Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 28

Tough Love and Other Stories

I hope you got a chance to read “Immortal and Other Stories“ and “People We Know and Other Stories“.

There is another book of short stories “Tough Love and Other Stories“ that I have released on November 4th.

Book Description:

Who said love was simple and uncomplicated? Here are fourteen stories about people who have loved. These are stories about complex human beings driven in myriad directions by their emotion of love.

In this book, you will find stories like these:

What does a young man do when The End of the World is declared?A young woman finds that memories of past love haunt her in The Evening Train.A middle-aged man in a seemingly happy marriage thinks about Possibilities.When a woman is lost in turmoil, she takes a Train to Nowhere.A mother and son talk in Wake-Up Alarm and battle in A Bad BargainWhat if a man fell in love with a droid? Or a robot found love in a human?Read about these.. and many more.

You will find engrossing stories of love, emotion, and relationships in this quick read collection.

How to Get the Book:

The book is now available on Amazon (Kindle)

You can read it on your Kindle Device or on the Free Kindle App.

It is also available under Books on my website, as well as on other ebook stores. Check out the book details at this link here.

Happy Reading, and would be great if you leave a review after you read it!

***

True Risk

“What if you find yourself in the middle of an ocean on a boat that is sure to sink?” Jigneshbhai asked me and Swami the other day. Swami was caught at that time dipping a cookie in his coffee, and it broke and sank.

“What kind of arbitrary question is that?” Swami raised his eyebrows while he searched for the drowned cookie with a spoon. “Why would I get on to that kind of boat?” he further mused.

“Of course, no one gets on to such a boat on their own. Let’s say you got on to the boat to get to another shore,” Jigneshbhai explained.

“Yes. So then, I will make sure that it gets to that shore,” Swami tried to close the topic, morbid as it seemed to him and me. But Jigneshbhai wasn’t done.

“But let’s say you realise once you are on it that there is no such shore. You have been misled,” Jigneshbhai added another imaginary condition. “Plus the boat is definitely going to sink. You don’t know when, but it’s going to sink for sure. It’s only a matter of time. What would you do then?” Jigneshbhai persisted with his hypothetical situation. Swami and I didn’t quite like it.

Swami and I had a few sips of coffee as we didn’t have any answer. I hoped that during this silent detour, this unpleasant topic would itself sink, and a new topic would emerge. But nothing like that happened.

Even in the silence that followed, Swami had been ticked off. His brain was the first to react. His mouth was the first to open.

“Maybe I will check my supplies to make sure I don’t die of hunger before the boat sinks,” Swami said.

“OK and then?” Jigneshbhai probed.

Swami and I looked at each other.

“Then maybe I will learn to swim or stay afloat, just in case. Maybe I can save myself by staying afloat when the boat sinks,” Swami said jokingly.

Jigneshbhai had a broad grin on his face. He was pleased with what he heard, perhaps.

“OK then? You have got your supplies. You have learnt swimming. And after that, the boat doesn’t sink, yet. But it’s going to. What do you then?” he asked.

“Well, I will look around the sights. Enjoy the trip, while it lasts,” Swami said.

Jigneshbhai clapped his hands and pumped his fist hard onto Swami. He seemed incredibly happy on hearing the answers.

“That is true courage,” he said.

Swami looked at me. Both of us were thinking the same thing. Had our friend gone bonkers? What’s true courage in this? I thought Swami was enjoying his boat ride.

“True courage? I was just kidding,” Swami asked and smiled. But Jigneshbhai continued.

“To face risk when everything goes to zero is true courage,” he said, looking into blank space. Swami and I glared at each other again. This time we were convinced that Jigneshbhai had indeed lost some of his nuts. He was talking of risk and courage and we couldn’t make out head and tail of it.

Jigneshbhai was shaken out of his dreamy stupor by Swami.

“I thought we were talking about sinking boats. How did everything go to zero? And what has all this got to do with risk and courage?” Swami interjected.

Jigneshbhai looked at us and smiled again.

“Well, when the boat sinks, everything goes to zero, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes, it does,” Swami said, and I nodded.

“Everything, your food, your supplies. Your swimming, nothing matters when the boat sinks, isn’t it?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Yes, I guess so,” Swami answered, squirming in his seat, in a tentative tone.

“And I told you the boat is going to sink anyway, isn’t it?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Yes, you did,” Swami replied. All questions had Yes as the answer, it seemed.

“And you still said you will enjoy the sights and the ride, fully knowing the risk, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I did, I guess,” Swami answered Yes again with his tentativeness rising again.

“So isn’t that courage?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Well, yes, it is, I guess. But maybe I forgot that the boat is going to sink. Or didn’t I?” Swami murmured this time.

Jigneshbhai was still smiling thought.

That’s when I saw the wealthy old man walk across to our table from the adjoining table. He tapped Swami on his shoulder. He left us with more food for thought with what he said.

“True courage is in being prepared for the risk of everything going to zero. It is in enjoying the ride while still on the boat. Because eventually all boats, small or big, are destined to sink.”

***

Structured Flexibility

The other day over coffee, Jigneshbhai told Swami “Decide and automate your investments so that you don’t give yourself a chance to change your mind.”

Swami revolted. “But there are always unforeseen circumstances due to which I want to change my mind,” he said.

Jigneshbhai smiled and said, “Leave some space to foresee the unforeseen, but only some.”

Swami wasn’t convinced entirely.

“Too much structure seems rigid,” he remarked.

“Too much flexibility gets nothing done,” Jigneshbhai retorted.

I couldn’t decide which of my friends I agreed with more. Both of them seemed to have a point.

But it didn’t escape me that for any endeavour where you want to change from a state of A to a state of B, there needs to be an adequate mix of structure and flexibility.

It doesn’t matter what it’s about, I reckoned. A ready proof was provided by Swami himself after a few moments of pondering over it, as usual. 

“Even Sam told me something on the same lines last week,” Swami said. Sam was Swami’s personal gym trainer.

“The number of days you attend the gym in a month should be fixed, he said. I felt this was tough to follow. But then he added some breathing space. He said, when you do it and what you do there is open,” Swami reported with a mixed feeling.

“Sam went on after that. Five days a week follow the recommended diet. Couple of days you can cheat. You decide which are which,” Swami added.

I realised that structured flexibility was essentially a mind trick.

“We cannot trust our mind. It is an imposter,” the wealthy old man had told us once in one of his cryptic talks. I remembered his words. “Your mind can be a friend sometimes, but often it is the enemy within. The problem is it is difficult to say which role it is playing when,” he had added. “Hence you cheat it.”

When we provide structure, we are basically telling the mind to not tell us what to do every time.

It will still interfere but can be told to shut up. Then it can be cajoled with some flexibility, increasing the chances of sustained endeavour. Therefore, it is a mind trick.

