Pungidasa's Blog, page 4

The king

The story that they were enacting was about a king.

" Once upon a time there was a king," the master began. Masterji " why does every story begin with this phrase? Don’t you think it is overused ?" Interrupted somebody. Masterji was always irritated when somebody broke the dialogue but encouraged questions. So, looked up calmly and said," it makes the story immortal. The storyteller may change, the characters may change, but the story remains with almost zero changes. That is the beauty of this phrase."

The children were impressed. They loved coming to the drama class and learning from this teacher. The class was always unconventional. The students came in from multiple walks of life. They had parents who were employed in a wide assortment of jobs. The drama or the nataka that the master was about to tell them about was to be performed in front of a large audience. This was not the first time that these young talented bunch of kids had done a very long enactment.

These kids were natural actors, they had a presence on stage. The master had made sure that their skills and talents were super tuned, and their versatility shone through. The eve of every script recital had a wonderful ritual. It was when everyone in the team would gather around much like the storyteller around a giant campfire. They would listen in on the story, ask questions, and pick their characters…

The kids were fantastic. They never forgot their lines. They delivered their dialogues with conviction. Voice modulation, the introduction of humor, sarcasm, and nuances of building a character were things taught to them in class. The teaching was with rather unconventional teaching mechanisms.

The master closed the book and looked up. It had been a few minutes since the initial interruption. The kids knew they were in for an interesting class that day since their teacher had not spoken a word in the last few minutes and had simply stared at the book…

" This story is about a king, I want you all to tell me how a king must be. We will read the script later. "

The children took to emulating their master. They, too, took their time in thinking and began to answer one after the other.

The eldest kid answered. " The king must be strong. He must be well versed in warfare. Sword fighting, horse riding, using the Gada, or the mace must be known to him. "

" He must be a symbol of justice. Not just about military power." Another one answered.

" The king is the most powerful man in the kingdom. His name itself must evoke fear in the eyes of the enemy. The king is a symbol of power and authority. The king must be perfect and ruthless."

" He must be calculative and should lead by example."

" He should be a well-learned man. He should also be handsome. "

The teacher was listening, these young kids were sharing without inhibitions. They were expressing whatever they had learnt. They had been told, and they had seen. The conversation was getting interesting.

" A king needs to be kind. He needs to listen to his subjects. In his court, men of art and music should be allowed to perform. The king must give them his support. Have you not seen in the movies? "

" You mean like Ravana having ten heads? " Butted in somebody.

This prompted ….

" You are Ravana."

"You are like Bakasura."

….

…..

…..

….

The discussion stopped, and verbal volleys started. There was chaos and pandemonium. The master got up to leave, annoyed by these actions. The congregation fell silent. These kids, most of them in their teenage, got the message. The argument ended as fast as it had begun.

" The king has to be like our Masterji. To make his subjects do things without even asking," said the master's favourite student. There was nervous laughter all around.

The youngest and newest addition to the troupe told something that nobody could quite hear. She repeated it once again a little louder this time. This meek voice was telling something. The master raised a hand, and all was quiet. She repeated herself once more.

" Masterji, why should the king be only a man. Why not a woman. Everyone here has been saying 'he must be'.. 'he must be' " Her soft voice held such a strong point that it made everybody sit up and take notice of her words…

The master, a woman herself, smiled. Her lips reaching into a form of deep contentment. The young girl was not done yet - " women can learn sword fighting too, be strong. They are by birth kind and are known to understand the difference between what is right and what is justice. I have seen my mother, and I know that women are great patriots of the land. They are fighters too. Great at diplomacy, fantastic negotiators.

After all, a ruler and a king or monarch is just a title, is it not? A man and a woman should, whoever has the qualities of it, can hold this title. But yet when we think of it. The first thing that comes to our mind when we say a king - is a man…"

The master was overjoyed as the group started clapping. She had her king for the drama. This king of hers had won her first war without fighting a fight.

It was decided that the drama was going to be about a king. A woman king.

In front of three hundred people, the kids performed this nataka.

" Once upon a time, long long ago," began the narrator. " There was a kingdom. Their king had been defeated in war. They had to choose a new king…

Who would it be? The subjects wondered, talking amongst themselves. They chatted and gossiped amongst themselves in their houses, at the road corners, sitting near the temples.

