Shevlin Sebastian's Blog, page 16

An encounter in New York -- Flash Fiction

By Shevlin Sebastian

A woman is walking at a quick pace down a New York street. Because of the clouds, there is a greyish tone to the day. She is a slim woman with close-cropped hair, which reaches the collar. Alice Baker is pale-skinned, but she has put red lipstick on her lips. The colour stands out when you look at her face. She also has striking eyes — a thick grey with a black dot in the middle. Her eyelashes stick out as if she is astonished.

Alice wears flat, black leather sandals. On her left wrist, she wears a thin, gold watch. The dial is made of gold, including the hour and minute hands.

A black man ambles up. He is 6’2” tall. Unlike the woman, he is heavy-built, with a paunch that falls over his stomach. It rolls about like a wave. He has grey stubble. Not thick, but hairs sprinkled across the chin. There is a smell of rye on his breath. He has consumed several glasses of liquor.

Ben Whitaker is a former Army soldier who had done three stints in Vietnam. He shot dead many Vietnamese. Because he was often near bomb blasts, he has damaged his hearing.

After seeing so much violence, Ben returned to America, a troubled man. His marriage broke up. He fought with friends and relatives. Ben could never hold a proper job. He always ended up fighting with his supervisors. So far, he has avoided run-ins with the police. He survives on his Army pension.

His apartment is ill kept. His shorts, underwear and socks lay strewn about on the floor and the sofa. There are empty beer cans and whisky bottles on the floor, as well as cigarette ash. Half-eaten food packets lay on the dining table. The odour is a mix of perspiration and stale food.

As the black man sees the white woman, Ben thinks of privilege, white wealth and a smooth life. He thinks the world is unfair. Too many black people fought in Vietnam. She is too young to know about the sacrifices of the blacks in Vietnam. She has a happy-go-lucky life.

Alice might not agree. She has broken up with her boyfriend of three years. And she is feeling low. Her parents had divorced when she was a child. She grew up with her mother Deborah. She rarely saw her father, Robert. He was a wealthy architect and had married again. But to his credit, Robert made the alimony payment on time for years together. He married again and had two children.

Deborah never married again because Robert was the love of her life. So, she had a look of permanent sorrow on her face. Down turned lips and downcast eyes. She lost the incentive to look good. Her blond hair no longer has a lustre. Deborah wore loose-fitting shirts and trousers. She sat at home the whole day. Alice was glad when she left home and joined college. That was when some oxygen entered her lungs for the first time.

But Ben did not know this.

As she came abreast, a lot of blood flashed inside his brain, face, and heart. The veins in his forehead pounded a ferocious drumbeat.

Ben took out a gun and knocked Alice’s face out.

Ben carried on walking.

The 24-year-old lay on the ground, still and lifeless.

Onlookers came rushing up.

One called 911.

There were many surveillance cameras on this street. It would be a matter of time before the police arrested Ben.

But he has no plans to escape.

As he continued walking, the 64-year-old pressed the steel barrel to his forehead.

He took a deep breath and pulled the trigger.

As he rushed toward death, all he heard were the screams of onlookers....

Lessons from Laal Singh Chaddha!

Laal Singh Chaddha is a beautiful movie. 

There are several history lessons in it. 

Riots are shown at ground level. You watch, with horror, the use of a tyre as a burning necklace to kill people. You experience the fear and the terror of ordinary citizens.

It showed the venality of politicians.

Throughout the 75 years of our history, they have ignited riot after riot in pursuit of vote banks. Our leaders have pursued division among the people with a zeal bordering on the maniacal. 

You see the beauty and charm of the guileless Laal. 

Laal Singh reminds us how quickly we lose our childhood innocence. We turn into rough, hard-hearted and cynical people.

It shows the power of a mother’s love. And how she can transform the life of a disabled son. A study of human history has shown that most of the great achievers enjoyed the unrelenting love of their mothers. 

It shows the power of patience. Laal Singh waited and waited before he finally won over his lady love, Rupa. 

The movie reminds us that death is always a part of life. 

The film reveals the humanity of people. It is easy to hate when people are abstract concepts, like ‘He is a Muslim’. But they are as human as you are. 

Laal Singh tells us that God is within us. Which is why we don’t need religion. 

It showed the immense contributions of Punjabis to the Indian Army over several generations. 

When Laal Singh runs through the length and breadth of the country, you realise how beautiful this nation is. Every state feels like an independent country, with its own culture, food habits, and mores. 

Once, Rupa asked him about his experiences in Kargil. Laal Singh focused on how beautiful the Himalayas looked at night. It was an invaluable lesson: to look at the beauty instead of the darkness. We always look at the negative. 

It was a film which reminded us of the beautiful concept of unity in diversity, now under ferocious attack. 

Laal Singh showed how sworn enemies can become lifelong friends. 

Although we don’t see it, the production team took an immense effort in the film's making. 

As a sign of the polarised times we live in, the disclaimer at the beginning, in English and Hindi, was about 25 lines long. There was a commentary accompanying it. 

During earlier, calmer times, the disclaimer was one line long. 

As a newspaper article mentioned, Aamir Khan is one of the greatest story-tellers of his generation. We should cherish and support him and not abuse him because he is a Muslim. 

Don’t miss Laal Singh Chaddha!

Hitting 90 with panache

 

Photos: AM Chacko; 

From left: Jeena and Vinod Mathew, Anoop Thomas and Elsy Paul, Chandrakanth Viswanath, yours truly, Anil S and his daughter, AS Hareesh Kumar and Pradeep Pillai

As a former boss celebrates his father’s birthday, some reflections

By Shevlin Sebastian

Vinod Mathew was the Resident Editor of the New Indian Express, Kerala, for a little more than eight years, until March 31, 2019. I was part of his team as a feature writer. Now and then, during our conversations, he would talk about his father, AM Chacko. He was a retired Additional Labour Commissioner. But he now worked as a farmer, was very active in the church, and played badminton daily.

Three years ago, Chacko Sir had a stroke. It occurred at 6 a.m., while he was waiting to be picked up by another player. This happened to be the local parish priest Fr P K Chacko.

The priest noticed that Chacko Sir’s voice had slurred. He immediately informed Vinod in Kochi. Thereafter, he made Chacko Sir change from his badminton gear into a shirt and trousers. Fr. Chacko drove him to the Pushpagiri Medical Hospital, seven kilometres away. Because of Chacko Sir’s high level of fitness and the swift treatment, he made a full recovery. Today, he continues to play badminton and arrives at the court every day at 6.30 a.m., the first in the over-sixty category to do so.

I had never met Chacko Sir. But when Vinod and his family were going to celebrate their father’s 90th birthday, he invited a few of his former colleagues. Along with former News Editor Anoop Thomas and his wife Elsy Paul, we journeyed to Tiruvalla.

At the function, Vinod said the reason the family decided to celebrate it was because his father had told him, “There is no point talking good things about me after I die. Then I cannot hear it. So, better do it when I am alive.”

This statement struck me. In Kerala or India praise is rare. But we are quick and relentless with our criticisms. Unlike the West, we don’t honour and celebrate the achievers in our midst, unless they are celebrities.

I was keen to meet Chacko Sir, because, like him, I have been exercising daily for over thirty years. In the earlier years, it would be a run, but now it is six days of swimming while the seventh is devoted to running.

There is a difference in the body language of those who exercise daily and those who don’t. Those who do have a lightness about them as they walk about. Those who don’t, tend to move ponderously, as they grow older, and put on weight and lose their sharpness (sorry guys, couldn't avoid taking this potshot!).

It was a wonderful event. Many people showered praise on Chacko Sir. They included bishops, priests, parishioners, friends, relatives and former colleagues. Chacko Sir has led an exemplary life, always smiling, and helping people in whatever way he could. And when I shook Chacko Sir’s hand, his grip was firm. He exuded an aura of positivity.

Much later, my former colleague Chandrakanth Viswanath, who now works for News18.com, told me a telling anecdote.

After lunch, when Chandrakanth was washing his hands, Chacko Sir was standing there. And when some of his badminton club colleagues cheered him, he raised both his arms skywards. “That shows how spirited he is,” said Chandrakanth.

But this is not to forget Chacko Sir’s wife, Aleyamma, who turns 90 on December 29, and has been the rock of the family. They have been married for 61 years. Aleyamma retired as Regional Assistant Director, Social Welfare Department, after a 30-year career. The couple have four children – Vinod, Vineetha, Veena and Vidya.

