Durga Shankar has indeed been benevolent with his concern towards Aditya. He stopped the car unquestioningly when Aditya felt hungry or craved for an extended coffee break. Durga Shankar in exchange made numerous phone calls and received as many, even if those were from wrong numbers. Not a single conversation lasted less than 5 minutes. And all these, he conjured while driving at 100 kmph and unabashedly opening the car door to spit out Gutkha at regular intervals. The onus of being careful was on other drivers but never on Durga Shankar. After all, he is the son of Pandit Uma Shankar Pandey of Situpur. Panditji was a revered personality not only in Situpur but people from Lucknow and Lakhimpur Kheri never hesitated to travel furlongs to meet him.

Durga Shankar divulged these details in the course of Aditya’s journey in the rented vehicle but only when he was not talking on the phone or spitting. For Aditya this drive from Lucknow to Varanasi has been quite informative yet entertaining. At the same time, Aditya has been literally on the edge of his seat, not only because he is weak-hearted but also due the breakneck driving of Durga Prasad.

Durga Prasad is a firm believer of the idea that he inherited his father’s reverence, although he was vehemently barred from Panditji’s business, properties and “heavenly” duties. Durga failed in Class V, dropped out of school and started working as a helper to a bus conductor. Gradually, he lost the faith on his father and eventually came under the wings of a few benevolent bus drivers.

“It is sheer luck that I am driver even without owning a car,” Durga Prasad said solemnly while they gazed at the transient flames of evening Ganga Aarti. He continued, “But as you can guess, many drivers from my company and even some other companies are constantly in touch with me. I am like a big brother to them so they always need my advise. They care about me! So much so that don’t even let me skip a meal.” He said with a pinch of pride.

Aditya took these claims with a pinch of salt but over the last three days of journey he did observe that there is a lady who is indeed concerned about the well-being of Durga Prasad. And this woman is not Durga’s wife. When the wife called, which was only once in the past three days, Durga’s responses were curt and direct. “If Sonu does not want to go to school today then let him be! And stop bothering me!”, in measured words he distanced himself promptly. Aditya was not particularly keen to observe these details but being in same car, he had no other option but to relent.

“I think you have already gauged the depths of my network,” Durga Prasad said while adding a red beacon on top his car near Jaunpur. There was congestion ahead and he wanted to make his way through, uninterrupted. Aditya’s initial surprise when Durga Prasad used this trick for the first time on the way to Varanasi has gradually tapered. “Don’t you worry, Sir! I was a driver to the minister for a long time. I can always call him,” Durga added with extravagant confidence. “He can yield power anywhere in Uttar Pradesh although he is no longer a minister.”

It all started when Durga Prasad’s female interest insisted that he should take his afternoon tea and medicine before crossing Malihabad. Aditya was in a hurry to reach home as it was a Sunday afternoon. He wanted some alone time with his books and music before starting with a hectic day on Monday. Meanwhile Durga Prasad was rather busy emptying a mouthful Gutkha while sneakily opening the car door because the uttering to his extramarital interest were literally becoming sweet incomprehensible nothings. And all these was done while driving at 100 kmph as anything less than that would be a blotch in his status symbol. No amount of convincing by Aditya was enough to dissuade Durga Prasad.

Durga opened the door and painted the street red with his mouthful and in the blink of an eye the world became faint to Aditya. He jolted out of his slumber as Durga Prasad siad, “There you are! Let’s go… There is a Mehfil nearby.” Slowly the vail of blurriness lifted from the eyes of Aditya. Durga was drenched in blood, his right hand was twisted and dangling down as he walked unaffectedly. Aditya glanced around trying to fathom the situation. The bonnet of their car gaped open and the front was mangled into a metallic mass as if it is a minutely crafted abstract sculpture.