But Swami still wasn’t convinced.

“Too much structure without flexibility does not work for me,” he told Jigneshbhai. “I can’t follow such rigid rules. Enough of them at work. Following them even in rest of my life is too much. I need some freedom to operate,” he pleaded persistently.

Jigneshbhai stayed silent and continued munching his muffin. He realised that, sometimes, no amount of cajoling is going to convince Swami. This seemed like one of those times.

His problem was solved by the wealthy old man who walked from the table next to ours towards Swami. He had been listening to our talk as usual.

 “You are right,” the wealthy old man said looking at Swami and took a seat. “Too much structure without flexibility may not work for you,” he said. It brought a smile to Swami’s face.

He sighed a heave of relief. He thought, for once, he was right and Jigneshbhai was wrong. He was happy that the wealthy old man agreed with him.

But it turned out to be a short-lived moment of joy for Swami as the wealthy old man then added, “But with too much flexibility without structure, you may not work.”

***

Helmet Uncle: Short Story

Rajappa got ready and put on his helmet. He sat on his bicycle, started riding it, and soon reached the apartment complex. He must have been the only person who wore a helmet while riding a bicycle. He never forgot it. He was called Helmet Uncle by the kids wherever he went for the past thirty years.

“Rajappa open the gate,” he heard his security supervisor shouting while his mind meandered.

A car honked as it waited outside the gate. Rajappa, shaken out of his reverie while staring at his parked bicycle, adjusted his helmet and rushed to pull the gate open.

“Sorry Sir,” he apologised to the owner of the car, who drove with a smirk on his face. He couldn’t see Rajappa under his helmet.

As the car passed, in the rear seat, Rajappa saw a young boy of six or seven smile and wave at him. He had high cheeks, a small nose, and hair flowing due to the breeze. But what struck Rajappa most was his effervescent smile. He smiled and waved at Rajappa. Rajappa did the same instantly.

“Wait, wait a second,” the wife ordered her husband, who pulled over the car to the side. “Tell the supervisor to send someone. We need help to get all the stuff upstairs,” she said.

“Security,” the driver of the car howled.

“Yes, Sir?” the security supervisor went running towards the car.

“Please send someone to the basement to help in the luggage,” he instructed.

“Yes, Sir,” he said and, on returning to his cabin, he signalled to Rajappa to go to the basement.

The wife was clearly not impressed as she saw Rajappa meander slowly towards the basement, still with his helmet on his head.

“Why do we have so many old security guards? Of what use will this old security guard be in lifting the luggage?“ she murmured as her husband drove the car into the basement. “He can’t even remember to take off his helmet,” she remarked as she saw Rajappa in the rear-view mirror.

When Rajappa reached their parking slot, the couple had parked the car and the boy was jumping around in excitement. Rajappa stole a glance at the boy. He still had his smile intact. When his father opened the trunk, the boy’s joy knew no bounds. Rajappa had a big grin on his face.

“Vihaan, please stand steadily, let me get all the bags out,” the father instructed. “You go stand near the lift.” But Vihaan stood right there eagerly, peeping into the trunk.

“Helmet Uncle,” Vihaan yelled, pointing his finger when he saw Rajappa walk towards the car.

The trunk was full of bags. One bag had plates, plastic cutlery, cups, and table covers. Another bag contained party hats, candles, games, crafts, and ribbons. In the third were balloons, banners, door signs, some stickers, crayons and return gifts. In a few other bags were food packs, drinks, packs of ice cream and a big birthday cake. There was one with some more sundry items.

Vihaan jumped around as his parents sorted everything and got it ready to be lifted.

“Security,” his father called out when he saw Rajappa.

“Yes, Sir?”

“6th Floor, Flat 604.”

“Okay Sir.”

The father started handing over the bags to Rajappa.

“Helmet Uncle,” Vihaan giggled, pointing to Rajappa.

“Will you not remove your helmet?” his father asked, intrigued.

“Sir, I will manage,” Rajappa replied. He lifted the bags in his hands first, then loaded a couple of them on to his shoulders. When that overflowed, one of the bags found its way under his armpit.

“How long are you going to take? The lift is here,” Vihaan’s mother shouted from a distance.

With Rajappa carrying the load, Vihaan danced and walked beside him. Rajappa smiled at him. He tried to tap his foot and dance a bit with Vihaan when his parents weren’t looking.

“Security be careful. Don’t break anything,” Vihaan’s mother warned.

She frowned when she saw Rajappa with the food bag under his armpit. She pulled it without warning. It shook some of the other bags and, in turn, swayed Rajappa’s balancing act a wee bit. His head wobbled under the helmet. He managed to hang on and tottered into the lift.

When they reached the flat, Rajappa stood in front of the door waiting to be called inside.

“Security, what are you waiting for? Come in,” Vihaan’s father yelled.

“Yes, Sir,” Rajappa said and walked inside. He kept all the bags near the shoe rack at the entrance. Vihaan smiled at him, amused to see him still working with his helmet on. He started picking up some of the ribbons and candles from Rajappa’s hand.

“Not there, get it here,” Vihaan’s mother snapped. “Put it here on the table,” she ordered.

Rajappa picked up the bags he had kept down and took them to the table. He removed the items one by one and placed them carefully. He had never seen a grand birthday party like this. Vihaan jumped in delight and waved at Rajappa. With the job done, Rajappa turned around to leave.

“Security,” Vihaan’s mother called out.

“Yes, Madam?”

“Our guests will start coming in some time. Please don’t call on the intercom every time to check.”

“Yes, Madam.”

 “And let them park their cars in the visitor car park.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rajappa started walking.

“One thing more,” Vihaan’s mother called out and Rajappa stopped in his steps. “The pizza delivery boy will also come in an hour or so. Don’t stop him.”

“Yes, Madam.” Rajappa started walking back again.

“Yeah, and when you go down please send the electrician urgently,” his father reminded Rajappa.

“Yes, Sir,” he said and started walking for the last time.

“He is leaving,” Vihaan’s mother told her husband. He pulled out his wallet in a hurry.

“Thank you, Sir,” Rajappa said. “Happy Birthday Vihaan,” he smiled and left.

“These old security guards are quite useless. I don’t know if he heard everything, especially with his helmet on,” Vihaan’s mother complained to her husband when Rajappa had gone out of sight.

After he left, Rajappa cleared the visitor parking area for their guests. He also made some space for the pizza delivery boy’s vehicle. He then called the electrician, who he knew must be smoking at the tea stall outside. Thereafter, he returned to his duty and waited at the main gate for Vihaan’s guests.