It was good to meet former colleagues. Anoop stole the show with his flamboyantly colourful shirt, his goatee, his flowing hair, and a black beret. Many people thought he was a film personality. On the opposite pole was the always low-key Anil S. He had come all the way from Thiruvananthapuram, 118 kms away.

As usual, we exchanged news about other colleagues and the state of the print media.

Chandrakanth spoke about the joys and troubles his wife Geethu experienced as she set up a publishing company. This turned out to be an eye-opener.

It was good to connect with people. In book-writing mode these days, I rarely meet anybody. It is solitary and silent. I spend a lot of time staring at walls.

After the formal function, we went to Chacko Sir’s 55-year-old home. It had received a fresh coat of paint and looked as new as ever. Vinod spoke about the history of the family by pointing at photographs on the walls. I also saw the current extended family.

Vinod’s daughter-in-law, Vanshikha Narain Saigal, is from Lucknow. When I asked her whether she knew Malayalam, she sweetly said, “Korichu Korichu (a little).”

She spoke about another reality: of travelling on expressways from Noida to Lucknow, with her husband, Aaron, touching speeds of 160 kms per hour in their car. Vanshikha also reminisced about her pet dog, a Lhasa Apso with the name of Bailey, which is now being looked after by her brother since she is out of town.

Listening intently was Pradeep Pillai, of News18 Kerala, who had a ready smile on his face. His handshake was as firm as Chacko Sir’s. And his joie de vivre was visible on his face. It helped that it was a rainy day and the climate was very pleasant.

Following tea, and many goodbyes, on our return, Anoop and I engaged in a host of topics. Since we ignored Google Maps, it was inevitable we would go down the wrong road, turn around, go left and right, so that we could talk uninterruptedly. But inevitably, we reached a road where Anoop knew the way back. So, we reached Kochi at 8 p.m. And I hopped on a Metro train to go home.

It was a day when an elderly eminence gave a subtle but powerful message on how to age gracefully.

Thank you, Chacko Sir! 

A Day in the Life

This short story is set in the Mumbai underworld

By Shevlin Sebastian

A man was sitting behind the steering wheel of a Kia Seltos car. The car had stopped at a traffic signal at Byculla in Mumbai. On the seat next to him, there was a gleaming revolver placed under a Marathi newspaper. On the floor, beneath the dashboard, there was a brown leather bag.

The man had a thick double chin. Two bulbous eyes jutted out. Rohit Gaikwad was wearing a white safari suit. His socks were white, and so were his shoes. He had a gold bracelet on his left hand. He also wore a Rolex watch.

When the signal changed, Rohit pressed the accelerator. He was on his way to Andheri, 21 kms away, to collect money from a builder by the name of Sunil Jhangpuria.

Sunil spent all his time on work sites. Right next to the building was his small makeshift office. It was almost like a tin shed. But Sunil had installed an air conditioner. So, it was cool even though it was the hot and sweaty month of May.

When Rohit entered the office, Sunil was all smiles and ordered two cups of tea. The peon walked out to get it.

They talked about the government, the state of the economy, Bollywood celebrities, the price of vegetables, and the real estate business. The tea arrived; they sipped the liquid in silence. After the peon took the cups away, Rohit looked at Sunil and said, “Is the stuff ready?”

Rohit nodded. He swivelled in his chair, stood up, and walked to a safe in the wall and opened it by using numbers for the combination lock. He took out several thick bundles.

By this time, Rohit had opened his brown leather bag. Sunil placed the bundles inside.

“How many petis?” said Rohit.

“One hundred,” said Sunil, as he placed the bundles inside the bag. Each peti contained Rs 1 lakh. That meant Rs 1 crore.

“What about the rest?” said Rohit.

Rs 3 crore was the amount to be given.

“Two days later,” said Sunil.

Since Sunil always kept his word, Rohit did not protest. Rohit knew Sunil did not want any problems from the underworld. He knew it was better to be safe than sorry. After he paid the money, the work would go ahead with no disturbances from the workers or the office staff. The goods will arrive at the site on time. Nobody will be there to block the road. The police will also stay away.

After Sunil had transferred the money, Rohit zipped the bag with a snapping sound.

He told Sunil, “Call us if you face any problems. We are here to protect you.”

Sunil was tempted to give a sarcastic remark that it is they who are the problem, but he bit his tongue.

Instead, Sunil nodded.

Rohit strode towards the car. He could hear a cement mixer in the distance. Sunil also heard workers shouting at each other across floors. It was a 20-story building.

Work was going on at full tilt. This was Sunil’s 15th project. He made a decent profit. He knew it would have been much more if he hadn’t had to pay the underworld. In different areas, different groups dominated. He paid the gang that ruled that area. They respected him because he kept his word and did not bargain too much.

Rohit turned the ignition key and pressed on the accelerator. For the past 25 years, he had been an enforcer of the Don of Mahim Chawl Prashant Bhosle.

They had grown up in the same slum in Byculla and had been buddies for years.

Prashant drifted into crime by being a pickpocket and drug courier. Rohit followed in his footsteps. Rohit built up a reputation of being honest and loyal to Prashant. And although he carried his revolver everywhere, he rarely used it. He didn’t have to. The sight of it was enough. Rohit dealt with corporates and professionals because he could speak English. He dressed well. Rohit was a presentable face of the underworld. He spoke politely most of the time.

But Prashant had told him not to dress so showily. The Rolex watch and the gold bracelet. “It is always better to be low key,” said Prashant. “People get jealous. They want to bring you down.”

But since Prashant spoke in a soft voice, Rohit knew the don did not mind his sartorial style. Rohit ensured the money came in steadily.

Prashant paid Rohit generously. So, the latter was happy.

He had an arranged marriage with a Marathi girl, Deepa. She had studied up to Class 12. He had no problems with her. Deepa never said no when he wanted to have sex. She would only demur when she had her periods. They had two children, a girl named Suchitra and a boy, Sriram.

Their children were studying in good English schools. Rohit could afford to buy them laptops and other accessories.

Thanks to the clout of the Bhosle gang, he slept with whores whenever he was in the mood. He was not sure if his wife suspected. Anyway, there was little she could do about it.

The car came to a stop at a traffic stop. Rohit was thinking about his plans for the day. He would give the money to Prashant and get it counted. Thereafter, he would venture out to Worli. He wanted to meet a builder there and put some pressure. Prashant felt the builder was evading him and not paying the money that was asked of him. He was wondering whether he should stop at his mistress’s house in Bandra and have a session. Sex every day was a must for him.

From the corner of his eye, Rohit saw a movement near the car. When he turned to look through the window, three shots rang out, one after the other. One caught him smack in the middle of his forehead, between his eyes. They aimed the other at his heart. The third hits his neck. Blood spurted out, staining his white shirt. His mouth opened in a soundless scream. He extended his left arm sideways to get the revolver, which was beneath the newspaper. Soon, his head fell onto the steering wheel; the horn blew non-stop. Rohit lay still and lifeless.

Outside, there were shouts and screams. Women put their fingers in their ears. Many men started running. Vehicles stopped as drivers froze in fear. The assassins, two of them, on a motorbike, did not flee immediately. Both were wearing black cloth masks, which covered their heads, with slits for the eyes. One of them opened the door on the other side and grabbed the bag, which contained the money. All this happened within seconds. Within a minute, there was a stillness in the air.

The police constable, who was supervising the traffic, arrived and peeped in. With one look, he knew Rohit was dead. With his wireless, he requested an ambulance from headquarters. Within 15 minutes, the vehicle arrived. They pulled Rohit out of the car. The car horn stopped. The sound grated on the nerves of pedestrians, street residents, drivers and the local shop owners. Traffic began to move. The ambulance sped away at high speed with a blaring siren.

A cop in Prashant’s pay informed him of the hit. As a result, he came to two conclusions. Either Sunil planned this or somebody from his inner circle had passed on the information. But the pertinent question was: to whom was the info given? And why? Was it for information only in exchange for cash? Or was there a vendetta behind this? He twirled the edges of his moustache with his finger, as he wondered who among his inner circle could betray him.

He called his closest associate, Manish, a childhood friend. “Speak to Sunil. Ask him what happened. The money is lost. Does he have any leads? Find out whether he had organised the hit? Get the information from him in any way you want.”

Manish understood he could use violence if necessary.

So, Manish went to meet Sunil. But the business owner was not in his office. The office staff did not know where he was. Manish called Prashant, who called a police contact in the cyber cell and gave the number. Within half an hour, the officer called and said the number was not active. Prashant realised it could be Sunil, though it was most unlikely he was behind the hit.