Aditya tried to open his seatbelt but realised that he had stopped wearing it since last night. When they were staring from Lucknow, Aditya had put on the seatbelt habitually. Durga Prasad had a good laugh about it. He quipped, “This is Lucknow, Sir! Policewallas will doubt even if you wear belt in the front seat, so don’t even bother to wear it in the back seat.” Aditya ignored initially but soon Durga Prasad started hurling constant snarls. Finally to save himself from the disgrace, Aditya stopped fastening the belt from yesterday. He wanted to go out of the car as soon as possible. Durga Prasad was already half a yard away.

it did not take much effort to open the car door. As if driven by some external force, Aditya was outside the car, within seconds. He did not feel any weight as he walked, as if he was defying gravity. Gauging the expression on his face Durga Prasad broke into his usual satirical smile. Unaffectedly he said, “Welcome to the other side, Sir! We are no longer those two seated inside the damn car.”

Aditya turned his gaze. There he was, clutching on to the front seat to save himself. He looked at the driver’s seat and immediately recognised the red thread around the wrist. Aditya flopped down on the street. All his expectations evaporated into thin air. He could not stop thinking about his family and howled but no apparent sound came out of his mouth.

“I am telling you for your own good, come with me. Not only our car, three other cars also suffered the same fate today. And you know what? All of them were my friends and we are going to meet nearby,” Durga Prasad went on chewing his Gutkha. “A meeting nearby? What for?”, wondered Aditya as he involuntarily started walking alongside Durga Prasad.

“Munna Yadav has already reached the mango tree. Unlike other trees of the mango farm, this one belongs to none. It belongs to Malihabad. We can relax under this tree and have a chat as long as I want,” said Durga Prasad. “And the with the assortment of characters we have, I assure you, you will not get bored even for a single second” he added.

By now Aditya has become used to Durga Prasad’s innate tendency of talking or rather bragging even without a context. “You can Call me Panditji,” Durga Prasad almost ordered Aditya, while arranging the luggage inside the car before leaving for Varanasi. It is now, in this new world, Aditya voluntarily sought refuge under the command of Durga Prasad. Not that he had any other option but this submission was rather gradual. Aditya started reanalysing Durga Prasad’s upright, outspoken, spontaneous and assertive nature in the renewed light of his alternate life, to which he has been transported to involuntarily.

The Mango tree was an expansive one. Munna Yadav seated under tree seemed dwarfed by the enormity of the plant. Although this was not the first time Aditya was coming to Malihabad but he was unable to recall this particular tree. Next to Munna, another grumpy man was crouching down. Seeing Durga Prasad approach Munna got up and they hugged tightly as if they were long-lost friends. The other man did not seem to care whatsoever. He was rather occupied dusting off the blood and dirt from his clothes. Durga Prasad quipped, “Aur Sir Ji? Forget your bizness sizness, can you even do anything about those worldly matters now?” The grumpy man was sharp to revert, “I am not thinking about bizness, I don’t like these blood stains.” This was no other than the Mastermind Pappu Yadav, Munna’s boss.

Soon Mehdi Khan adorned the Mehfil with his presence. Durga Prasad was visibly elated and hugged Mehdi tightly. Vidyadhar Dwivedi and Surya Prakash Trivedi were ushered in by Mehdi. They all seem to know each other from before. Mehdi’s car was crushed by a truck as he was attempting to see whether Dwivedi and Trivedi were only exchanging mere verbal expletives or some physical blows as well. Durga Prasad was quick to lighten the situation with his expert humour, “I don’t understand Mehdi why you always put the best of your attention into these two.” Everyone at the Mehfil cracked up.

Soon came in a band of three – a meek older couple followed by a dashing young man, twirling a key chain on his fingertips. They were Garima Singh, a professor in Allahabad University, her husband A K Singh, a senior administrative officer and their driver Amit respectively. Amit busily tried to find a comfortable spot under the tree for Mr. and Mrs. Singh, who still seemed to be jolted by the series of events. Amit looked totally unaffected. He greeted everyone cordially as if he belonged to this same flock.