He removed his helmet and kept it on the seat of his bicycle for a moment. He got his mirror out of the pocket and started combing his grey hair. The face in the mirror did not seem like his own. It was much younger. He looked at it and then touched his own face. The skin had crumpled. There were wrinkles all around. The dark circles under the eyes had taken over most of the face. Rajappa remembered that he used to be so much more handsome thirty years back.

The effects of the night shifts that he had done in his youth were now evident. He needed to do it when he had a family. He regretted doing them now. He used to be sleepy all through the day due to that. It was a heavy cost to pay.

He looked back in the mirror, only to see the three of them again, a picture so perfect that it hadn’t left him for the past thirty years, the one he searched for everywhere he went. How could he forget his six-year-old’s smile in that picture? Srini would have turned thirty-six today.

And next to his child was his young wife, who looked so fresh and happy in there, while he himself looked sleepy after his night shift that morning. How could he forget that morning when he was taking them to Srini’s birthday lunch treat on his new bicycle? He did not wear a helmet that day. Neither did they.

Rajappa wore the helmet again in a hurry. Vihaan’s guests were going to be here soon.

***

This story was first published in the June 2021 issue of Anti Heroin Chic, a collective journal of poetry, artwork, essays, stories and more. You can read it here.

PS: For more stories like this, check out People We Know here.

Helmet Uncle

Rajappa got ready and put on his helmet. He sat on his bicycle, started riding it, and soon reached the apartment complex. He must have been the only person who wore a helmet while riding a bicycle. He never forgot it. He was called Helmet Uncle by the kids wherever he went for the past thirty years.

“Rajappa open the gate,” he heard his security supervisor shouting while his mind meandered.

A car honked as it waited outside the gate. Rajappa, shaken out of his reverie while staring at his parked bicycle, adjusted his helmet and rushed to pull the gate open.

“Sorry Sir,” he apologised to the owner of the car, who drove with a smirk on his face. He couldn’t see Rajappa under his helmet.

As the car passed, in the rear seat, Rajappa saw a young boy of six or seven smile and wave at him. He had high cheeks, a small nose, and hair flowing due to the breeze. But what struck Rajappa most was his effervescent smile. He smiled and waved at Rajappa. Rajappa did the same instantly.

“Wait, wait a second,” the wife ordered her husband, who pulled over the car to the side. “Tell the supervisor to send someone. We need help to get all the stuff upstairs,” she said.

“Security,” the driver of the car howled.

“Yes, Sir?” the security supervisor went running towards the car.

“Please send someone to the basement to help in the luggage,” he instructed.

“Yes, Sir,” he said and, on returning to his cabin, he signalled to Rajappa to go to the basement.

The wife was clearly not impressed as she saw Rajappa meander slowly towards the basement, still with his helmet on his head.

“Why do we have so many old security guards? Of what use will this old security guard be in lifting the luggage?“ she murmured as her husband drove the car into the basement. “He can’t even remember to take off his helmet,” she remarked as she saw Rajappa in the rear-view mirror.

When Rajappa reached their parking slot, the couple had parked the car and the boy was jumping around in excitement. Rajappa stole a glance at the boy. He still had his smile intact. When his father opened the trunk, the boy’s joy knew no bounds. Rajappa had a big grin on his face.

“Vihaan, please stand steadily, let me get all the bags out,” the father instructed. “You go stand near the lift.” But Vihaan stood right there eagerly, peeping into the trunk.

“Helmet Uncle,” Vihaan yelled, pointing his finger when he saw Rajappa walk towards the car.

The trunk was full of bags. One bag had plates, plastic cutlery, cups, and table covers. Another bag contained party hats, candles, games, crafts, and ribbons. In the third were balloons, banners, door signs, some stickers, crayons and return gifts. In a few other bags were food packs, drinks, packs of ice cream and a big birthday cake. There was one with some more sundry items.

Vihaan jumped around as his parents sorted everything and got it ready to be lifted.

“Security,” his father called out when he saw Rajappa.

“Yes, Sir?”

“6th Floor, Flat 604.”

“Okay Sir.”

The father started handing over the bags to Rajappa.

“Helmet Uncle,” Vihaan giggled, pointing to Rajappa.

“Will you not remove your helmet?” his father asked, intrigued.

“Sir, I will manage,” Rajappa replied. He lifted the bags in his hands first, then loaded a couple of them on to his shoulders. When that overflowed, one of the bags found its way under his armpit.

“How long are you going to take? The lift is here,” Vihaan’s mother shouted from a distance.

With Rajappa carrying the load, Vihaan danced and walked beside him. Rajappa smiled at him. He tried to tap his foot and dance a bit with Vihaan when his parents weren’t looking.

“Security be careful. Don’t break anything,” Vihaan’s mother warned.

She frowned when she saw Rajappa with the food bag under his armpit. She pulled it without warning. It shook some of the other bags and, in turn, swayed Rajappa’s balancing act a wee bit. His head wobbled under the helmet. He managed to hang on and tottered into the lift.

When they reached the flat, Rajappa stood in front of the door waiting to be called inside.

“Security, what are you waiting for? Come in,” Vihaan’s father yelled.

“Yes, Sir,” Rajappa said and walked inside. He kept all the bags near the shoe rack at the entrance. Vihaan smiled at him, amused to see him still working with his helmet on. He started picking up some of the ribbons and candles from Rajappa’s hand.

“Not there, get it here,” Vihaan’s mother snapped. “Put it here on the table,” she ordered.

Rajappa picked up the bags he had kept down and took them to the table. He removed the items one by one and placed them carefully. He had never seen a grand birthday party like this. Vihaan jumped in delight and waved at Rajappa. With the job done, Rajappa turned around to leave.

“Security,” Vihaan’s mother called out.

“Yes, Madam?”

“Our guests will start coming in some time. Please don’t call on the intercom every time to check.”

“Yes, Madam.”

 “And let them park their cars in the visitor car park.”

“Yes, Sir.” Rajappa started walking.

“One thing more,” Vihaan’s mother called out and Rajappa stopped in his steps. “The pizza delivery boy will also come in an hour or so. Don’t stop him.”

“Yes, Madam.” Rajappa started walking back again.

“Yeah, and when you go down please send the electrician urgently,” his father reminded Rajappa.

“Yes, Sir,” he said and started walking for the last time.

“He is leaving,” Vihaan’s mother told her husband. He pulled out his wallet in a hurry.

“Thank you, Sir,” Rajappa said. “Happy Birthday Vihaan,” he smiled and left.

“These old security guards are quite useless. I don’t know if he heard everything, especially with his helmet on,” Vihaan’s mother complained to her husband when Rajappa had gone out of sight.

After he left, Rajappa cleared the visitor parking area for their guests. He also made some space for the pizza delivery boy’s vehicle. He then called the electrician, who he knew must be smoking at the tea stall outside. Thereafter, he returned to his duty and waited at the main gate for Vihaan’s guests.