Which meant there was somebody else behind Sunil. Could it be the leader of another gang? But right now, the waters looked muddy. There was no clarity about the situation. In one fell swoop, he had lost Rs 3 crore. Rohit had not informed Prashant of the lowered amount.

Prashant told Manish to go to the hospital and confirm Rohit had died. After that, he should inform Rohit’s wife.

“Okay,” said Manish.

Prashant could hear rumbling sounds in his stomach. This was always the warning signal from his body. That something was not right.

He called a meeting of his top team members. They sat around the dining table.

The servant served cups of tea along with chips.

“Okay guys, I need to find answers,” he said. “Who ordered this hit? And why? Who took the money? How did they know Rohit was planning to collect the money? Where is Sunil? Why has he fled?

The members kept quiet. They were not sure what had happened. Everything happened so quickly. As they were thinking of the various possibilities, they took hesitant sips from their cups.

There was a commotion at the gate. Lots of yelling. When Danish, a sharpshooter, looked from the window, he turned and said, “It’s a police raid.”

But it was too late. There was nowhere to go. The police came up the stairs, armed with warrants, and arrested all the members, including Prashant. They were all taken to the Arthur Road prison in a police van.

At the hospital reception, a woman employee told Manish, “Rohit Gaikwad, dead on arrival. He is in the mortuary.”

So, Manish made his way to the first-floor house in Byculla, where Rohit lived with his wife and children. The children were in school. He knocked on the door.

Deepa opened it. She was wearing a plain white cotton saree. Manish was surprised at how slim she was, despite being the mother of two children. He wondered how she would be in bed. He felt he had a chance now that Rohit had died.

She looked at him and immediately said, “Has something happened to Rohit?”

He nodded.

She led him inside.

It was a middle-class drawing room. A sofa was placed against one wall. Two armchairs on the other side. A small glass table in the middle. The Lokmat newspaper was on it. Against another wall, there was an aquarium. It had small lights. Red and black fish swirled about in an endless loop in transparent water.

“What is it?” she said, leaning forward and looking at Manish.

Manish came straight to the point.

“Two men shot Rohit dead at a traffic stop,” he said.

Deepa fell back on the sofa as she cupped her open mouth with her fingers.

“What happened?” she said.

“We don’t know who they are,” said Manish. “We are investigating. We will find out and take revenge. Prashant said he would come and meet you next week. You don’t have to worry about the financial aspect. We will look after everything. The body is in the mortuary. Enlist the help of your family members to conduct the cremation. If you need any help, please call me.”

Tears rolled down her face.

Deepa knew that to face life without her husband beside her would be tough, especially when they had two school-going children.

She cried for a while. She stood up and dabbed her eyes with the end of her saree. Deepa stared out of the window.

Manish also stood up and gave his number. Deepa entered it into her mobile.

As soon as Manish left, Deepa’s tears dried up. She smashed a fist into a palm. ‘Thank God, the oaf is dead,’ she thought. ‘I am free now. Instead of being a slave, I can pursue my dreams. He slept with so many women. Never took a bath before having sex with me. Every day he smelled different. I was always worried about contracting a sexually transmitted disease. Yes, my children will be devastated, but they will get over it. Now I will enrol in college, get a degree and get a job.”

She realised how afraid she had been of Rohit. He always carried a hint of violence about him. Rohit couldn’t let go of the fear of being attacked. He always had a wariness about him, even when he was in the house.

Deepa realised that, for Rohit, she resembled only a hole. All he desired was to enter her. She was too afraid to protest or say she was not in the mood.

Deepa entered the bedroom and opened the steel almirah. The most important thing at the moment was whether Rohit had any money in the bank. She knew Prashant would help them on the financial front.

She looked for the bank passbooks in the safe. She came across two: State Bank of India and Bank of Maharashtra. Both accounts had deposits of Rs 10 lakh each. She searched for Fixed Deposits and shares. She remembered Rohit had kept a file on the top shelf. This was where he usually kept his revolver.

She brought down the files. He stored them inside a red cloth covering. As she unwrapped the cloth, she quickly glanced at her mobile to check the time. The children would arrive in half an hour.

She checked the files. Yes, there was an FD file. There were seven certificates in all. The total was about Rs 5 lakhs. So, fine, things would not be so difficult for the first couple of years at least. The flat and the car belonged to Rohit. She would sell the car. They could travel by Uber, auto or train.

Deepa put the files back, shut the almirah and informed her sister and mother about the death. Her father had passed away a few years ago. They promised to arrive within half an hour. They would then go to the hospital.

After Manish stepped out of Rohit’s house, he got a call. It was a member of the rival gang asking whether the police had arrested Prashant. This was the first time he heard about it. He said he would call back and called Prashant’s landline number. Ashok, the servant, answered and confirmed the arrest of the entire gang.

Manish stepped into a roadside hotel and ordered a tea. Manish had two options. He could try to meet Prashant at Arthur Road prison or go underground. He reflected for a few minutes as he sipped his tea.

He shook his head, paid the bill, and walked out.

Manish switched off his mobile and threw the SIM card away. He headed to a house in Andheri and let himself in with a key. The two killers were sitting on the edge of the bed, watching TV.

“Okay,” said Manish. “Show me the bag.”

When he opened and counted the money, he realised with a shock that it was only Rs 1 crore. ‘Shit,’ he thought. ‘It was supposed to be Rs 3 crore.’

“Is this the money or have you guys hidden away something?” he said, pointing a revolver with a silencer at them.

The boys fell at his feet.

One of them said, “Sir, we did not even open the bag. Please believe us.”

From the tone, and from his years of experience, he knew they were telling the truth. For some unfathomable reason, Sunil had given less than he had promised.

“Okay,” he said, “Get up.”

He gave them Rs 20 lakh each and told them, “Go to Uttar Pradesh or Nepal. If you don’t want to get caught, stay underground for one or two years. You have a reasonable chance to escape, since the cops have not seen your faces. Change your clothes and head out.”

They nodded, changed, put the cash in suitcases and left.

Yes, Prashant was right about his suspicions. It was Manish who had squealed to the police. Using a wiretap, he recorded talks with Prashant and the other gangsters. He photocopied the account books and sent them by WhatsApp to an investigative officer. They had enough evidence to send Prashant to jail for several years.

He did it because he was tired of the life of crime. There was not a moment’s rest. Manish feared divine retribution after his death. Since he had not married, he had nothing to fear. The gang had damaged the lives of so many people. They had killed too many people in intra-gang warfare. He always felt fearful whenever he walked the streets. Anybody could make a fatal attack on him. He knew Prashant would not allow him to leave. So, he decided to sink everybody by becoming a mole for the police and make good his escape.

At 8.30 p.m. Manish got into an unreserved compartment of the Kolkata-bound Jnaneshwari Express. He had a suitcase which contained Rs 60 lakh, his revolver, and some clothes. In Kolkata, he had arranged for plastic surgery to be done on his nose. He wanted his snub nose to be straightened. The cleft in his chin would be closed. He would shave off his hair and wear a wig.

After that, he would make a fake Aadhar card, ration card and passport. In Kolkata, he would open several accounts and deposit the money over one-and-a-half months, so that it aroused no suspicion.

Thereafter, he planned to join the Sevashram Ashram in Bolpur, 160 kms from Kolkata. He would become a monk, clean himself of all his sins, and stay hidden for at least a decade.

After that, he would decide on the next course of his life.

(Published in Active Muse, Pune)

A brief halt

 

(Flash Fiction) 

By Shevlin Sebastian

On a cloudy morning, an Army Shaktiman truck was parked beside a tea stall on the outskirts of Baramulla in Kashmir. Several soldiers remained sitting in the back of the truck holding the rifles, with their butts resting on the floor. They wore olive green Army fatigues. One soldier stepped down and headed to the tea stall. He brought back several plastic cups of steaming tea and passed the tray to the soldier sitting near the entrance. That man passed the teacups to the others and returned the empty tray to the soldier standing on the ground.

His name is Varghese Chandy. The Kottayam-based Varghese had joined the Army three years ago. The 23-year-old belonged to a lower-middle-class family. His father had been a struggling farmer. They had a tough time right through his childhood, making ends meet. So, Varghese opted for the Army.

He knew he would get a steady income and when he retired, he would be assured of a lifelong pension. But Varghese knew there were dangers in defending the country. He could be killed at any moment.