The Mehfil was inaugurated officially as Durga Prasad flung one of his choicest slangs towards Surya Prasad Trivedi. He was throughly encouraged by Vidyadhar Dwivedi. Mehdi remained indifferent to the entire scenario as if he is posed way higher above these petty worldly matters so much so that he did not fidget a wink when Dwivedi plunged towards Trivedi after mustering all his force. “You could never ask for a favour for what you have done to me”, Dwivedi said. “Same applies to you, but you did dare to ask for a favour”, Trivedi retorted. The Mehfil was warming up with accusations of this duo, which was balanced out by the quirky camaraderie and banter between the band of drivers – Durga Prasad, Munna, Mehdi and Amit.

Dwivedi and Trivedi shared as much similarities as differences. They both were at the same position in the health department in the same district. They were distant relatives as well. And of late both were charged with corruption and were answerable to enquiry committees. Amusingly they were in-charge of the respective committees against each other. Indeed truth is stranger than fiction! “What nautanki you Babus do!”, Durga Prasad was humoured. “Lets enjoy the nautanki, this one at least has some class”, Mehdi added. A K Singh and Garima Singh were too preoccupied lamenting over the loss of their worldly privileges.

Dwivedi was the first one to be charged by the department. And it was clearly instigated by Trivedi. Even walls have ears and the exploits Dwivedi that he shared along with spicy snacks during tea time in Kacheri reached the District Magistrate in no time. “You wanted everything to yourself! You disrespected the whole chain. The Chief Medical officer, the DM and even my saala, no one was aware of your ploys! What did you think? No one will know?” Trivedi was aggressive. “The main point is you and your saala did not know. Isn’t it?” Dwivedi retorted with his usual constipated expression. Trivedi’s brother-in-law was a peon in the DM’s office and clearly had a status beyond his official position. Dwivedi certainly disrespected that status. The way the Mehfil was unfolding was extremely engaging and enlightening for Aditya. The surroundings welled up with accusations and counter accusations, in this world of posthumous second-innings.

Trivedi did not hesitate to influence the committee members in his favour whereas Dwivedi was looking to move the tide in his favour. He tried to coax Trivedi with the alibi of them being relatives. This whole episode became a palatable family scandal. He also tried to open up other can of worms. Trivedi had a certain fondness of dictating notes to one particular female peon, especially after office hours. Dwivedi befriended the lady’s husband and tried to initiate a harassment case against Trivedi.

Amidst all this turmoil, a sudden opportunity fell on Trivedi’s lap. He was chosen to head an enquiry committee against Dwivedi. Meanwhile unaware of the changed circumstances, an upbeat Dwivedi ignored the district officer’s instructions and continued heading towards his car to depart for an unapproved leave. Heavy downpour head created a waterlogged patch near his car. “Dare you cross that water!” the boss thundered but Diwedi paid no heed. He had adequate leaves and had sent out his leave application well in advance. There was no reason for Dwivedi to hold back. He had to urgently finalise the proceedings of a marriage in the family. His car slashed through the puddle. A enquiry committee was immediately set up to investigate why he had disobeyed his superior.

The reports of the two committees were competing with each other in terms of number of allegations and scandals, their gravity and thickness of the files. Trivedi was due for a promotion and he was walking on thin ice. Any adverse report could have blotched his career. The conflict of interest between the two became stifling. “Madam ji was very angry with the lady peon’s case.” Mehdi could not resist. After all, he knew too much. Durga Prasad slapped him gently with a stern look. “Sorry, Panditji” Mehdi said, with a mischievous smile. By this time A K Singh and Garima Singh were intrigued. Dwivedi and Trivedi’s narrative had coherence with the materialistic existence of the Singh’s.

So it all boiled down to Trivedi visiting Dwivedi’s house 13 times and Dwivedi visiting Trivedi’s house 14 times, which included the two times Dwivedi landed up without informing Trivedi, as he was seeking an opportune moment to pass on the information about the lady peon to Mrs. Trivedi. Curiously, overnight the circumstances changed and the loggerheads patched up. The lady peon’s husband also volunteered to organise a party to mark this special occassion. Chickens were massacred, the local Model Wine Shop ensured that their strongest beer was flowing in abundance.