'The kingdom needs a king'…They whispered…

Liked this ?

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You get to read a variety of genres, and you could also gift the subscription to your loved ones too…

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“The Revolution”

“ Today we start a revolution. We shall take back what is ours. For too long – I mean it – for too long have we been taken for granted...

Our voices muffled and our rights trampled. Our houses are being taken over by the oppressors. They are taking away our mountains and mining them...

It is our motherland, the ones in which our fathers and fore-fathers walked. It is our motherland – the one we have managed to safeguard for years.

Look at us now, I am sure everyone of you have been oppressed by the might of the machines, the blatant misuse of power by men and women.

We have a long list of complaints of being employed in conditions that curb your natural instincts. Of being hunted down, of being afraid even to leave home, afraid to cross the roads.

But that will end today. Today we have with us an ally. “

The Elephants, Tigers, Lions, Hyenas and even the Porcupine – looked at each other. The representatives of the deep sea, the ones joining over conference calls stood excited. The birds stood, with their beaks at full attention. The worms and insects too stood in stunned silence.

“ This little fellow, the one you see in the vial I have with me - is a powerful ally. It shall take the world by storm. It will scare the oppressors into their homes.

The roads will be safe to cross, the railway lines will be safe to cross, the rivers shall stay clean, the oceans will be safe from hunting,

The air shall be free of planes and much safer to breathe about. You will be free to go back to what was once your home. “

The owl raised its flappy wings – “ But Dear President, will we not be affected by this creature in the vial?”

“Do not worry my dear brothers and sisters, the virus in the vial is safe for all of us.”

“Is it not a violation of our code of brotherhood and living ?” came a retort from the representative from the zoo animals.

“ That is a good question, yes – this is not a revenge mission. This is a survival mission. The polar bears have no home, the turtles die in the thousand each year,

The rivers are unfit for living, the mountains are bombed, the land is taken over, the trees are cut. My own home was snatched away for mining. What has silence and code of Conduct – given us my dear friend. We are not free – even though some of you in the zoos may feel so.

We are the resistance, we are the revolution. Have not each and everyone of you lost your family, loved ones and your freedom, your homeland and come to be refugees in your own land.

We deserve the earth as much as these creatures with machines. "

“ Will this wipe them out ? We know how it feels...” asked the endangered animals

“ This revolution is for you. This revolution shall send them home; stop them in committing grave errors that is pushing us to doom and make them think

And reconsider what it feels to be us. To be hunted without mercy, to be unable to use their money to leverage flouting rules. They will hopefully understand and act better.

All of them will not die – but some of them will. It is the cost of the revolution. Pray for those families that shall lose home, those kids who shall lose their fathers and mothers, Those hapless and helpless – young and old who will have to live in fear.

Hopefully, they will realise who they have become, hopefully become empathetic, hopefully change their ways. They are the ones gifted with a more evolved brain. They will find a way to tackle our virus.

But they shall be shaken up. They shall know fear – they shall think of survival and they shall learn...

Remember the Earth is our home too.. The Earth is our responsibility too. The oppression needs to end.

And it ends today...

The Revolution begins today...“

Nostalgia of April

It is half way through April already and it never fails to take me back to the quiet gullies of nostalgia.

Our exams used to be over , the holidays would have begun, homes would be filled with cousins and relatives. The only thing I had to worry about was getting up late and getting to play cricket on the road.

It would begin at 6.00 in the morning, friends calling on you to wake up and join them for a long walk. I used to miss that most times , majorly because I hated to walk and jog and all that stuff. But when mom knew that I was feigning being asleep , she pushed me out of bed and into the welcoming smiles of my friends.

One, two , three, four ; upto ten twelve of us walked along the road, like we owned the damn thing.

Zigzagging around with nothing to do, asking each other the same riddles and talking about dinosaurs, cartoons and our cycles. Someone always brought with them pokemon cards and tazos. I used to look at them with awe. I had three and that was that, nothing less and nothing more. I would invariably ask for a Cheetos packet and be met with this standard dialogue, “next time.