He removed his helmet and kept it on the seat of his bicycle for a moment. He got his mirror out of the pocket and started combing his grey hair. The face in the mirror did not seem like his own. It was much younger. He looked at it and then touched his own face. The skin had crumpled. There were wrinkles all around. The dark circles under the eyes had taken over most of the face. Rajappa remembered that he used to be so much more handsome thirty years back.

The effects of the night shifts that he had done in his youth were now evident. He needed to do it when he had a family. He regretted doing them now. He used to be sleepy all through the day due to that. It was a heavy cost to pay.

He looked back in the mirror, only to see the three of them again, a picture so perfect that it hadn’t left him for the past thirty years, the one he searched for everywhere he went. How could he forget his six-year-old’s smile in that picture? Srini would have turned thirty-six today.

And next to his child was his young wife, who looked so fresh and happy in there, while he himself looked sleepy after his night shift that morning. How could he forget that morning when he was taking them to Srini’s birthday lunch treat on his new bicycle? He did not wear a helmet that day. Neither did they.

Rajappa wore the helmet again in a hurry. Vihaan’s guests were going to be here soon.

***

This story was first published in the June 2021 issue of Anti Heroin Chic, a collective journal of poetry, artwork, essays, stories and more. You can read it here.

PS: For more stories like this, check out People We Know here.

Identity

“My father-in-law used to be a businessman,” Swami remarked while biting into his muffin. “But that was twenty years back. He is a grandfather now. And on weekends, he is a moviegoer.”

“Every few months, he becomes a traveller. He is also a devotee. And a reader. He has forgotten that he was a businessman, except when he talks of past memories.”

Jigneshbhai and I looked up at Swami and wondered why he was telling us about his father-in-law, out of the blue.

“Nice, many roles” I said, with nothing else to say.

“Yes, it’s nice, but I sometimes wonder,” Swami remarked.

This time Jigneshbhai and I took notice, while Swami reminisced over the taste of the muffin.

“What do you wonder?” Jigneshbhai asked.

“Hmm..,” Swami stared into blank space and said, “I wonder what our true identity is? I wonder that, twenty years from now, if I  will also forget Raichand and all these projects, why do I sweat over them so much now?”

Jigneshbhai and I looked at each other. Swami seemed to be in an uncharacteristically thoughtful mood. I hadn’t given this a thought. Jigneshbhai sipped from his coffee cup.

“Well, twenty years back, you took your studies seriously,” Jigneshbhai said, after a few moments. “Then you took your career seriously, then being a father seriously…”

“Yeah, true,” Swami interjected.

“It is a matter of different identities at different stages of life,” Jigneshbhai remarked. “You have many roles and identities even at any point of time, isn’t it?” he added.

“Many?” Swami mused.  

“You are a father. You are a professional.” Jigneshbhai said.

Swami added, “Yes. Like you are a businessman. An investor.”

 “And you are a fitness freak? And a foodie?” Jigneshbhai listed and winked.  

Swami winked and added, “You are an advisor. A friend.”

Jigneshbhai added, “And a coffee lover.”

Swami added, “And a muffin lover.”

Well, I got it. My friends were stuck. I felt like telling them to move on. I got the point. Everyone had multiple identities at any point. There was no need to list all of them.

“Ok guys, got it,” I said, stopping the flow.

“Oh, we got a bit carried away,” Swami smiled and stopped. “Multiple hats,” he added.

“But you can change these hats whenever you want,”  Jigneshbhai added munching a muffin. “Today, with Raichand, tomorrow on your own? Today a runner, tomorrow a cyclist?”

“Or a triathlete like Sam?” Swami winked.

“Why not?” Jigneshbhai remarked. “But some things you can’t change, whatever identity you take up.”

“Like?” Swami asked, wondering at the sudden speed breaker.

“Like you are extroverted. You are right-handed,” he added.

“And you are introverted and left-handed,” Swami said.

“And you are panicky and impulsive,” Jigneshbhai said.

“And you are logical and calm-headed,” Swami said.

“And you are studious but instinctive,” Jigneshbhai said.

“And you are practical but deliberate,” Swami said.

I again felt like telling my friends that I got it. This was not an English language test. Thankfully, Jigneshbhai took a halt.

“The point is you bring these unchangeable identities into whichever identity you take up,” Jigneshbhai said.  

“Yeah, you are right. father-in-law was an extrovert businessman. Now whether he is a grandfather, a devotee or anything else, he is an extrovert one,” Swami said.

“You said it. Whatever you do, you bring the same unchanging qualities of our nature,” Jigneshbhai said. He then picked up his coffee cup and had a sip. “You can’t change them,” he said.

No wonder Swami felt uncomfortable if asked to wait long for anything -whether it was on a project at work, or by his son at home, or even for the muffin at the café.

But I thought there was more to it than this. Our identities can’t be this fleeting, I felt. It can’t be based on external roles, like Jigneshbhai said. But nor can it be based on internal qualities, I reckoned. Both of them were fleeting, in a sense.

Like a businessman could become a grandfather, a calm-headed man could panic at times. If that was the case, what was our true identity? I wondered.

While I was lost in thought and pondered over the question, the wealthy old man walked towards our table and sat next to me and Swami. He put a hand on my shoulder and left me with more food for thought when he said, “Your true identity is within you. It is found when you stop being who you are.”

***

People We Know and Other Stories

Just a reminder that “Immortal and Other Stories” has released on September 3rd. So if you haven’t ordered it yet, consider checking it out at Books.

One more book of short stories “People We Know and Other Stories” is lined up for reading. I have released it on October 1st, and it is now available.

Book Description:

Twelve stories about people we know, characters we have seen but often not noticed. Human beings in our everyday lives with their own motivations, their own stories. In this book, you will find stories about these:

A young boy Aryan who comes uninvited to my house. What is it that he wants to say?A house maid for whom all days are the same gets tempted by The Open Drawer.A security guard who children playfully call Helmet Uncle has a long-lost story to hide under his helmet.A small-time private detective who thinks he is Ready for the Big Stage.The sensitive man doing my laundry who my son named Iron Man.A tyre puncture man, An auto driver, a food delivery man, a call center worker…. and more.

Whether you are a casual reader or a serious lover of short stories, you will find stories of intrigue, empathy, and surprise in this quick read collection.

How to Get the Book:

The book is now available on Amazon (Kindle)

You can read it on your Kindle Device or on the Free Kindle App.

It is now available under Books on my website. It is also available on other ebook stores such as iBooks, Playstore, Kobo, Nook, Scribd.

You can check out the book and the store links at this page: People We Know and Other Stories.

Happy Reading, and would be great if you leave a review after you read it!