Both cases closed within next fifteen days. Trivedi submitted a report stating that Dwivedi did not cross that specific water his boss mentioned. It was a running drain during heavy rains hence by the time Dwivedi crossed it was no longer the same water. On the other hand Dwivedi’s note was rather administrative. It indicated that Trivedi was admitted in the District Hospital due to a combination of headache and stomachache on the very day he was accused of tender related malpractices. Some unidentified individual must have forged his signature.

Aditya was no longer capable of holding back. He too joined the chorus of laughter. The Singhs awkwardly smiled to camouflage their utter surprise. But within a minute A K Singh protested “What crap!” His voice was heard for the first time. “These are departmental secrets and you buggers are discussing them for amusement!”

Durga Prasad response was immediate, “This is a Mehfil sir ji! And remember, we all are equal in this world” Aditya nodded in accordance and the rest agreed unanimously, “Pandit ji is right!” Durga Prasad was charged by now. He said, “Now it is your turn Amit. Let’s keep A K Sir and Garima Madam entertained.” Aditya noticed that a perfect circle has formed beneath the Mango tree under the fading dawn sky. The surroundings had already started becoming  lighter, so were the dried bloodstains. 

Amit got this job through his elder brother. His brother worked as a driver with Singhs for 15 long years and due to the good will he earned he was recommended for a contractual job at the district block office. This accident was not actually a result of Amit’s carelessness. After reaching Phoolpur, Garima suddenly remembered that she left her water bottles in the University hostel. She ordered Amit to immediately turn back. At this juncture of the story Garima tried to interject, “Well, that not how it exactly happened…” But Amit continued unperturbed. He was focused on the ground from where he was plucking small strands of grass at regular intervals.

Amit suggested a simple solution. They could just purchase few bottles rather than traveling  more than an hour to go back to Allahabad. Garima asked brashly whether Amit the value of money since he is getting everything free. Amit was accustomed to such unjustified aberrations. In reality, Amit was the one who collected water bottles and food from University Canteen everyday and digested the filthy remarks and glares of canteen boys. He was also designated to collect rent from the official Bungalow allotted to Singh sir. It was not the journey back to Allahabad, what really bothered Amit was the two half empty water bottles lying in one corner of Madam’s room and the peak hour traffic on the way back to Lucknow.

Garima madam was oblivious of the delay she caused and pressed Amit incessantly to speed up to reach her cousin’s marriage on time. The result was inevitable. Amit slowly looked up and in an expressionless voice said, “What could have I done?”

Durga Prasad and Mehdi protested in chorus. “This is not done Amit! Seems like you are missing all the details. Say something interesting.” Amit smiled, maybe for the first time. A K Singh and Garima Singh kept quiet, their gaze fixed on the ground. “There is so much to share Pandit Ji, but it is of no use in this world”, Amit said. “What do you mean?”, Durga Prasad was curious. “No use in this world as the information I have is of no value in this world. We are all dead and gone!”, Amit replied. He was certainly holding back. Aditya somehow sensed Amit’s bottled up anxiety and placed his hand gently on Amit’s shoulder.

Durga Prasad tried to make the situation lighter, “Cheer up, Amit. It is almost time to wrap up. Let’s meet up for another Mehfil tomorrow?” Another! Durga Prasad is going overboard in this world too, thought Amit. His mind was wandering back to his wife, daughter, his parents, family and friends. A sense of sombreness hanged quietly under the Mango tree. Suddenly Amit started speaking again, this time in a louder voice. “How will you know the value of saving every single penny when you have lived luxuriously all your life? That too at the cost of others! When you have two official residences free of cost! When you have a band of house-helps who are actually contractual employees of the government!”

“Shut up!” A K Singh thundered. Durga Prasad intervened, “Cool down, Sirji! These are no revelations. We are well aware of these facts. Amit was just sharing a reminder to help you recover and leave behind this enormous baggage of your past life, for your own good.” Durga Prasad said in a calm tone as if he has attained a new sense of wisdom. And this subtle change was evident to Aditya.

“Munna, you must start now. You were always first in our Varanasi mehfils”, there was a tinge of impatience in Durga Prasad’s voice. Munna kept mum. “Don’t tell me that you are also of your boss?”, Durga Prasad quipped.