So we would begin our walk , there were no vehicles about, the only thing we had to ever be wary of was the mongrels or the road dogs. They were huge and ferocious looking and I had a mortal fear of them. I used to scared stiff of them and walk like I was a theif and they the police.

Coming to this legendary game of Kalla Police or Chor Police , we had amazing fun. It was always me or one more kid, who got to chase everyone around and not catch them.

We would come back by eight thirty, no one had a watch , but still we knew it was time and our stomachs were growling anyways. We had a small breakfast that always used to be lovely and go to play.

We played and played and played. We stopped when it rained or when we lost the ball in the bushes.

Back then there were still green places left around, there were snakes that could eat you and kill you and not the other way around. And on occasions when someone did get a little adventurous , they would hit the ball high in the air, only to land up in one of the houses that never allowed us to play. We used to stand in front of them, sorry faced and pretending to listen to them go and on about being good kids, sitting at home and not playing around in the hot sun. we listened only until we got the ball back and then it was back to live action.

Here everyone was a cricket player, everyone was a cricket pundit and everyone wanted to have a bat first and especially if someone got out first ball , we were sure to see tantrums on the field. Our wicket usually was a tree and a brick, we were excited beyond measure when we hit a boundary and sometimes we only had to fetch it back when that happened.

All of them almost always played near my home, our home was the mecca of our road cricket diaries , the lords pavilion where our names are still etched in the broken window panes.

Now that April has arrived, the smell of mangoes is ever present, I look back and see if at all I need to eat one. But then it was all different, each one consumed on an average four or five big ones and still be hungry. We were always hungry and always thirsty and there used to be a huge jug of water kept outside our house for all of us.

Lunch was never skipped , lunch was an interim just after which play resumed . on too sunny days we chose to sit and just talk with each other, chat was a term that was exclusively reserved for Pani Puri and masala puri. None of us had phones but we had one notable addiction. Video games were the rage and not everyone had them , so we set about to one or more of these posh houses that had the luxury of video games and spent the afternoon , saying yes to everything our host told us to do. If the host was impressed with us , he would give us the nod to play with him. Whenever he felt bored that was the end of the video games session for the day.

Then we would roam around the road with our cycles, vary of the little traffic that still ran those days. We had competitions from one end to another, cycling, racing and almost losing our heads while braking. We fell too many times to notice, just got up , cried for a while and got consoled and we were up again like clockwork.

Nobody got sick in the summer, but the ones who got sick also wanted to play with us, and this was always a topic of contention with our mom’s. Some way or another we made time to play. No one had phones or whatsapp groups then , we just visited every home at 2.30 or 4.00 in the afternoon and rang the bell , most oftened answered by sleepy parents or grumpy grandparents. We got shooed away saying that they had relatives at home, their kid is still sleeping even though we knew that nothing of that sort had happened.

Some of us would go to swimming classes, Veena classes , speaking clubs and summer camps , meeting more people in the process but never really getting to know them. There was this craze of going to cricket coaching but this came in very very long into our childhood experiences.

Girls, boys , young and old; there was no distinction when we played. Evenings mostly was reserved for playing together. Hide and seek was the best of all, running around, hiding in new places, jumping between houses, getting scolded by many of them in the process. But it was fun.

What was more fun, was this social event called birthdays , where we got drunk on rasna and high on samosa. Gifts were always about ten or twenty rupees , nothing more but the excitement of opening a gift box was legendary. Plus you could get to show off to all your friends your latest plastic watch, goggles and the best part was the group photograph ,not to mention the food that followed. I loved the part where we sung the Happy birthday song in twenty different voices , each one trying to outdo the other.There was always competition, never a day did not go by that we were not competing against each other. But it was all healthy in terms of everyone knew everyones’s strength and weaknesses , mainly in terms of batting and bowling and sometimes in running around. We knew where these guys hid during Hide and Seek and whose mom cooked the best chappatis.

We always had time for television and mainly cartoon network and national geographic, most of the times we had no clue what was going on but we watched anyways. We also watched television with parents, the 8.30 to 9.00 news was the bell gong for the entire family to sit together, watch the news that came only for half an hour and then to start eating. Once done that was the end of the day. No more television, no more games. Lights out and good night.