***

Confession: Short Story

Parikshit Sharma boarded the Thai Air flight from Bangkok to New Delhi. At that time, his mind went back thirteen years. It was then that he had taken the same route last. But at that time, it was the other way round. He had flown out for good from New Delhi to Bangkok. He had promised his father that he would never come back.

But today he had no choice, but to break that promise. That was because his father, Dr Madhav Sharma, had called him a few hours back with a desperate plea. He had called with the sad message that his mother was on her death bed. Being a doctor himself, he knew what was in store. He told Parikshit that she was clinging on to the last straws of dear life.

If Parikshit wanted to see her alive, he had no way but to take this flight to see her.

“13A, Straight and right, Sir,” the air hostess guided him to his seat. He called his father after he settled down before take-off.

“Dad, I am in the flight. How’s Mom?” he asked. “Can I talk to her?” His father went blank. He heard a few seconds of silence from the other end.

“How should I tell you this, my dear son Parikshit?” Dr Sharma cried in despair from the other end, torn in emotion between his dying wife in front of him and his son on the phone. “She has lost her speech. She is unable to speak now, dear,” he added, sobbing into the phone. “Till last night, when I called you, she was talking. She spoke to me today in the day, too. But her treating doctor said she has lost her speech some time back,” he continued.

Then, after a few more moments of silence, in a grim tone, he added, “I don’t know what God is punishing her for.”

“Arm all doors,” Parikshit heard the captain.

“Ok Dad, the flight is taking off. I will call you when I land,” he said. He relaxed back into his seat but with a mind that was not relaxed. When the airhostess got him cold towels, they weren’t enough to bring down the heat in his heart. The last he remembered asking for two more sets of cold towels was on that fateful day of his escape thirteen years back.

**

Dr Madhav Sharma sat watching his wife on her bed, speechless but still speaking with her eyes. A few hours back before she lost her speech, she had spoken with him.

“How long are you going to tolerate Parikshit’s crimes?” she asked with a shaky, quivering voice. “I know I don’t have much time left. Will you do one thing for me?”

Dr Sharma knew that this was going to be a tough discussion. And a tougher decision for him. Both as a husband and as a father.

“You should not speak much. It is not good for your health,” he urged his wife. But she had always been a strong woman. It was he who was weaker. His son was his weak point.

“How many years should I keep myself bottled up?” she said, a tear rolling on to her cheek. “Do I not know that you have always hidden Parikshit’s misdeeds?”

Dr Sharma raised his face and looked at his wife. The tubes on her nose, the catheter pipe, the oxygen mask to keep her alive, the machine pumping her lungs – all of them filled his heart with anguish. He knew she was hanging on to dear life only waiting for Parikshit. She hadn’t seen him for thirteen years.

Dr Sharma was not her treating doctor, but his doctor colleague who was treating her had told him to count the days remaining, perhaps hours, on his fingers.

“I know I have been wrong in hiding his crimes. Don’t let Parikshit’s misdeeds burden your soul,” he told her.

From within the mask and under the tube, he saw that she had a wry smile. She was a strong woman. Her husband was still protecting their son. She didn’t like it, like always.

“I wish you are able to unburden me, and yourself, while I am around,” she murmured. Dr Sharma moved his ear closer to her mouth. “A mother will be the last one to say that her son should be punished for his crimes. I am that unfortunate mother, and I am saying so,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Those were the last words that Dr Sharma heard from the mouth of his wife. After that, when she awoke for her last meal of the night, she didn’t speak a word. Dr Sharma called her treating doctor. He said the brain tumour is likely to have spread to her speech area. She had lost her ability to speak.

Dr Sharma’s mind was filled with memories of Parikshit’s childhood and early youth. His son was a computer genius, but a misdirected one. He was a smart cookie, but in the wrong places. She was right. The doting father had failed. He had hidden Parikshit’s misdeeds that later became crimes for far too long. Was it too late?

Dr Sharma could not sleep that night. Parikshit was awake in his flight from Thailand.

**  

When Parikshit landed, he called his father. He took a cab straightaway and reached home. “I am on my way home,” he reported. “I have used my Thai passport. There is no way anyone will know I am here,” he sniggered.

Dr Sharma shifted in his seat. His son was incorrigible.

He hurriedly made a phone call. “Yes, he has landed. He is coming home,” he said.

“Be normal. Everything is in place,” the voice on the other side said.

Dr Sharma escorted Parikshit to the room where his mother was being treated. All hope had extinguished and there was no question of taking her to hospital.

Parikshit saw that his mother was lying on her bed, not able to move an inch of her body. Her hands and legs were taut, and her neck seemed locked in position. She had her eyes open, but had an expressionless blank stare directed at Parikshit. Unable to speak, she looked like a human statue with the last semblance of life left in it.

His eyes welled up in tears when he saw his mother in this state. He collapsed on his knees and started sobbing uncontrollably.

“Control yourself,” Dr Sharma told him with a hand on his shoulders. “She only has a few hours. Let her not see you crying in that time,” he continued.

Behind Dr Sharma was the doctor who was in charge of taking care of his mother.

Parikshit stood up and went towards him.

“I am sorry, Doctor. But is there any hope?” Parikshit asked, wiping his face.

The treating doctor shook his head and crunched his lips.

“I will step out and leave you alone so that you can talk to your mother. You may not get another chance, Parikshit,” he said and left. Dr Sharma stole a glance at him and signalled that he will join him too.

“Parikshit, I will drop the doctor and be back in a few minutes,” he said, stepping out.

Parikshit fell on his knees again when he turned his gaze towards his mother. His head dropped in despair on the bed on which they had kept his mother, almost like a dead body. He saw that she was counting her last breaths, staring at him, looking through him.

His mind went back to the day thirteen years back when he had left the country in a hurry. His father had made all the logistical arrangements. But the sudden plans of his departure had flabbergasted his mother.

**

“What happened out of the blue? Why are you leaving, in such a sudden manner?” She had demanded an answer from him.

“I got a job in Thailand,” he told her, while his father had looked on.

“It is for his career,” his father had added, consoling his mother.

“But can’t you go after a few days? Look at me, Parikshit. At least, let me say goodbye properly,” she had pleaded.

But Parikshit had not looked at her in the eyes. After all that he had done, he did not have the guts. He was in a hurry. There was no time left. He had to leave overnight, before the police caught up on him. The pangs of that departure still hurt him as he remembered the sobbing face of his mother.

Parikshit gathered himself and saw his mother’s face again. She seemed to be having an inexplicable expression, as if she is waiting for something. It looked like her soul was not ready to leave her body. It felt like the weight of something was burdening her soul, encaging it in the body. It appeared as if that weight pulled her down and led to her suffering. Unless that weight was off her shoulders, her soul wouldn’t leave. He knew what that burden was.