But he had accepted this possibility from the very beginning.

In Baramulla a week earlier, there had been a gunfight between militants and soldiers. A 12-year-old boy had died in the crossfire in the Azad Gunj area. This outraged the local people. A vast crowd had gathered on the main road shouting anti-India slogans.

Despite many provocative slogans, the soldiers remained calm. The burial passed off peacefully. The mourners returned home dejected.

Varghese knew the Kashmir people had suffered too much collateral damage in the unrest that had gripped the state since Independence.

The Army head had asked a fresh group of soldiers to Baramulla to relieve the pressure on the existing troops. Varghese had been drafted in.

He knew a stint in Baramulla would be risky, but he could not disobey the orders of his superiors.

Sometimes, he looked back on his peaceful life back in Kerala. There was hardly any presence of the police or the Army in the streets. There were no roadblocks. Nobody stopped and asked you for your ID card. The weather was manageable, although it was becoming clear that the monsoons had become unpredictable. There were large flash floods. As a result, several houses had been washed away, especially those who lived in hilly areas like Idukki. In some places, the entire slope had collapsed, owing to the random quarrying for stone. But what could he do stationed in Baramulla? Nothing.

The soldiers finished their cups of tea. Varghese picked up a large plastic bag from the shop and took it to the truck. They placed the used plastic cups inside the bag and returned it to Varghese.

The senior officer boarded the truck at the front, near the driver. Varghese paid the stall owner and jumped in at the back. He realised he needed to call home soon. He had not spoken to his parents or his younger sister for a week.

The driver turned the ignition key.

The next thing the locals heard was a tremendous blast. Somebody had placed a bomb on the ground underneath the truck. 24 soldiers and the officer died at once. Varghese’s body was charred beyond recognition. The uniform stuck to his body like a second skin. His skull was fractured. Blood flowed from several head wounds. He passed away within minutes.

The people rushed up and pulled the smouldering bodies away from the carnage in a bid to save lives. It was of no use. The tea shop owner also died. This was a regular stop for all the Army trucks. Someone knew this and planted a bomb beforehand in the mud where the lorry would be parked.

Now what?

The Army informed his parents. His mother wept bitterly. His father stared blankly at the wall. Both wondered why this happened. Varghese had been sending money home. At the prime of his life, God and the militants had taken their son away.

The political leaders said, “The nation will never forget the brave sacrifices of our soldiers.”

But the sad news is that the nation would forget. Like they did the many riots, insurgencies and wars that took place in the country during the past several decades.

The world will move on.

Following a mourning period of several months, his parents would pick up the broken pieces of their psyche and try to stitch them together.

This is the resilience God gives human beings.

But they would remember Varghese at every moment of their waking lives till they passed away.

As for the militants who planted the bombs, there would be many high-fives, collective smiles, hugs, kisses, and congratulatory thumps on the back, followed by a celebratory dinner.

“Take that, India,” one of them shouted and showed an upraised finger at his comrades.

They laughed.

Celebration and sadness at the sight of dead bodies.

Some laugh at the tragedy of others.

What is the meaning of life?

The Buddhist said, “Life is yin-yang: sunlight and darkness; male and female; beautiful and ugly; sweet and sour; love and hate.”

(Published in Twistandtwain.com)

My Mother and I

Photo: My mother, Ritty Sebastian (extreme right) with family friends (from left) Ramany Paul, Mercy Antony, and the late Jose Kadavil

By Shevlin Sebastian 

At 9.30 p.m., on a Saturday, I told my mother, “The mass tomorrow is at 7 a.m. We will leave at 6.45 a.m. Don’t awaken me at 5.30 a.m.”

My mother nodded.

The next morning, at 5.30 a.m. my mother opened my bedroom door. I was lying on my back, in a T-shirt and Bermuda shorts, my eyes closed. I was sleeping alone as my wife had gone to her mother’s place. 

My mother stood at the door for a couple of seconds.

Then she came up, peered at me and said, “Shev….lin.”

Her voice cracked at the lin.

It was a chilly morning in Kochi. It had rained furiously the previous night. Maybe my mother felt the cold. Her tone reflected this.

“It is 5.30 a.m., don’t we have to go to Mass?” she said.

“Mum, the mass is at 7 a.m. We have to leave at 6.45 a.m. There is more than an hour left,” I said, still keeping my eyes closed.

The 85-year-old mother stared at her middle-aged son, and said, “Okay.”

She turned and walked back to her room.

But she forgot to close the door.

Now the light streamed in from the dining room. I could see sunshine behind my closed lids. Lazy to get up and close the door, I turned on my stomach and drifted off to sleep.

When I am middle-aged, I speak to my mother with my eyes closed. But when I was in kindergarten, I would be bright-eyed when I returned from school. My mother was there to take me in her arms. Through the nine months of the pregnancy, she nurtured me in her womb. She ate well and walked carefully so that she could deliver me safely. She was always there through the vital years of my childhood.

Now I am impatient with her.

In the early morning, I sit at the dining table, reading the newspaper with a cup of tea.

My mother sits in the living room and reads the paper, too.

It is a time of the morning when I like to be silent.

But my mother will call and say, “There is a sale coming up. The discount is 50 percent.”

Depending on my mood, I will say, “Ah, okay.”

At other times, I have said, “Give me two minutes. I will rush to the shop and buy the stuff.”

My mother would give a short laugh, knowing I am being sarcastic.

Sometimes, she will say, “Did you see the photo in the newspaper?”

“Yes,” I would lie.

I just don’t want to have a conversation this early.

My mother moved in with me when my father passed away last year. I discovered a trait I never knew she had: a stubbornness.

If she did not want to eat something, nothing or nobody could force her to change her mind. That was the case when she felt she did not want to have a bath on a particular day.

So, we are learning to adjust.

But this much I know about my mother.

She has hurt no one in her entire life. To a large extent, I am like her. She also gave me certain habits.

She told me many stories during my childhood and teenage years. I would listen enthralled. There is no doubt I became a storyteller because of her.

When I was a baby, my mother would place me against her body, on an armchair, and read the newspaper. So I began looking at print from the beginning of my life. I continue to look at print with joy, peace and happiness. Every day, I read for hours, on paper, on my mobile, or laptop.

My mother loves to read newspapers. She told me when she was a child, she would go for morning mass. After mass, she would race her brother home to see who could get the newspaper first.

My mother is in the autumn of her life. Like my father, she has been blessed with good health: no high blood pressure, no cholesterol, no sugar, no diabetes. I touch wood as I write this.

Her siblings are ageing like her.

Four of them have passed away. Two were younger than her.

How do I sum up my mother?

Once I met an elderly man at a family function. His parents were family friends of my mother’s parents in their hometown of Muvattupuzha.

He said, “In our youth, we called your mother, ‘Pretty Ritty’.”

That’s a nice epithet for my mother: pretty in so many ways. 

(Published in Twist and Twain) 

https://www.twistandtwain.com/memoir/my-mother-and-i/

#Motherofmine #Mothersonrelationship 

On the highway

 

 

By Shevlin Sebastian

EDITOR’S PICK OF THE WEEK – KITAAB.ORG (April 3, 2022) 

Sawant Singh pressed the accelerator. There was a roar from the exhaust as the truck gained speed. He was on the Bhopal-Mumbai National Highway No. 3. Sawant was carrying a truckload of oranges for traders in Mumbai.

As he stared at the road, he could feel the sun beating down on the truck. The cloth of the turban over his forehead was wet. He could feel the sweat gathering in his armpits. Next to him was his assistant, Rupesh. A Dalit, he lived in the same village of Tarn Taran Sahib as Sawant.

Sawant looked at his watch. It was nearing 1 p.m. It was time to stop for lunch. After a kilometre, he turned left onto a narrow road and travelled for half a kilometre. Soon, he saw ‘Bhupinder’s Dhaba’. There was a large parking area in front. Sawant could see several trucks, a few cars, and two-wheelers. He shut the engine, stepped down, and walked towards the restaurant. Rupesh followed, a dark-skinned, thin man in brown trousers and slippers.

Once inside, Sawant headed to the large washing area. He stood in front of a tap and splashed water on his face a few times. Sawant rubbed water on his neck and washed his forearms, too. He used soap to wash his fingers. Thereafter, he wiped his face and hands with a towel, which he placed around his shoulders.