And then another day would begin. April and May would roll over the blink of an eye and those were the best days of my life.

Untitled

He was gripped with fear, lest he be discovered as the perpetrator of this act. It was a packed audience of people who could sniff in an instant that something was fishy.
With each passing moment his comfort levels got sorted in the descending order.

It was as if he had been cornered into a position of great discomfort. His fears of being discovered tended to go beyond infinity. It was evident to every onlooker that he was fidgety and very restless. He kept moving his head here and there, catching the glances of others around him. It was as if he was plotting something sinister. Their naturally neutral glances now took to a naturally suspicious gaze. The human instinct can sense that things are misaligned and are not natural. He could sense others around him also get wind of his actions and this made the situation further weird.

In his head he went on,
"What if they find out ?
It was not my mistake. I did not intend that to happen in the first place. This is so embarrassing for me. It is not such big a crime.
From when had they known? Why were they giving him such a stare ?
Was it that obvious? "

His stomach had already squirming. His face was a mixture of worry and embarrassment, with embarrassing colours dominating the canvas.

It was the effect of so many events that had led to this moment, he could no longer contain himself. A train of farts left his body in quick succession. His stomach growled in some ancient tongue that no one understood. It was as of he had been hit by a thunderbolt from Indra himself, he sat bolt upright. He stood like a statue which was completely aware that the crow was sitting on his head and about to do something adventurous.

The train of passing gas hit the audience in the packed bus with a force of thousand Hiroshimas or Chernobyl - whichever the audience knew of. For a second they were stunned at the audacity of the blast that hit them.

For an instant everything was still and then he could sense the crowd around him take their hands off whatever they were upto and close their nostrils, the reflex action of pure survival taking over. The image of sniffing noses nosing around to find the real culprit caught the imagination of his. In his head he was being hunted by blood hounds.

The others around him, forgot after a few seconds, they had been jarred but like the Indian middle class always found their way to survive trauma and move on soon. His farts had been like the momentary breaking news that diffused into nothingness . It was not the first time that these men around him had been bombed out. This was an everyday occurrence for them, sometimes they too having been the serial farters. As long as it did not make too big of a sound and there were more than two people they were always safe.

But all this reflected far too differently in the head of our protagonist. He was anticipating a verbal volley from others around him but nothing came. Not even a smirk or a frown stayed in their faces. It was as if they did not even acknowledge this event. Just then the uncle next to him moved slightly, the molecules in his body slightly disturbed, the tipping point reached, let go. Almost mocking his thought process, the audacity of the man was unparalleled. And the best part was it came with all the sound effects of a orchestra. The man was least bothered, he did not look here or there, he was busy playing a game on his mobile phone. As if on cue, the game declared "you are on a wonderful streak ".

Ritual

She was the epitome of punctuality. She had never missed her timeline even for a day. She would get up at exactly 4.39 in the morning, the alarm set for a buffer of three minutes each from 4.30. She would then switch the geyser on. Finishing her prayers after a quick shower, she then proceed to cooking. She would close the doors while the cooker blew its whistle, lest the children wake up.

She would then gently tiptoe and find the neatly pressed dresses and check if they needed another round of pressing. It was always perfectly done. She would find the perfect set of earrings to match her dress. Mostly it was blue on Monday, pink on Tuesday, yellow on the next and floating colours on Thursday, ending her week with the sheer elegance and grace of a saree. This she followed like clockwork.

She was ready at the bus station at exactly 8, dropping her kids, wacing them bye. It was here that she found some respite and could actually take a minute of rest. She would walk home, following the same path each day, feeding the hungry lot of mongrels that loved her. She would come back home, clean her hands, proceed to office with two other colleagues to office.

9.25 -9.29 , her swipe would register her entry. Work would begin and soon she would be drowning in work related calls and queries.

At four, it was always time for the tea break. She would come around to her favorite tea shop, chat with the woman there, take her usual stuff and relax. She was a regular here, the woman of the shop knew her orders by heart.

She followed this protocol, the routine relaxed her. She chose a clean spot nearby, having all the time to herself. The tea cup one hand, she deftly used her other hand and pulled out a cigarette. It was only after three drags did the smoke bellow from her nostrils. The stares would be met with smoke. With each passing drag she would relax further.