Pappu immediately intervened, “Not at all! Munna is like my son. Come on Munna! Start now…” Aditya did notice the camaraderie Pappu and Munna shared throughout the night. They exchanged jokes while listening to the other anecdotes.

“What should I say? How stupid we were?”, said Munna. “Pandit Ji, please stop being so persuasive without any reason! It does not matter anymore”, Pappu smirked.

Pappu worked as a contractor in A K Singh’s department. He had also built a house for Garima Singh in Allahabad. Incidentally, he was also supervised by both Trivedi and Dwivedi. “I think I am the only one who does not have any regret for landing into this world. And I don’t have the slightest desire to go back”, asserted Pappu. Durga Prasad kept shaking his head to deny Pappu’s claim.

“No wonder you have no desire to go back to the other life, boss! You have Pappu Mishra, Munna Srivastav, Raju Shukla, Raju Pandey and many others chasing you 24 hours in that life”, taunted Munna. “You are always right.” Pappu said with a broad smile. “None of their constructions will be happen now! Crooked blood suckers!”

Aditya was quite confused. So many Pappus, Munnas and Rajus? Was he selective in choosing his clients or did he have a fetish for certain names? Durga Prasad was quick to read Aditya’s mind, “Don’t be surprised Sir Ji, we have only these names in Allahabad. Lazy fellows don’t even want to take extra pain naming their children.” Everyone broke into laughter part from A K Singh and Garima Singh.

Pappu had a tough time managing finances while meeting ridiculous demands of the likes of Singh, Dwivedi and Trivedi. As a result, his independent projects with Pappus, Munnas and Rajus suffered. “Boss had added pain of managing three girlfriends, especially Raju Pandey’s wife”, Munna stated excitedly.

Raju Pandey won contracts for local liquor shops in the Allahabad region for three consecutive terms. It was needless to say that he was a wealthy man. He wanted to build a farmhouse away from the city, where he could have his sojourns with business associates, politicians and his band of girlfriends. Pappu was constructing this grand farmhouse for him on the other bank of Yamuna. Garima Singh had recommended Pappu and in return received exquisite teakwood furnitures from Raju Pandey for her new house in Lucknow. But this ambitious project was stalled before the impending corporation election.

This farmhouse was kept as a closely guarded secret from Mrs. Pandey. She came to know about the evil designs of her husband when Pappu decided to share the inside information with her in return of some financial favours. Pappu already knew too much about Raju Pandey. It is was unsettling enough for Raju to appoint a gang of boys to keep an eye on the whereabouts of Pappu.

Mrs. Pandey safeguarded Pappu in many ways. The late afternoon clandestine meetings between the two resulted into a high voltage passionate affair. It was no longer a devil and deep sea situation for Pappu. This renewed conviction about his abilities, inspired Pappu to take a bagful of money earned by selling jewellery of Mrs. Pandey and set off for Lucknow for a meeting with the Singhs. This meeting was slated to be taken place after Garima Singh’s cousin’s marriage.

“I have the money madam, see this bag. Should I give it now?” Pappu Yadav’s said with a mischievous smirk. The Mehfil reverberated with laughter once again.

Durga Prasad spat on the ground with a sense of finality, “Let us stop here”.

“When do we meet again,Pandit Ji?” Mehdi looked curious as well as in pain. “Keep searching the regular joints, be in touch… How would I survive without meeting you people?,” Durga Prasad sounded sombre.

“What would happen to us?” Garima Singh asked in a flabbergasted voice. Everyone mumbled and fumbled but Durga Prasad didn’t bother to answer. He turned to Aditya.

“Sir Ji, sorry for the troubles I gave you. My only advice would be to go to anywhere but Lucknow. Your family will survive but you will not be able to help them. Better not to bother.” He turned his gaze to the village road and stated walking. His final words rang faintly, “Tonight I will be in Bapu ka Purva. It is high time that I finish the unfinished conversation with Pandit Uma Shankar Pandey”

Aditya could feel that he was being released from the protective flank of Durga Prasad. Now he is on his own.