To Parikshit, it looked like the time was opportune for him to make a confession. It was the right time for him to unburden his mother’s soul. And his. The final time for him to come clean, before bidding the final adieu. Now was the time, if at all.

But then a doubt crept into his mind. What if someone else heard it? He looked around. There was no one in the room. He peeped out to see if anyone stood close by. There was no one around.

For a brief while, he thought of checking where his father was. He couldn’t see him anywhere in the house. Perhaps that was a good thing, Parikshit felt. With his father around, he may not be able to make this confession, though he knew everything. Safe in the knowledge that there was no one around, he bent forward towards his mother.

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” he began, looking at her eyes and moving closer. There was no change of expression on her face. But he knew she was listening.

“You know that I didn’t go to Bangkok because I got a job,” he whispered. Then he turned his head around again to check that no one was listening.

“I went there to escape from the police,” he said. “They had come to know.”

His mind went back again.

**

That day, the police had got information that he was ‘Soloboy’, the pseudonym he used for his cybercrimes. He had got clues that they had detected all of his crimes. When he traced them, he saw that they had left signs that he was in trouble. He knew they would get him. It was only a matter of time.

Like he had done since being a child, he had approached his father for help at that time. “Dad, I need your help, one last time,” he remembered imploring his Dad. He knew his father would help him. He knew his father was weak.

“Don’t tell Mom,” Parikshit had warned Dr Sharma.

Parikshit was sure his mother will not let him escape. She was an iron woman, who knew the difference between right and wrong. She didn’t tolerate nonsense, even by her own son. But his father was too attached to him. He knew that his father couldn’t resist his son.

A few years before his career as a cybercriminal took off, he had collected money from someone. “He claims to be a potential buyer of defence secrets,” he had told her. “The best part is he has given an advance,” Parikshit had rejoiced only to see a frown on his mother’s face. But his father had turned a blind eye. That was the start.

**

As he sat in front of his dying mother, Parikshit had tears flowing from his eyes.

“Mom, I have erred a lot in my life. It is not your fault Mom. It is fully my doing,” Parikshit held his mother’s hand tight. He looked at her blank stare. Was she listening?

“I am a cybercriminal. I have committed many crimes against the nation. I have stolen defence secrets and sold them for money.” Parikshit went on with his confession putting his head on her palm. “I ran away to Thailand to save myself. I ran away for my career as a cybercriminal,” he said. He felt he heard something and stopped.

“Please forgive me Mom. Don’t burden yourself with it,” he said and started sobbing.

He looked up to see if his mother showed any reaction. She showed none. He felt her breathing slowed down. Her eyes seemed to have lost the light in them.

Parikshit looked around.

“Doctor, can you come here?” he yelled. “Doctor? Nurse? Anyone around?” he ran helter-skelter in the house and shouted.

There was no one in the house. He dialled his father’s number.

“Dad, come here.. where are you?” he howled. “Mom…I think..” Parikshit said, pointing to the lifeless stare of his mother while on the phone. “She is staring at me.”

“Parikshit, be calm. Sit down. Have a glass of water. I am just coming up,” Dr Sharma said and signalled to the doctor and the two men with him that it was time.

“Have you got what you wanted?” he asked them in a heavy voice.

“Yes, we can go up now,” they said and rushed up. “We will wait for your signal.”

**

Parikshit sat in silence for a few seconds. He went close to his mother. He was certain she was gone. Teary-eyed, he said, “Bye Mom. I am sure now your soul will have peace.”

Three men and his father, Dr Sharma, entered the house behind him from the main door. One of them was the doctor treating his mother. The other two he didn’t know.

“Doctor, my Mom…,” Parikshit shouted in a choked voice.

“Yes, step aside please,” the doctor said and went close to his patient, checking her pulse and eyes. Parikshit waited for the the doctor. “I am sorry, she is no more,” he said. Parikshit shed a tear. So did Dr Sharma. It was almost a relief. He embraced Parikshit tight.

After a few minutes, Parikshit saw that the other two men were still waiting.

“Dad, who are these people?” he whispered in his father’s ear. Dr Sharma turned his gaze towards them and signalled to them with his eyebrow. He pointed his palm to Parikshit.

Parikshit didn’t understand what was going on. He looked at his father. Dr Sharma turned his gaze away and stared silently at the ground.

“Oh.. my.. God.. Dad?” he howled.

“I am sorry Parikshit. I had to do this for your Mom,” he said and went and sat next to his wife’s dead body.

One of the men removed a device that played a recording of Parikshit’s confession. He pointed a gun towards Parikshit. The other handcuffed Parikshit and said, “Hello Soloboy.”

***

This story was first published in the Spring (Vasant) 2021 Collection of Active Muse, a Pune-based journal of literature, poetry and art. You can also read it at their website here.

PS: Check Kaleidoscope here.

Confession

Parikshit Sharma boarded the Thai Air flight from Bangkok to New Delhi. At that time, his mind went back thirteen years. It was then that he had taken the same route last. But at that time, it was the other way round. He had flown out for good from New Delhi to Bangkok. He had promised his father that he would never come back.

But today he had no choice, but to break that promise. That was because his father, Dr Madhav Sharma, had called him a few hours back with a desperate plea. He had called with the sad message that his mother was on her death bed. Being a doctor himself, he knew what was in store. He told Parikshit that she was clinging on to the last straws of dear life.

If Parikshit wanted to see her alive, he had no way but to take this flight to see her.

“13A, Straight and right, Sir,” the air hostess guided him to his seat. He called his father after he settled down before take-off.

“Dad, I am in the flight. How’s Mom?” he asked. “Can I talk to her?” His father went blank. He heard a few seconds of silence from the other end.

“How should I tell you this, my dear son Parikshit?” Dr Sharma cried in despair from the other end, torn in emotion between his dying wife in front of him and his son on the phone. “She has lost her speech. She is unable to speak now, dear,” he added, sobbing into the phone. “Till last night, when I called you, she was talking. She spoke to me today in the day, too. But her treating doctor said she has lost her speech some time back,” he continued.

Then, after a few more moments of silence, in a grim tone, he added, “I don’t know what God is punishing her for.”

“Arm all doors,” Parikshit heard the captain.

“Ok Dad, the flight is taking off. I will call you when I land,” he said. He relaxed back into his seat but with a mind that was not relaxed. When the airhostess got him cold towels, they weren’t enough to bring down the heat in his heart. The last he remembered asking for two more sets of cold towels was on that fateful day of his escape thirteen years back.

**

Dr Madhav Sharma sat watching his wife on her bed, speechless but still speaking with her eyes. A few hours back before she lost her speech, she had spoken with him.

“How long are you going to tolerate Parikshit’s crimes?” she asked with a shaky, quivering voice. “I know I don’t have much time left. Will you do one thing for me?”