Three full cigarettes later, she would be done.

Her workplace called her back and her demons had been appeased for the day...

Summer of ’99

It was summer. The raw heat of the sun was beating down upon all the inhabitants of the land. Just beyond our house was a huge vacant plot and as usual that vacant spot was home to construction waste from every household from the road. It also had left over food being dumped into its vast empty space. When the rains came the entire plot would be thick as a jungle with castor plants dominating the landscape. But it was summer and there was not much activity except the cricket match that was played near our house and the ball often went to the vacant plot.

My granny would chide all the children associated with cricket and the activity of climbing into the vast wilderness of the this Amazon rainforest. Her hawk eyes suspected snake activity in the bushes there. In all the years we had played cricket there, the snake had been seen for a sum total of zero times.

But one random Saturday afternoon, a few passerby came to our house, rang the bell and said that they had seen a big black snake enter our garage. They went away after having dropped the Hiroshima on my granny's head.

Phone calls were made. Mass panic set in the house. All doors were locked, barricaded with extra protection. My granny could have been a war commander for WW2. She rallied the troops, called everyone of us in. One of her relatives gave the number of a snake catcher. The snake catcher was called and he said that he would be there in one hour. One hour turned to two, two to three. He never came.

Then the landline rang, the person on the other side suggested that the best way to get the snake out without harming it was to keep burnt onion and garlic in the place it currently is and this awesome smell will attract the snake out of its hiding place. The idea seemed like genius, we went and got hold of a onion, burnt it in half and then came the big question. Who would dare to open the door and throw in the onion pieces. I was too young, I was discounted from this ordeal. Also I was the only male child - the only one capable of taking the family tree ahead. My father was out of station, my granny stood tall and said that this would be a joint task force of the women in the family. So my mom and her, set about throwing onion grenades into the garage.

The garage was our dust bin. It would have been no surprise that we could have found a giant dinosaur fossil there. There were papers that had not been sold away for ten years. Old books and accounting papers. Bronze items, steel utensils and a big truck load of rubbish that simply got bigger each year. The "cleaning of the garage" project had been sanctioned by the Last Viceroy of British Oppressed India but had not come into force even after many government changes. The snake did not heed to the grenades of stinking onions and garlic. We had no clue if it had gone into the storm drain, the water pipes and into the house. There was no time for jokes and the light was closing in. We all made way to the neighbours houses. One in each home, sleeping in their house for the night until my father returned home and got the snake man.

The next day was Sunday. The snake was resting and so was the snake man. My granny was talking to the neighbours, maybe there is some treasure buried in the ground below the garage, maybe it's the blessings of the Lord Shiva's son Subramanya. We should not hurt the snake, they are a creation of God, we just need to make sure that our house is safe.

The snake man came in, he carried a stick with him and a gunny bag. He asked us to use some utensils and make some noise. He wore thick boots on his leg lest the snake bite him. We made noise beating the hell out of the utensils.
Nothing happened for three hours, this spectacle was the heaviest dose of entertainment that our road had seen in almost twenty years of its history. People had got chairs and sat down there to see the circus inside. After about five hours, the snake man said that the snake had disappeared from a small hole in the wall and gone elsewhere. Everybody came in now, like it was a shrine and contented themselves to see the hole from which the snake had disappeared.

After the snake man had been paid. My granny made us clean all of the garage. The raddiwala had almost a truck load of old newspapers to take away. Six hundred rupees worth of papers. Then there was my old cycle that I no longer used - we gave it away to a kid whose father worked in the construction site nearby. A hundred or so books were given away to the library. Old bronze items and steel utensils were sold away. It too came upto a combined value of thousand five hundred rupees. Old clothes bundles were made into cloth bags. We also found old paintings from my grandfather, coins and stamps that dated to many years ago. Thirty five lizards and two hundred and fifty or so cockroaches, countless spiders were robbed of their peaceful homes and made into refugees.

The garage lay cleaned after so many years. There was nothing in the garage now, it was spotless and clean.

I had a big list of questions running in my mind, was the snake really there, had it actually come in. Could it really squeeze out of small opening? Had the onion bombs worked?