There were a lot of truckers, with their broad shoulders and thick hands, having lunch. Sawant selected a table where nobody was present. He ordered a plate of tadka dal, roti, and a small bowl of onion with chilies and salt. Rupesh sat at the same table but two chairs away.

Sawant kept one ear cocked as he heard people talk about the terrible roads they had driven on. Others complained about the high price of fuel, the hot weather, and the sluggish economy. People were always complaining, he thought. He did not enjoy that. He had an attitude of ‘live and let live’. And he preferred to keep quiet.

Sawant did not like to pontificate. And that desire became even less as he pondered over his personal life.

Sawant is the son of a farmer who grew wheat. He was the third son. The first two sons helped in their father’s fields. But Sawant wanted to do something different. He wanted to travel a bit, but since he had studied only up to Class 10. So, he became a truck driver.

He had married a girl called Uma. She was 13 years his junior. She belonged to a poor family. Sawant agreed to marry her because Uma was beautiful. She was fair-skinned, with an aquiline nose, doe-shaped eyes, and red lips. And she had lovely, thick breasts. It filled his entire palm. Uma was reluctant to marry a man who was so much older than her. But her father told her that Sawant belonged to a traditional farming family. And he had a steady income. He would look after her well.

And indeed, he had. They had two children, both sons, one studying in Class 7 and the other in Class 5.

There was one problem in this idyllic situation. Uma was suffering from venereal disease. Sawant was the culprit. On long truck rides, he would stop at places where prostitutes serviced the truckers. Unlike his fellow drivers, Sawant did not like to use condoms. As a result, he got infected. But he did not know about it. By this time, he had returned home and impregnated his wife.

Sawant got himself treated in Chandigarh. But he was afraid to take Uma to a big city, lest the secret came out that he was having sex with random women. So, he had taken Uma to a physician in Tarn Taran Sahib, who prescribed paracetamol. But Uma showed no improvement. She had painful urination and vaginal discharge during periods. She felt weaker day by day. Uma could no longer look after the children. Sawant’s mother stayed with them and ran the household.

Sawant would take a week to return. He knew he would have to rush Uma to Chandigarh, 229 kms away, and get her treated at an excellent hospital. Otherwise, he feared she might die. 

Sawant started the truck, and they set out once again.

Yes, Sawant knew, he had a weakness for sex. He liked to have it every day. But Uma was not that interested. Sawant did not force himself on her. He preferred when she was in the mood. So, his urge remained, and he took it out on the prostitutes he met on the road.

He had managed to keep another secret, too.

Sawant had another family in Mumbai. This Marathi woman, Renuka, worked as a prostitute. Sawant had become her customer at Kamathipura, the red-light area. Over 5000 prostitutes lived and plied their trade in that area.

He liked her high spirits and abandon in making love. She gave her all during the act. She was chocolate-coloured, with hair going down all the way to her waist. One night, he had asked why she was so passionate when it was a commercial transaction.

Lying on top of him, she stared into his eyes and said, “I like sex.”

Soon, he began frequenting her whenever he was in Mumbai.

After two years, she begged him to free her from the clutches of the pimps and the brothel keeper. Sawant said he was helpless. He explained he could not take her anywhere since he was a married man and had two children. She said it did not matter. All she wanted was to get out and start a new life.

So, one day, he went for a session late at night. They slipped out without anybody knowing. They took a room in a hotel in Andheri.

As they sat next to each other on the bed, Sawant said, “Now what?”

Renuka placed her face in her palms and stared at the floor.

She had nothing to say.

“Where is your hometown?” said Sawant.

“Ratnagiri,” she said.

“How far is it from Mumbai?” asked Sawant. He had not gone to Ratnagiri before.

“Nine hours by bus,” she said.

“Would you like to go home?” he said.

She shook her head.

“My parents allowed me to go away with a stranger,” she said. “They never found out whether or not I was okay.”

Sawant pondered over what to do. But he could not find any solutions.

It was Renuka who provided it.

“There are social groups who care for prostitutes,” she said. “But I don’t know their numbers.”

Sawant had a friend in Mumbai, Balbir Singh. He had been his schoolmate. A good student, Balbir had got a management degree. Now he worked for a multinational company.

The next morning, Sawant called him and asked him about the social groups.

Balbir immediately looked it up on Google it and provided him with names and phone numbers.

Sawant called one number. The woman was forthcoming and helpful. The office was in Lokhandwala West, which was not very far away.

Sawant took Renuka to the office.

There were posters on the wall. In one, a woman was being led out of what looked like a prison cell by another woman. The caption said, ‘We are here to save women. To give them a better life.’ 

The woman behind the desk wore spectacles and had pulled back her hair into a ponytail. She was in her late thirties. Renuka told her of her escape and how she was afraid the pimps would abduct her and take her back.

By her reaction, Sawant knew she had heard the story many times before.

The woman nodded and said, “Nothing to worry. We have safe houses where you can disappear for a while. They will lose interest after a couple of months.”

So Sawant left Renuka with the lady and returned to Punjab in his truck.

Later, Renuka told Sawant she had begun work in the NGO which had rescued her. Her job was to advise the other girls who had escaped like her. She also mopped the floors, cleaned desks and windows, and filed documents.

Sawant met her whenever he was in Mumbai. He hired a hotel room for their encounters. Things went on.

One day when Sawant met Renuka, she told him she was pregnant.

Sawant asked her to abort the child. Renuka stood her ground and said no.

“You have the experience of being a father,” she said. “Let me have the experience of being a mother.”

“But the child will have no father,” he said. “The boy should have the father and mother with him at all times.”

Renuka saw the funny side. “What makes you think it is a boy?” she asked with a smile.

Sawant smiled, and said, “It’s an intuition. Who knows? Listen, my advice to you is to abort.” 

In his mind, he thought, ‘Messing with a woman leads to complications. It is not only sex. They want more.’

“Sawant, it is easy to say that, but I can feel the kicks. This baby is alive. I can’t kill it,” she said, reaching forward and taking his calloused palm to place it on his stomach.

After a few seconds, Sawant could detect a kick. He remained silent. He would have preferred an abortion, so that he did not have the extra responsibility of a child.

Renuka said, “In front of society, you could pretend to be the husband.”

Sawant remained silent for several minutes. Renuka also kept quiet. She did not want to provoke him.

Sawant pressed his lips together and said, “Okay, but I will not have my name on the birth certificate. Get somebody else. There can be no proof anywhere.”

Now it was Renuka’s turn to gaze at Sawant. He was heavy set and weighed at least 95 kgs. Despite his bulk, she knew Sawant was a gentle person. He had a distinctive aroma about him—a mix of talcum powder and perspiration.

She felt she needed to compromise on this matter. So, she nodded, and said, “Accepted.”  

Renuka asked whether she could start living in an apartment.

“What about the expenses?” he said. “Who will pay the rent?”

“I will,” she said. “I have saved over the past three years. I won a state lottery of Rs 3 lakh eight months ago. I kept it a secret from you.”

Sawant stared at Renuka. Every time he met her, she revealed a new facet of herself.

“Clever,” he said and smiled. He felt relieved she had some money with her.

They found a flat in Borivali. Her office was in Andheri. She had to travel 17 kilometres to reach work. But Renuka looked happy. The landlord accepted Sawant’s claim that he was a truck driver. He would be on the road most of the time.

Renuka settled down. She bought a bed, a gas stove, steel plates, glasses, and bowls. Through Google Pay, Sawant sent Rs 5000 every month. He felt obligated since he was going to be a father now.

In the government hospital, Sawant’s intuition proved to be right. It was a boy. But the baby did not have Sawant’s fairness. Instead, he had Renuka’s coffee-coloured skin.

Renuka hired a maid to look after the baby when she went to work after three months. She breastfed him whenever she was at home. Otherwise, the maid gave baby food. Sawant dropped in whenever he came to town and played with the child.

In two years, the boy Raj exhibited the same energy as Renuka. He ran around the house constantly. He always jumped into Sawant’s arms whenever he came home, and said, “Uncle, uncle.” Sawant always gave him a bar of Cadbury’s chocolate.

Sawant realised problems would arise when Raj became an adult. He would ask Renuka who his father is. Of course, Renuka could always say his father had died. But to deny paternity would be a painful experience for Sawant. Since they were not married, their child was a bastard. And Renuka could not prove she had married the dead man. There would be a lot of complications ahead. 

Although Sawant did not enjoy it much, he started wearing a condom. He was afraid Renuka would get pregnant again.

A few years passed.

Things were stable on both fronts. Sometimes, Renuka thanked Sawant for saving her life.