Ram Sharan was about to get down to help the bikers but he could hardly move. There was a deep wound below his right knee. Through the raptured flesh the white bone was peeping. His head started spinning and his throat dried up. He felt his heart racing faster. He pushed the paddle with all his strength and stopped only after reaching the gate of Madamji’s house. She still seemed shaken. She picked her bags and went in. Without a word, without turning back and even without paying. But that did not bother Ram Sharan. Madamji was one of his regular passengers and he was certain that she would pay the next time.

Ram Sharan returned to the young Babul tree, his only shelter in Lucknow. He parked the rickshaw in one corner. The pain on his right leg was unbearable. He took his rag from the corner of the tree and spread it down on the pavement. He was unable to recollect whether ever in his life he found it so difficult to sit down. Exasperated, Ram Sharan looked for help. But Budhia. Kansi or Ganga Prasad were nowhere around. They have been his neighbours on this pavement since he came here from Makhdoompur. They must be busy, as this is the prime hour for rickshaw pullers to earn, kids are on their way to schools and mothers rushing to markets. Madamji was also on her way back from Hahnemann Sabji Bazar. He doesn’t know why every week she would pick Ram Sharan for the ride. Maybe Madamji enjoyed their little conversations. “How much should I pay?” she would ask every time she got off at the gate of her kothi. “Whatever you like!” would be Ram Sharan’s routine response. She always paid more than he expected. Why isn’t every passenger like Madamji?, Ram Sharan wondered often.

Finally, after much effort he managed to stretch his leg. The songs emanating from the loudspeakers of Hanuman temple seemed to be getting louder. The morning arati had started. Ram Sharan felt feverish. “Should I visit a doctor?” he contemplated as his raised his hands to convey a distant pranaam to Hanumanji. Ram Sharan clearly remembers the day Panditji touched his palms while giving prasad. He was overwhelmed as he had never experienced this before. This Hanuman Mandir, which incepted during Ram Sharan’s early days at Makhdoompur, was very different from his village temple in Bahraich, where he would never be welcomed.

Makhdoompur did give Ram Sharan a tough time. Initially on his arrival here he thought he would gradually settle in the city as he had a distant relative here. But there he didn’t even get a square meal. He generally kept those memories buried, but today in the wake of this immense physical pain, torments of those early days of Makhdoompur were resurfacing.

For the first few days, Ram Sharan had nothing to do in Makhdoompur. For some time he worked as a construction labour of a flyover that was being built to ease the commute to Shaheed Path. The concrete slabs were too heavy for him to manage but was still better than surviving an entire day in Makhdoompur without work. The labourer colonies were mud hutments, covered with plastic sheets – dwarfed by the high rises under construction canopying the horizon. The men here toiled the entire day and the women would be busy grazing buffaloes. Although Ram Sharan hailed from a village, he has never seen such large number of buffaloes. There was not a single inch in Makhdoompur that was not covered by buffalo dung. The constant odour of buffaloes and their dung made him nauseous. Neither could he sleep, nor could he eat the rotis and mirch for dinner, the only meal offered by his relative as hospitality. “What is it like spending the whole day with buffaloes, making uplaas, handling manures and milking?” He often wondered about the lives of those women.

“How did this happen?” Ram Sharan’s train of thoughts got halted abruptly. It was Budhia, almost shrieking. Kansi and Ganga were huddled behind him. They promptly realized the gravity of the situation and also the fact that none of them had money for Ram Sharan’s treatment. It was beginning of the month and they had sent money orders to their respective families from the nearby post office in Gomti Nagar, a few days ago. “I know the herbal values of these leaves. They will heal you.” Kansi retorted as he gathered some leaves and promptly started making a paste. Ram Sharan couldn’t control his laughter at Ganga’s reaction. Ganga hid his face looking at the exposed bone. After applying the paste on the wound, Kansi broke few branches from the Babul tree in perfect rectangles and bandaged the leg. A glass of sugarcane juice is all that they could collectively offer to Ram Sharan and it seemed no less than any life saving medicine to him at that moment.