Dr Sharma knew that this was going to be a tough discussion. And a tougher decision for him. Both as a husband and as a father.

“You should not speak much. It is not good for your health,” he urged his wife. But she had always been a strong woman. It was he who was weaker. His son was his weak point.

“How many years should I keep myself bottled up?” she said, a tear rolling on to her cheek. “Do I not know that you have always hidden Parikshit’s misdeeds?”

Dr Sharma raised his face and looked at his wife. The tubes on her nose, the catheter pipe, the oxygen mask to keep her alive, the machine pumping her lungs – all of them filled his heart with anguish. He knew she was hanging on to dear life only waiting for Parikshit. She hadn’t seen him for thirteen years.

Dr Sharma was not her treating doctor, but his doctor colleague who was treating her had told him to count the days remaining, perhaps hours, on his fingers.

“I know I have been wrong in hiding his crimes. Don’t let Parikshit’s misdeeds burden your soul,” he told her.

From within the mask and under the tube, he saw that she had a wry smile. She was a strong woman. Her husband was still protecting their son. She didn’t like it, like always.

“I wish you are able to unburden me, and yourself, while I am around,” she murmured. Dr Sharma moved his ear closer to her mouth. “A mother will be the last one to say that her son should be punished for his crimes. I am that unfortunate mother, and I am saying so,” she said, and closed her eyes.

Those were the last words that Dr Sharma heard from the mouth of his wife. After that, when she awoke for her last meal of the night, she didn’t speak a word. Dr Sharma called her treating doctor. He said the brain tumour is likely to have spread to her speech area. She had lost her ability to speak.

Dr Sharma’s mind was filled with memories of Parikshit’s childhood and early youth. His son was a computer genius, but a misdirected one. He was a smart cookie, but in the wrong places. She was right. The doting father had failed. He had hidden Parikshit’s misdeeds that later became crimes for far too long. Was it too late?

Dr Sharma could not sleep that night. Parikshit was awake in his flight from Thailand.

**  

When Parikshit landed, he called his father. He took a cab straightaway and reached home. “I am on my way home,” he reported. “I have used my Thai passport. There is no way anyone will know I am here,” he sniggered.

Dr Sharma shifted in his seat. His son was incorrigible.

He hurriedly made a phone call. “Yes, he has landed. He is coming home,” he said.

“Be normal. Everything is in place,” the voice on the other side said.

Dr Sharma escorted Parikshit to the room where his mother was being treated. All hope had extinguished and there was no question of taking her to hospital.

Parikshit saw that his mother was lying on her bed, not able to move an inch of her body. Her hands and legs were taut, and her neck seemed locked in position. She had her eyes open, but had an expressionless blank stare directed at Parikshit. Unable to speak, she looked like a human statue with the last semblance of life left in it.

His eyes welled up in tears when he saw his mother in this state. He collapsed on his knees and started sobbing uncontrollably.

“Control yourself,” Dr Sharma told him with a hand on his shoulders. “She only has a few hours. Let her not see you crying in that time,” he continued.

Behind Dr Sharma was the doctor who was in charge of taking care of his mother.

Parikshit stood up and went towards him.

“I am sorry, Doctor. But is there any hope?” Parikshit asked, wiping his face.

The treating doctor shook his head and crunched his lips.

“I will step out and leave you alone so that you can talk to your mother. You may not get another chance, Parikshit,” he said and left. Dr Sharma stole a glance at him and signalled that he will join him too.

“Parikshit, I will drop the doctor and be back in a few minutes,” he said, stepping out.

Parikshit fell on his knees again when he turned his gaze towards his mother. His head dropped in despair on the bed on which they had kept his mother, almost like a dead body. He saw that she was counting her last breaths, staring at him, looking through him.

His mind went back to the day thirteen years back when he had left the country in a hurry. His father had made all the logistical arrangements. But the sudden plans of his departure had flabbergasted his mother.

**

“What happened out of the blue? Why are you leaving, in such a sudden manner?” She had demanded an answer from him.

“I got a job in Thailand,” he told her, while his father had looked on.

“It is for his career,” his father had added, consoling his mother.

“But can’t you go after a few days? Look at me, Parikshit. At least, let me say goodbye properly,” she had pleaded.

But Parikshit had not looked at her in the eyes. After all that he had done, he did not have the guts. He was in a hurry. There was no time left. He had to leave overnight, before the police caught up on him. The pangs of that departure still hurt him as he remembered the sobbing face of his mother.

Parikshit gathered himself and saw his mother’s face again. She seemed to be having an inexplicable expression, as if she is waiting for something. It looked like her soul was not ready to leave her body. It felt like the weight of something was burdening her soul, encaging it in the body. It appeared as if that weight pulled her down and led to her suffering. Unless that weight was off her shoulders, her soul wouldn’t leave. He knew what that burden was.

To Parikshit, it looked like the time was opportune for him to make a confession. It was the right time for him to unburden his mother’s soul. And his. The final time for him to come clean, before bidding the final adieu. Now was the time, if at all.

But then a doubt crept into his mind. What if someone else heard it? He looked around. There was no one in the room. He peeped out to see if anyone stood close by. There was no one around.

For a brief while, he thought of checking where his father was. He couldn’t see him anywhere in the house. Perhaps that was a good thing, Parikshit felt. With his father around, he may not be able to make this confession, though he knew everything. Safe in the knowledge that there was no one around, he bent forward towards his mother.

“Mom, I have to tell you something,” he began, looking at her eyes and moving closer. There was no change of expression on her face. But he knew she was listening.

“You know that I didn’t go to Bangkok because I got a job,” he whispered. Then he turned his head around again to check that no one was listening.

“I went there to escape from the police,” he said. “They had come to know.”

His mind went back again.

**

That day, the police had got information that he was ‘Soloboy’, the pseudonym he used for his cybercrimes. He had got clues that they had detected all of his crimes. When he traced them, he saw that they had left signs that he was in trouble. He knew they would get him. It was only a matter of time.

Like he had done since being a child, he had approached his father for help at that time. “Dad, I need your help, one last time,” he remembered imploring his Dad. He knew his father would help him. He knew his father was weak.

“Don’t tell Mom,” Parikshit had warned Dr Sharma.

Parikshit was sure his mother will not let him escape. She was an iron woman, who knew the difference between right and wrong. She didn’t tolerate nonsense, even by her own son. But his father was too attached to him. He knew that his father couldn’t resist his son.

A few years before his career as a cybercriminal took off, he had collected money from someone. “He claims to be a potential buyer of defence secrets,” he had told her. “The best part is he has given an advance,” Parikshit had rejoiced only to see a frown on his mother’s face. But his father had turned a blind eye. That was the start.