But Sawant knew his secret could be exposed one day.

As he rode on the highway, his thoughts drifting between this and that, a call came on his mobile.

It was his older brother, Manpreet.

“Brother, Uma is not in good shape,” he said. “What should we do?”

Sawant’s heart started racing fast. It would take him a week to return.

He had to bite the bullet.

“I will call you back,” he said.

Sawant turned the lorry at the next crossing and moved into a service lane. He parked the vehicle and stepped down. Sawant did not want Rupesh to hear his conversation. He strode away in the blistering sun and found a tree about 50 metres away.

He stood under it and called Manpreet.

“Take her straight to the government hospital in Chandigarh,” said Sawant. “While there, ask for Dr. Rakesh Mehra. Tell him Uma is suffering from gonorrhoea.”

“What!” exclaimed Manpreet.

“I will explain everything when I return,” said Sawant. “Don’t waste a moment. Tell the family I insisted you alone should take Uma to Chandigarh.”

“Okay, Bhaiyya,” Manpreet said and cut the phone.

Sawant and Manpreet were close since there was an age difference of only two years. Sawant was sure Manpreet would keep his secret.

Sawant immediately pressed the buttons on the phone to send Rs 10000 through Google Pay.

He regretted his decision of not taking Uma to Chandigarh. Because of his mistake, Uma had suffered. He prayed to Waheguru that it was not too late. Without her, their children would feel devastated since he was hardly at home.

He saw Rupesh relieving himself by the side of a drain.

Sawant stared into the distance. There were many trees with oranges hanging from them. It was a soothing sight. ‘Working with nature is always peaceful,’ he thought. ‘Like his father. He was always calm and positive. People who work on the land have a reverence for Mother Nature. He knew that one day when he became old and could no longer drive a lorry, he would become a farmer. But he had to buy farmland in the next few years. Otherwise, he might not have any money in his old age for this investment.’

After ten minutes, Sawant returned to the lorry and set out.

The Governor's gift

This is flash fiction: a short, short story

By Shevlin Sebastian

It was a white bungalow. There were pink bougainvillaea flowers growing along the walls. Outside, near the imposing black gate, two police officers in khaki uniforms stood guard. They had pistols attached to their belts.

This was the house of the governor of the state.

The governor was a woman. She studied and got into the Indian Police Service. She became a successful police officer. She then took an early retirement. Now, she supported a political party who came to power at the national level. They believed in the supremacy of one community only. All the rest were second-class citizens.

The government appointed her as governor.

But she had a secret.

She had a lover who belonged to another community.

This was anathema for the party. Her career would be damaged if the government came to know.

But it would be difficult for the government to know. He was her personal security guard. So, he accompanied her everywhere. At night, he stood guard outside her bedroom door. Occasionally, he would go in and make love to her. Nobody knew. He was the only security guard.

The governor had never married, much to the disappointment of her parents. She had focused on her career. But now in her mid-fifties, time had run out — to marry, have children and enjoy a family life. Plus, she was not keen to be bogged down. She wanted freedom above everything else.

This arrangement worked fine. The security guard was also not interested in anything permanent. The governor, at 52, was 20 years older.

He had no intention at the beginning. But working so closely next to her, one thing led to another. When she undressed, he discovered she had a supple body.

She gave no hint because she wore loose-fitting shirts and trousers. She wore no make-up or any form of jewellery. People thought she had no sexuality at all. But that was not true. In bed, she was an active participant. And she gave as generously as she took. So, the security guard enjoyed his time with her.

This arrangement continued for a few years, with both parties satisfied with their roles.

Then the governor resigned. She decided to stand for elections in the party's name.

The party offered her money and resources. She campaigned from morning to evening. She went in and out of houses, up dusty lanes and down tarred roads. She rode in a cart, a car, an auto-rickshaw, a truck, a tractor, and a minivan to show she was in touch with the common man. The security guard remained by her side all the time. But it was too risky to share her bed because they were staying in unknown houses and hotels.

Despite the enthusiasm shown to her by the people in the constituency, she lost. But the governor was not disappointed. It was her first time. In politics, it is difficult for a newcomer to win.

But it disappointed the party she had lost. They had pinned their hopes on her winning the seat. She was well-known and appeared in the media a lot.

‘Now what?’ she thought.

‘Now what?’ thought the security guard.

She went to her home in New Delhi. From her own resources, she began paying the security guard. He stood outside. When nobody was around, he stepped inside and served her.

The arrangement continued.

But pressure was growing on the security guard to get married.

So he did.

He had a charming wife who grew up in a village. He enjoyed his conjugal relations with her.

The governor requested he continue with the ‘private arrangement’ with her.

He thought about it for a couple of days. His mind told him, ‘Why not?’ His wife would not know. If they remained cautious, like he and the governor had always been, things could continue.

And they did.

Three years later, the security guard became the father of twin boys. The marriage continued. He was a devoted husband and father. He also looked after his parents. He celebrated Id, Holi, Christmas, Diwali and the New Year.

As for the governor, she had joined an NGO that helped rehabilitate sex workers.

The pay was good. She was happy with her job. She was no longer in the limelight. Unlike most people, she did not miss the spotlight. She felt she lived a more authentic life now.

One afternoon, the governor had a heart attack.

The security guard rushed her to the hospital in an ambulance, sirens blaring.

But it was too late.

The hospital pronounced her dead on arrival.

The security guard shed tears at the crematorium. They had a beautiful relationship of mutual respect and love. The governor was only 64 when she passed away.

Life went on.

Two months later, a lawyer contacted the security guard. He told him the governor had given him a flat worth Rs 1 crore in New Delhi and Rs 20 lakh in cash.

The security guard almost fainted in shock.

He asked the lawyer why.

“In the will, it is written, ‘For services rendered’,” said the lawyer.

“Thank you,” said the security guard, joining his hands together in a namaste.

(Published in Twist and Twain) 

 

What goes around comes around

By Shevlin Sebastian

Photo: Many Anglo-Indians live in Bow Barracks, Kolkata. This is a representational image

Steve Smith, 54, and his 50-year-old wife Virginia stay in an old-style bungalow. A few such bungalows still exist in Calcutta. Many of them have been torn down. In its place, high-rise buildings have sprung up.

The house is an inheritance for Steve. His father Paul worked in the railways and rose to a prominent position. Later, Paul bought the house from a Britisher who was departing India following Independence. Steve resisted the temptation to sell it. He was not strapped for money, anyway. Steve worked as a pilot at the port of Calcutta. His income was decent. His wife worked as a secretary to the managing director of a multinational firm. She earned well too.

Steve has kept the house in pristine condition. The rooms are large: there is a main hall, and on either side are bedrooms with attached bathrooms. From the hall, it leads to the dining room. Everywhere, there is wooden furniture. On the right is the kitchen. There is a garden at the back. Virginia grows potatoes, tomatoes and cabbages. There is a large shed on one side where Steve parks his car. The roof has red tiles.

Virginia and Steve are now experiencing empty nest syndrome. Both their children, Robert, 24, and Karen, 22, live and work in Melbourne. All Steve’s brothers and sisters are in Australia. They arranged for Steve’s children to come across.

Both Steve and Virginia are aware the Anglo-Indian community is dwindling. The second generation is marrying other Indians. There are not enough eligible men and women anymore. Steve knew there would come a time when they would have to move in their old age. It could be to Australia to be with their children. Or they might have to stay at an old age home.

But he would ensure he sold the house to an individual rather than a builder, so that the house could be preserved. A nation becomes impoverished when its inhabitants raze their historical buildings. All you get are these impersonal concrete buildings with no personality.

While Virginia had a day job, Steve sometimes did the night shift. Ships could come in at any time of the day and night. It’s like the Suez Canal where ships plied through the canal 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

But Steve liked his job. He enjoyed being in the water. He liked the different moods of the sea — stormy, calm, angry, or moody.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, both had finished lunch and washed the dishes and placed them on a washing rack to dry.

Steve smoked a pipe with quick puffs. He was wearing a T-shirt and shorts. Virginia was also in a T-shirt and shorts. They sat in low armchairs and watched a Netflix film. The living room, painted in a pale yellow, was cool because of the high ceilings. His friends stayed in concrete apartments and always complained of the heat.

Their house remained cool thanks to the clever construction by British architects.

As Steve saw a murder on the screen, it triggered a memory.

