopes about asking Noori’s hands in matrimony from the Sardar. He also willed to take care of the little girls. Only if…only if..the Sardar agreed.

Only Rani saw the delicate heart beneath the tough exterior of the dark tall rustic camel rearer.

Raka would lie under the scorching sun waiting for Noori while Rani gave him company. He would lie under the stars and hope Noori would one day break all bondages and run into his arms and he would take her away from all her worries. Rani seemed to know all that.

But Noori never came. She submitted to the shackles gifted to her by her life. And one day Noori left again, once again to her husband’s home after some negotiations between the two clans.

The empty heart of Raka kept beating like drums and Rani heard it all.

And one day clouds gathered and like an army, broke through the vast Rann. The big raindrops ploughed out the wounds from the heart of the earth.

Then the news travelled fast, like a lightning, through the dunes to Raka that his beloved was now one among those stars in the sky. She left the unjust world, soon after making her family proud; after giving birth to a healthy boy.

Raka stood atop a dune, tried to scream and tear the earth and the skies. From somewhere Rani flew to his shoulders. Did he have a message still to be sent to his beloved?

He let it fly…..across the Rann, to the horizon….for good.

“Good bye and God Bless my Rani….till we meet someday, among those stars”

May God bless the messenger