These questions would remain with me forever, since nobody ever saw the snake again but my granny was happy that atleast the garage had been cleaned and snake had not been killed in her property.

Don’t forget to appreciate the most important woman of our life, Mother earth.

Don’t forget to appreciate the most important woman of our life, Mother earth.

Say no to unsustainable practices.

I have watched this trend grow.

Every Women's day, we try to make the women at office feel special.
Typically this happens.

1. A rose.
2. A printed note that has an inspiration quote.
3. A chocolate
4. A photo booth
5. Cubicles decorated with balloons.

Fundamental questions:
Do these gestures actually make women feel special ?

Is it sustainable in the long run?

1. The rose bouquet come wrapped in single use plastic, one use and we are throwing it to the bin. Roses survive for a week maximum and then wither away.

What is the idea you want to promote,
That gesture fades away in a few days or stays forever with the inclusion of plastic.

2. The printed card with the message stays relevant and inspirational till a week and then gets completely tossed or finds a dungeon.

3. Chocolate - offers us all great happiness. But most chocolates comes in single use plastic wrappers. So the double edged sword is there again.

4. Photo booth - A PR stunt.

5. Cubicles decorated with balloons -
One day of furious balloon blowing and fun, causing damage.

Balloons may not be fully biodegradable, balloons made from pure latex are termed degradable but when treated and reduced in concentration can cause degradation to get completed in 400 years.

Even if disposed to a dry waste facility or landfill, 400 years is enough time for it to somehow reach the waterways and find itself in marine life. A large percentage of marine deaths occur due to plastic and these balloons...

Now ask yourself, is your process/procedure you follow, because its easy, because it is generic and needs no time invested in its complexity - sustainable?

On an easy average, this very IWD, I estimate 1000 plus woman recieving roses wrapped in single use plastic, 1000 plastic wrappers, 1000 paper prints and 300 to 500 balloons on average...

But as a company/individual are we really bothered?

This celebration will also happen on Men's day too at some offices.

Maybe if the HR took some time and actually found out what these individuals wanted, these practices could be sustainable, sound real and maybe even bring in long term benefit.

Maybe its time you took a step and told your HR , chocolates and printed cards just don’t cut it. Ask for sustainable practices, suggest a few that add more meaning to the gesture of celebration of womanhood and its contribution to the world...

Don’t forget to appreciate the most important woman of our life, Mother earth.

Be a Happy Woman, everyday !

A tale of beauty

A tale of beauty

Somewhere on Earth was a huge garden of flowers. The garden was always occupied with people and they admired the flowers and took away some of them with them. Some took pictures with them, photographed them as if they were models for a calendar shoots, took selfies with them.

Among the flowers, was a beautiful white rose; tall, slender and absolutely stunning in its looks. So many of them came to it and studied it from various angles. They loved this creation of nature and admired its beauty. In the same patch of land, hardly an eye glance away was a small little plant that too was flowering in vivid colours. It was wild flower, beautiful in its own creation. Yet nobody came within its scope of vision and admired it.

It asked the rose, “why is that all of those people, come to you - they call you beautiful, they shower you with love. Is it because you are tall slender and white? Does it mean I am not beautiful ? “

The rose laughed, it was taken aback at the seriousness and the innocence of the question.

“Oh no, dear flower. Every creation is beautiful. We are created in various colours, shapes and sizes. Some trees are small, some are tall, some give shade, some give fruits. Does it make any tree less special?

We are all beautiful.

Most men and women that come to visit me, do it - thinking that tall, slender and white makes me beautiful. But deep down, you should always know that everything on this planet is beautiful. Look around, our mother earth is brown in colour, the water has washed away so much dirt before coming to us.

If we are beautiful, made from this brown earth and at times murky water, does it not make them beautiful too?

You too grow from the same earth, are you also not a wonderful creation? You too are a beautiful creation, a thing of joy to be cherished and loved.”

The flowers in the entire garden, heard of this story, they were in a wide variety of colours, shapes and sizes. That day they found something within them, a sense of wonder at their existence. They knew and believed that they were extraordinarily beautiful creations.

It’s 7.33 in the morning.

It’s 7.33 in the morning.