This happened many years ago when Steve was in his late twenties. He had been a Catholic priest. On most Sundays, he would travel to a convent to say Mass. Steve was attracted to a nun, Sr. Jude. She was an Anglo-Indian like him. They began a discreet affair. They met in parishes, where priest friends of Steve would set aside a room. They would make love. Sr. Jude would tell the convent authorities she was planning to meet a relative in Bandel, 54 kms from Calcutta.

Indeed, she had an old aunt Mabel who lived in a two-bedroom apartment. She had a maid, Rupali, who looked after her.

One early morning, when Steve had come to the convent, he could not resist kissing and hugging Sr. Jude. They were alone in the kitchen. A few minutes later, a novice nun, Mary, came into the kitchen and caught them red-handed. She put an arm across her mouth and stifled a cry of surprise. Steve and Sr. Jude realised Mary had caught them in an embarrassing position.

What followed was a scene from a fast-paced crime thriller. Sr. Jude said, “We have to silence her.”

“But how?” whispered Steve.

They thought for a few seconds. It seemed like several minutes to both of them.

Sr. Jude jerked her head forward and said, “I have an idea.”

Steve and Sr. Jude headed to her room, although the priest was not supposed to enter the nuns’ private quarters. She took out cotton and a bottle of chloroform. The other nuns were getting ready.

Nobody was in the corridor. They proceeded to Mary’s room. Sr. Jude knocked softly. Mary opened the door. Both Steve and Sr. Jude barged in and pinned her to the ground while Steve pressed his hand over her mouth. Sr. Jude drenched the cotton in chloroform and placed it under Mary’s nose. She passed out within minutes. The nun put the remaining pad of cotton and the bottle in the pocket of her habit.

She looked out of the corridor. Nobody was there. While Steve held the shoulders, Sr. Jude held the legs.

They took the body down the corridor, down the stairs, through the kitchen and to the back. There was a well some distance away.

Since it was a winter’s morning, a week before Christmas, there was fog and mist. They seemed like ghostly figures. Both prayed that nobody was looking out of the window. They reached the edge of the well and laid Mary on the edge.

Steve held Sr. Mary’s legs and pushed the body downwards. He reached down as far as he could without losing his balance, so that the plop sound was not too loud. Then he loosened his grip. The body fell with a splash, but both were not sure whether the nuns in the convent could hear it. With bent heads and breaths coming out in short bursts of white vapour, they headed back.

Steve walked to the chapel. Sr. Jude hurried to her room. She emptied the chloroform liquid into the washbasin. Then she removed the ‘chloroform’ label and tore it up. She washed the bottle, inside and outside, at the tap.

She also threw the remaining cotton into the wastepaper bucket.

Near the chapel, there was a toilet. Steve washed his hands with soap and splashed water on his face. He dried himself with a white towel placed on the rack. He returned to the chapel, wore the vestments and got ready for Mass.

Ten minutes later, the nuns trooped in.

Nobody missed Mary.

After mass was over, Steve usually had breakfast, but this time he made his excuses and left. In his room at the parish, he found that his heart was still racing. It took him almost half an hour to relax.

Two hours later, a maid, Shonali, had gone to the well to draw water to wash the breakfast plates and dishes. When she looked down, she saw the floating body of Mary and screamed.

The nuns came running. Shonali pointed at the well. They looked down and gasped. Mary had to be pulled up immediately. They called the police. The police brought a man who cleaned wells.

Using a long ladder, he climbed down and reached the surface of the water. He checked the wrist and realised there was no movement.

He picked up Mary and put her on his back. He came up, leaning forward, using his left hand to hold her at the back and the right arm held on to the ladder. It was an incredible feat of strength.

The man laid the body on the ground.

“Sir,” the man said, looking up at a group of cops. “The girl has died.”

The police rushed her to the hospital. But it was too late. The doctors declared Mary dead on arrival.

The police began an investigation.

All the nuns had to appear before a detective, who sat at a small desk in the parlour.

They answered the questions as best as they could.

Mary had joined the convent only four months ago. Nobody knew much about her.

In the end, the officer concluded that she had committed suicide.

Mary’s parents were poor. They protested to the Mother Superior that Mary had sounded happy. They had only spoken to her on the phone a couple of days earlier. She had always wanted to be a nun. Now she was close to fulfilling her dream. The Mother Superior said, “Nobody can say for sure what was going on in Mary’s mind? The police said it was a case of suicide. We have to accept the findings.”

In the end, to calm down Mary’s parents, the convent gave them a sum of Rs 1 lakh through a crossed cheque.

The convent authorities sighed in relief. If it had been a murder, there would have been plenty of negative media coverage.

Steve and Sr. Jude had a close shave. But the incident proved to be a shock. They stopped their affair. It was too dangerous now.

After a year, Steve opted out of the priesthood.

Because he loved the sea, he trained to be a river pilot and secured the job.

He had been a river pilot for the past 24 years. He met Virginia at a New Year’s Eve ball, at the Dalhousie Institute, fell in love and got married.

Sometimes, he thought of Mary. But he immediately stifled the thought. Sr. Jude travelled abroad on assignments. He had not seen her in years, and they did not remain in touch. This was a secret they would carry to their graves. Sometimes Steve thought, ‘Was it necessary to do what we did?’ But Sr Jude was one who had become so frightened of Mary leaking the affair to the superiors. She felt this would ruin her career. Steve had agreed too quickly to her plan, which snuffed out the life of a young woman.

In the end, Steve and Sr. Jude had committed a flawless murder.

Steve returned to the present. The film continued.

His mood plummeted. A pleasant mood was now tinged with sadness and regret. He had never confided in anybody, not even when he went to church for confession. It would be too explosive a secret to recount. Steve was not sure whether the priest would keep the secret to himself or inform the police.

There was a rush of feet inside the room. Steve and Virginia turned to look at the door. Two men had barged in. They were wearing cloth masks, with slits for the eyes. They grabbed Steve, and before he could respond, one of them slit his neck. A shocked Virginia opened her mouth in shock, but no scream came out. They grabbed her and tied a handkerchief around her face. Then they pushed her to the floor, tied her hands and legs with thick twine.

The duo ransacked the entire house. They were looking for a pouch of diamonds.

In prison, their fellow inmate, Gavin Xavier, had told them about this pouch of diamonds. “Kill Steve first,” said Gavin. “He is strong and can fight back.”

The thieves could not locate the pouch. There was no safe. Inside the wooden almirah, there was hardly any money or gold, let alone diamonds. Time was running out. They returned to Virginia, removed the handkerchief, pressed a knife to her neck, and asked her about the diamonds.

This time, Virginia found her voice. “There are no diamonds,” she said in a firm voice. “Somebody has given you wrong information. Even if you kill me, you will not find any diamonds.”

The thieves looked at each other.

They realised Virginia was telling the truth.

“That bastard was telling lies to us,” one thief said to the other.

“We’ll kill him when he comes out,” said the other.

The thieves took Steve’s wallet, which was lying on a mantelpiece, and ran out of the house.

In the evening, Rachel, Virginia’s cousin, and her husband Frank dropped in for a visit. They immediately realised they had stepped into a tragedy.

Steve was long dead.

Virginia’s body shook with the shock of what happened.

Two days later, the post-mortem of Steve took place. Thereafter, with the help of her son, Robert, Virginia filed a First Information report at the local police station.

Steve’s funeral took place at the Lower Circular Road cemetery. His siblings had flown down from Melbourne.

The burial was a low-key affair.

People kept quiet and shed tears.

The priest gave a eulogy about the upstanding qualities of Steve.

He went six feet under.

Nobody knows what Sr. Jude thought about all this. It had appeared in all the newspapers and on TV.

As for Mary, floating about somewhere in the universe, she might have enjoyed a quiet smile of satisfaction.

When we come to think about it, what goes around does come around.

(Published in 'Active Muse' literary magazine, Pune) 

 

A Malayali in Haiti

Following a job opportunity, Jerome Geevarghese went to Haiti in 2004. He married a local woman and has two children. After a few years, he took his family back to Kerala, settled them there, and returned to Haiti

By Shevlin Sebastian

In 2004, Jerome Geevarghese’s brother-in-law Pradeep Mohan, who runs a placement firm, called him from Tirunelveli in South India.

“Hi Jerome, how’s it going in Kochi?” said Pradeep.

“Fine,” said Jerome. “I am preparing for my civil service examinations.”

Pradeep said, “Oh okay, no problem. I called you for a reason. There is an opening in Haiti.”

Jerome said, “Where is this place?”