**

As he sat in front of his dying mother, Parikshit had tears flowing from his eyes.

“Mom, I have erred a lot in my life. It is not your fault Mom. It is fully my doing,” Parikshit held his mother’s hand tight. He looked at her blank stare. Was she listening?

“I am a cybercriminal. I have committed many crimes against the nation. I have stolen defence secrets and sold them for money.” Parikshit went on with his confession putting his head on her palm. “I ran away to Thailand to save myself. I ran away for my career as a cybercriminal,” he said. He felt he heard something and stopped.

“Please forgive me Mom. Don’t burden yourself with it,” he said and started sobbing.

He looked up to see if his mother showed any reaction. She showed none. He felt her breathing slowed down. Her eyes seemed to have lost the light in them.

Parikshit looked around.

“Doctor, can you come here?” he yelled. “Doctor? Nurse? Anyone around?” he ran helter-skelter in the house and shouted.

There was no one in the house. He dialled his father’s number.

“Dad, come here.. where are you?” he howled. “Mom…I think..” Parikshit said, pointing to the lifeless stare of his mother while on the phone. “She is staring at me.”

“Parikshit, be calm. Sit down. Have a glass of water. I am just coming up,” Dr Sharma said and signalled to the doctor and the two men with him that it was time.

“Have you got what you wanted?” he asked them in a heavy voice.

“Yes, we can go up now,” they said and rushed up. “We will wait for your signal.”

**

Parikshit sat in silence for a few seconds. He went close to his mother. He was certain she was gone. Teary-eyed, he said, “Bye Mom. I am sure now your soul will have peace.”

Three men and his father, Dr Sharma, entered the house behind him from the main door. One of them was the doctor treating his mother. The other two he didn’t know.

“Doctor, my Mom…,” Parikshit shouted in a choked voice.

“Yes, step aside please,” the doctor said and went close to his patient, checking her pulse and eyes. Parikshit waited for the the doctor. “I am sorry, she is no more,” he said. Parikshit shed a tear. So did Dr Sharma. It was almost a relief. He embraced Parikshit tight.

After a few minutes, Parikshit saw that the other two men were still waiting.

“Dad, who are these people?” he whispered in his father’s ear. Dr Sharma turned his gaze towards them and signalled to them with his eyebrow. He pointed his palm to Parikshit.

Parikshit didn’t understand what was going on. He looked at his father. Dr Sharma turned his gaze away and stared silently at the ground.

“Oh.. my.. God.. Dad?” he howled.

“I am sorry Parikshit. I had to do this for your Mom,” he said and went and sat next to his wife’s dead body.

One of the men removed a device that played a recording of Parikshit’s confession. He pointed a gun towards Parikshit. The other handcuffed Parikshit and said, “Hello Soloboy.”

***

This story was first published in the Spring (Vasant) 2021 Collection of Active Muse, a Pune-based journal of literature, poetry and art. You can also read it at their website here.

PS: Check Kaleidoscope here.

Breadth vs Depth

“Raichand has gone crazy,” Swami said the other day while munching his muffin with vigour. Jigneshbhai looked up.

“I thought he always was or was he not?” he asked with an eyebrow raised slyly.

“Yes, that’s true. But last week he has gone mad,” Swami reiterated. We waited for him to finish his muffin bite.

“Last month he ran a campaign on some social media for traffic for the company’s website. It ended up bumping traffic hugely,” Swami elaborated. “The agency that ran it told him that it also improved what they called engagement.”

“Engagement?” Jigneshbhai asked while sipping his coffee.

“Probably meaning the likes or comments or something like that,” Swami explained.

“I see,” Jigneshbhai muttered under his breath. “So?”

“Well, now the campaign has stopped,” Swami continued. “And the traffic is down to a trickle. And he is enraged with everyone.”

“Hmm..” Jigneshbhai sighed. “So the engagement didn’t lead to marriage?” he asked with a twisted mouth. Swami looked at him initially with a scowl, but then smiled.

“Nowadays even engagements are rare. So marriages take long, or don’t happen,” Swami remarked in uncharacteristic style, picking up some of Jigneshbhai’s style of wordplay.

“Who knows if those visitors really read or understood anything on the website? Or liked what they read,” he continued. “But all Raichand wants is more of them now.”

“And he has put you in charge of that project?” Jigneshbhai asked, this time his sly expression replaced by a smile. I doubt if there is any pleasure in the world he gets more than teasing Swami.

“You guessed it right, yours truly has to get back those visitors,” Swami said and focused back on his coffee cup and muffin. When it comes to Raichand, Swami is quick to accept whatever happens as his destiny. After a few moments of silence during which Jigneshbhai introspected and Swami and I waited for him to complete it, he spoke. 

“Breadth can be a lousy and misleading indicator of success,” he said. “And today’s world is full of breadth indicators.”

Swami and I looked at each other and pondered over what he said. I had just began to absorb it when Swami popped the question as usual.

“Breadth indicators?” Swami asked.

“Yes, what else are traffic type of metrics? Visitors. Views. Impressions. Clicks. What else?” Jigneshbhai said. He seemed to have done some homework on this.

Swami was surprised but pleasantly. He took over from Jigneshbhai.

“You want more? Readers. Subscribers. Friends. Connections. Number of emails opened. Number of whatever clicked,” Swami said. He had taken charge of the project and learnt fast. That’s why Raichand depended on him. Whether he liked it or not, Swami did whatever was necessary to please the boss.

“But when it comes to depth, there seem to be none,” Jigneshbhai said. “How many of those visitors, clicks, friends and connections actually care?” he enquired.

“Zero. Give and take a few,” Swami replied in an instant.

“So why does Raichand keep doing it? Why does he get mad at everyone and push them to do it?” Jigneshbhai asked. He had never understood the logic of some of the things Swami did in his job, and always questioned them. I can’t blame him. He had never worked in one.

“For lack of anything else to do. He has to do something, after all,” Swami answered. “And he has no time, unlike you, for anything other than breadth. No time for depth.”

Jigneshbhai still didn’t get the logic of it. “Just because we can measure breadth easily, it does not mean it is important. Just because we cannot measure depth easily, it doesn’t mean it is unimportant,” he vehemently proclaimed.

Swami and I nodded in agreement. Both of us agreed that today it is easy to build breadth in anything. Broad pipeline. Thin trickle. Huge breadth but no depth. But what was easier to build was also easier to measure. What was tougher to build was also tougher to measure. With that reality, it was no wonder that breadth took the cake when it came to measuring anything.

When we were lost in thought, the wealthy, old man walked across to our table from the adjoining one. He tapped Swami on the shoulder and left us out of our depth, when he said, “Water, water everywhere, not a drop to drink.”

***

PS: Check Food for Thought here.