She stands in the bus holding the railing with great force. The red light has stopped the bus, but her thoughts are on a highway. She pulls her bag instinctively to the front. Inside her bag is a pregnancy kit. She simply cannot bring herself to use it; something tells her that her life is going to change, change for the better. She squirms as she realizes that she has just begun her career as a teacher ten months ago. The ID card on her neck reminds her of so many things. A mixture of fear and excitement is on her face.

It is 7.33 in the morning.

The driver of the bus is talking on the phone, calling his ailing mother. He is enquiring about her health that seems to fluctuate each day. He is telling her in a loud voice, to take her tablets on time and that he shall come home soon. It is the middle of the month and his revenues are already on reserve and all his money has already being funneled to buy a bike via the EMI scheme.

The conductor is a young lady too. She is young but not too young. The weight of her family’s responsibility is on her shoulder. Its 7.33 in the morning. Her brother has an exam for which he has studied a lot. If he but passes this, he can start earning too. She still has two sisters, who are studying. The bus is packed to the hilt. She makes her way inside like Abhimanyu entering the Chakravyuha. She wants to desperately call him and wish him "Good luck". But duty comes first. She hopes to catch five minutes somewhere.

Its 7.33 in the morning, the night was dark and full of terrors. The nurse is returning to her P.G. The ER team yesterday had a family of three come in, late in the night. The parents had sustained grave injuries, the child was in shock, crying the hell away. The ambulance was full of blood, the little girl had clung to her for the entire night and after almost hours of talking with her, slept peacefully in her arms. Her shift had ended and she wanted to grab some sleep desperately but the image of the child stuck in her memory and refused to go. She prayed for the family.

Sitting next to her, was another student. Her bag was a mess, there were papers in them, notes that were highlighted in yellow, red and green. Like a traffic light — the book had been coloured. It looked like a traffic jam right out of Bengaluru’s Silk Board. She kept repeating, metals have a positive valency. Sodium reacts with water briskly producing brisk effervescence.
Litmus paper turns red when it comes in contact with acidic substances.

It was a mantra that she was chanting. She had failed in Chemistry exams twice and this was her last chance to make it right. The tutions were not helping. The text books were not helping. She checked her socks thrice, to check if the micro xerox was exactly where it should be. She was afraid. She had never copied in any exam.

Exactly ten rows behind was another man. He had come to this place hoping find work and money. He asked his friend who was carrying the big hammer, as to what time it was. The hammer man replied it was 7.33 in their local dialect. The frown on his face carried worry. The man wanted to meet the Mestri and ask for some funds in advance. His family wanted some money in a hurry. His brother in law was asking for more money as dowry. The blacker the woman, more the dowry. The more qualified the man, more the dowry. The man who had married his sister was a peon and had finished his matriculation. His sister was super black. The bus was getting caught at every red signal and the Mestri normally left at exactly 8.00. He was worried stiff.

In the same bus, looking at his old vintage watch that had come to his father from his father and to him from his. Like genes this heirloom was handed over generations. His son was in the states, the United States of America. His daughter was in Gulf. His grandsons had iPhones and Ipads. They did not need a not-so-smart watch. So this would die with him. He was wondering, if he could have walked for around 3 kms; he could have got the Rasam powder himself. He had chosen the bus, since he thought it would be easy. He was frail and old yet he wanted to go and buy it himself. The bus had to stop for a full five minutes when he had to get on to the bus. It pained him to hear angry grumbles. " These old men board the bus to kill our time. Why can’t their children take care of them. Instead they leave them here like roadside cattle".

It was exactly 7.33 in the morning. The Sanskrit professor who was also in the bus heard his dialogue emanate in the bus. He was looking for a story for his next drama. He mulled over the play in the bus, his head was already planning a story that revolved around an old man. A man of the army, a man who had seen wars and came home to brittle bones and grumpy kids who refused to take good care of him. The Sanskrit dialogues of melancholia was dancing in his head. He smiled a rueful smile.

"Ajji, Ajji,Ajji" !! The young grand-daughter tugged at her grandmother’s saree. “What time is it?” she asked looking at her fancy Mickey mouse watch. It seemed to be stuck at the same time ever since the last ten days. Everytime she was bored, she remembered to set the time. In the most professional looking way she took off her watch and showed the lady next to her and asked the same question to the lady. The digital clock on it read 7.33 and the blaring LED winked every minute.