Pradeep replied, “I don’t know. Check it out on the net.”

Later, Jerome looked up Haiti on the net. A Caribbean island, with an area of 27,750 sq. kms, and a population of 11 million, it is near Bahamas, Cuba and Jamaica. Haiti shares a border with the Dominican Republic.

 The job was at Haiti’s capital, Port-au-Prince. It required managing a 10,000 sq ft. scrapyard of a company called Laguna Azul, owned by an Indian, Sudhir Khare. The company bought metal, copper, aluminium, and lead scrap. This was fabricated, loaded in containers and shipped to countries like Taiwan, South Korea, and Thailand. Jerome decided to take the plunge.

On December 14, 2004, Jerome flew to Haiti from Kochi.

As the plane approached Port-au-Prince, Jerome looked out of the window and noticed there were a lot of mountains. He also realised there were fewer houses and a lot of greenery. “It is a beautiful country,” said Jerome. “It reminded me of Kerala, with its many coconut trees. There was a lot of banana cultivation too.”

The city was well maintained, but it was much better than the older parts of Haiti. For the next several weeks, Jerome was on a discovery tour of the country. 

As for the food, the people eat a lot of rice. “Nearly everybody is a non-vegetarian,” said Jerome. For breakfast, they like to eat eggs and bananas or spaghetti with hot dogs along with cornflour shake. For lunch and dinner, it is rice, beans and meat. “Unlike Indian food, there is very little spice in the cuisine,” said Jerome. “Most of the vegetables are boiled. The cuisine is healthy.” 

The currency is called the gourde. One gourde is equal to $0.15. The language is Creole. It has French roots. The official language is French. “But in the day-to-day interactions, everybody uses Creole,” said Jerome, who is fluent in the language. He learnt it by speaking it daily.

The people are friendly. Around 90 percent are blacks. Apart from Arabs there are Poles, Spanish, French, Indians, Jews and Italians. Most of them are wealthy entrepreneurs.

The Haitians are fun-loving people. “They enjoy parties,” said Jerome. “They work hard from Monday to Friday and enjoy themselves on the weekend. They go to the beaches like Labadee and Kokoye to relax.”

When Jerome said he was from India, people were aware of the country, as many had travelled all over the world. “The people also watch a lot of Hindi serials and films, through French subtitles,” said Jerome. “They love the stories.” A few also knew about Kerala because they had come for a vacation to the popular tourist state.

But some locals thought Jerome had Native American ancestry. “They called me one of the original inhabitants of Haiti,” said Jerome. “So, I had to explain that I am a different type of Indian.”

He befriended a family: the Bonhommes. The head of the family was from the UK, while the wife was from Haiti. “My in-laws had a love marriage,” said Jerome. “This is common. In Haiti, unlike India, there are no arranged marriages.”

Before Jerome started working for the company, the Bonhomme daughters had done secretarial training at the firm. “So, the Indian employees were close to the family,” said Jerome. “When I arrived in Haiti, my colleagues introduced me to them.”

The Bonhomme family often came to the complex where the Indians lived to celebrate festivals like Diwali, Id, Christmas and New Year’s Eve.

Falling in love

Jerome first met Emmanuelle Bonhomme on December 25, 2004, when the family invited Jerome and the other Indians for lunch. He realised Emmanuelle was young. Jerome was 26 while Emanuelle was 20. “I found her very charming,” said Jerome. It was a shock for him to see a white girl in a predominantly black country.

Both Jerome and Emmanuelle did not fall in love immediately. It happened over a period of several months. Jerome had come to Haiti with the typical Indian attitude. He would work hard for a few years, save up money, go back, get married to a girl from Kerala, and settle down.

But it did not work out as he had planned. In 2006, Jerome went on dates with Emmanuelle. But her family accompanied her.

Sometime in 2007, after three years working in the scrapyard, he told the family he was planning to start his own scrap business. Emmanuelle encouraged Jerome to go ahead. Emmanuelle’s father, Henry George, said it would be helpful for his business to start a firm in Florida. So, Jerome bought a house and set up a business base in Coral Springs. Now, Jerome divides his time between Haiti and Florida. Jerome’s clients are in the US, Canada, India, Thailand, Taiwan and the United Arab Emirates.

It was at this point that Jerome felt he needed a life partner. He proposed to Emmanuelle. She accepted. “Later, Emmanuelle told me she liked tall men with long hair,” said Jerome, 6’2” and long-haired, while she stood at 5’2”. Jerome told the Bonhomme’s about his desire to marry their daughter. They accepted his proposal.

As for his parents, he felt it was prudent to tell his two sisters to inform them. When they did so, his parents became upset. “They wanted me to marry a Malayali girl,” he said. “They also thought I was getting married to a black girl.”

In the end, they said yes.

By this time, Emmanuelle had become pregnant. “We were planning to go to India to get married,” said Jerome. “But my parents told me that since she is pregnant, it is better to get married there. Otherwise, tongues will wag in our conservative hometown.”

The marriage took place on January 5, 2008, at the Methodist church in Port-au-Prince. Over one hundred people attended the Mass, reception and sit-down dinner.

The couple flew to Kerala in March, 2008. There was a small function at the church. This took place after the Sunday Mass.

During the trip, Emmanuelle found it difficult to adjust to the food. “She did not like the fish curry and spicy dishes,” said Jerome. He had to buy KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) or pizza from the nearby towns.

Jerome’s early life

Jerome was born in a village called Nariyapuram in Kerala. But since his father worked as an accountant in a private firm in Hyderabad (760 kms away), he spent his early years there. But Jerome moved back to his village when he was in Class 5. He has two older sisters, Glory and Jerry. His mother, a homemaker, looked after them. Jerome studied in St. Paul’s Higher Secondary School in Nariyapuram village. His father would come home once a year.

Most people in the village worked in countries like the United Arab Emirates, Qatar and Saudi Arabia.

After graduation in mathematics from Mahatma Gandhi University, Jerome got a job in a credit card company in Bangalore. The owner was a relative of Jerome’s. He worked there for one-and-a-half years. At the end of 2002, Jerome moved to Kochi. He had joined a training course so he could sit for the civil service examinations. But the institute fell into trouble over some legal issues. So, he could not complete the course. So, he joined a private company as a salesperson. He spent two years there before moving to Port-au-Prince.

Move to Kerala

In 2011, Jerome made a momentous decision. He convinced Emanuelle and his two children Sayra, 14, and Rayas, 13, to settle in his village. He wanted his children to get a good education. This was not a surprise for Emmanuelle. Jerome had told her about this plan before the marriage. And she had agreed.

Asked the reasons for this move, Jerome said, “I wanted my family to imbibe the Kerala culture. When they grow up, my children can come to Kerala and feel a connection to their roots. I have seen too many children of my friends who don’t want to go to India at all.”

Only Jerome’s mother was at home. His father, who had been suffering from multiple myeloma, passed away on July 20, 2011, at the age of 74.

Jerome comes once a year in December and stays till March.

As for the impact of the move on Emmanuelle, Jerome said, “She has become a typical Malayali. She speaks Malayalam fluently and wears saris. Sometimes, I feel Emmannuelle is like my mother. My children know how to read and write in Malayalam.”

As to whether Jerome has made the right decision, he said he would know only when the children have grown up and settled into careers of their own. Incidentally, both his children are US citizens. “There is a strong possibility they will settle in America,” he said.

Regarding his cross-cultural marriage, Jerome said he was very lucky. “We had fewer problems because Emmanuelle made a lot of adjustments,” said Jerome. “Hence, it was very easy for me. I have to thank her. She learned to love everything about Kerala.”

Asked about his plans, Jerome said, “I want to start a recycling furnace for melting scrap. This will create 500 jobs. I also have plans to export food items like meat and fish. I have to wait and see what happens.”

Box: 

Haiti History 

Explorer Christopher Columbus was the first European to arrive on the island on December 5, 1492, mistakenly thinking that it was India or China. Later, the island became part of the Spanish Empire. Then the French took control in 1697. They set up sugarcane plantations on which many slaves from Africa did the labour. The colony became one of the richest in the world.

Inspired by the French Revolution (1789–99), the local people had their own Haitian Revolution (1791–1804). It was led by the first black general of the French Army, Toussaint Louverture. For 12 years there was a war with the army of Napoleon Bonaparte. Eventually, Louverture’s successor, Jean Jacques Dessalines, defeated the French. Haiti became independent on January 1, 1804. And it became the first independent nation in Latin America and the Caribbean.