The lady next to this kid was going to her classes. She wanted to learn English and improve her chances of securing a better job. She had prepared a list of questions that she wanted to ask her teacher. She wanted to work on her speaking. Everytime she spoke the class laughed. Her language was good, but she felt embarrassed about her mistakes. She wanted to desperately change this. She was trying to remember something but kept forgetting it. The more she tried the more she seemed not to remember it.

A young boy looked at the man next to him, the window seat was his. He did not bother what time it was. The number 7.33 would not have mattered to him. He was still in high school and like everybody in puberty he was confused. He had failed the test the day before. Today too, He had not studied much at all, the guilt tore at him, tears rolled down his eyes. He wanted to impress a girl in class, he had been busy talking to her on phone. Daydreaming, had cost him his test results.

It was 7.36 now.

The red light turned green, the driver released the clutch a little too early and the bus jerked all of them out of reveries. The blaring horns was all that was heard and the bus slowly moved like a giant being carried away by a column of ants.

Gopika and her Krishna

Gopika and her Krishna

She had done this a thousand times. May even thousands of thousand times. With just a practiced flick of the wrist, the chappathi landed in the small bowl. It held many such chappatis already.

Gopika had been doing chappatis ever since she remembered. Her chappati was famous for being soft and succulent, carrying with it something that resembled the food from home. She loved making them, it had been the one thing that had helped her survive till now.

She made it every evening and it would get gobbled up in minutes. People from all walks of life would come by and take a parcel home. She dared not venture into curries and other dishes, her staple currency was in making chappatis. She stuck to it religiously.

Another chappati went onto the tawa, but this time the practiced wrist caught the tawa at a slight angle and caused her to break from her reverie.

Gopika was lost deep in thought for a long time after that...

She had a son by name Krishna. Krishna was beautiful, his eyes shone with such loving kindness that Gopika would forget everything and simply stare at him with profound joy. Krishna was physically challenged. Krishna could barely move without assistance, but the boy was determined to move the world to sustain his curiosity. Krishna went to a school nearby, he would return soon. The school taught him to paint and draw. He loved that activity and he sold most of his works from the school. The school taught him of a talent.

Something irked her today, the burning sensation in her hand was proof of it. She was tending to be thirty soon. Her health was still good and she was still relatively young. But she suddenly felt old that instant.

By the balcony she sat, switching off the tawa and letting it cool off.

She had married Ranga, her high school sweetheart. They had run away together, imagining a love life that even the Gods envied. It ended quite a lot of things for her. Her parents refused to speak with her and cut her off from the family. Her studies came to a complete stand still. Ranga however managed to get both of them a job in a hotel.

Ranga ran away at the age of eighteen leaving Gopika reeling without any support and preganant with Krishna. She shuddered at the thought of those days when she worked until the day of her labour. The only thing she knew to do was Chappathi.

It had helped her survive. There was something in those simple rotis that made everybody like it. She would cook at four different homes to support herself. It was quite late when she realized that her son was physically challenged and could not walk much.

She had not complained to anyone in life. She had took it in her stride. Ranga - the failed romance, the broken marriage, her pregnancy and the husband disappearing; leaving her in a state of helplessness.

She had endured it, raised her Krishna and took care of him. She had tried to home school him, teaching him basic life skills. But his interests lay in drawing. The small house they lived in was full of art work. The chappati business kept them afloat...

She remembered everything from her past, her parents who disowned her, the struggles of being a single mother to a physically challenged kid. The tiring work of making chappati after chappati, sitting by the gas stove. Having to change the gas cylinder so very often, arrange for new ones, leave her son to the new art school and bring him back.

She had done this for years now but she suddenly felt old and the gnawing feeling of what would happen to her son if something happened to her had taken root...

The people who came to buy chappatis from her did not notice this sudden change in her thoughts. As usual two hundred of them were sold out in thirty minutes. I.T professionals, bored housewives, daily wage workers, auto rickshaw drivers, random strangers passing by - had accounted for this daily occurrence.

She had done it so many times, the flick of the wrist and landing the latest chappati in the small container. Something had changed that day.