Kansi and Ganga shifted Ram Sharan’s bed slightly. It was not possible to entirely avoid the sun but a little shade under the young Babul tree seemed extremely comforting to Ram Sharan. It was already afternoon and time for the children to return home. Ram Sharan’s pavement mates to headed back to their rickshaws to ensure they earn their minimum wages to pay rent to the rickshaw owners. And today they’ll have to earn Ram Sharan’s rent as well.

Ram Sharan lifted his left arm. His armpit was itching. He looked up at the Babul tree while scratching and wondered why no new leaf has grown in the past few months. He kept looking up at the tree – his only shelter in this big city. The tree reminded him of his mother. She passed away even before Ram Sharan got married. He used to accompany her for picking potatoes. He didn’t know how much she earned, but during those few days of the year, she was the busiest and happier. She would work relentlessly. During the morning Ram Sharan would help her whole-heartedly but by noon, he would be bored and try to distract his her by conversing. In one of those potato fields there was a big Babul tree, under which she rested once in a while when her son insisted. A feeble smile broke upon his face as he remembered the way his mother wiped her face again and again with her pallu. She always liked when Ram Sharan massaged her forehead.

Ram Sharan’s wife Gangi also worked in those potato fields. She worked in wheat and sugarcane fields as well, as these days babus of his village are more interested in sugarcane. He is not sure how much Gangi earns. He is not even sure whether Gangi is interested in earning anymore. These days she is always busy with herself. Irritation is her new friend. She would get irritated with the slightest of dirt. What would you have in a dilapidated mud house other than dirt? She wants everything spick and span!

Gangi would relentlessly rearrange the few belongings they have in the house, every day, over and over again. It feels as if someone is going to visit, maybe to see Arti for marriage. She would whisper to Arti while cooking, “You are no more your father’s little girl. Grow up and change your ways. You will have to run your own household soon.” Initially Ram Sharan could not follow these hushed-up conversations but once he overheard and figured out what it was all about.

Gangi was a very different person. She would clasp Ram Sharan’s hand in front of everyone and insist on giving him a head massage sitting on their veranda. She did not care about what people might say. She would shrug off such possibilities with banter, “I am your wife! How does it matter what other people say?” and break into laughter, loud enough to grab the attention of a distant passer-by. Although her cheerfulness embarrassed Ram Sharan from the very first day of marriage but he did enjoy his wife’s attention nonetheless. Ram Sharan does not remember the exact day when Gangi started behaving strangely. She had gone into a shell after Arti’s death but did not abstain for her domestic duties for even a single day.

Gangi was opposed to the idea of Arti visiting Ghazi Mian’s darbar in Salar Kazi that year. The journey wasn’t an easy one and it would exhaust Arti. A distant relative had confirmed to see Arti in five days time. But Gangi’s argument did not even stand a chance in front of the father-daughter duo. “Let Ghazi Mian cure all her ailments, if she has any, before her marriage”, with this silent prayer Gangi gave in gingerly.

The morning sun was blazing as if it was midday. Ram Sharan and Arti left quietly. Bahraich was a six-hour walk and reaching the mela would take even more time. A huge number of people would be walking to Bahraich from Balrampur, Ekouna and Bhinga. By the time they reach Bahraich, it would be difficult to navigate their way to the Dargah, Ram Sharan thought. 

Arti never got tired of the walk to Ghazi Mian. She would rather enjoy sharing food and water with the other devotees, play little games and crack jokes, most of which were about Ram Sharan. Although on her way back Arti would always throw tantrums. Gangi had accompanied them once when Arti was about eight years old. After that the father and daughter have visited Mian Saab four times. This time too, Arti was jovial. “I know baba, my days of freedom are numbered,” she said with a mischievous smile. Ram Sharan made face at her. Arti was chatting with two older men. These men, who had become quite friendly with her, had signs of grey hair and seemed to be in their forties. They compelled Ram Sharan to have food with them. But at the resting spot the volunteers were helping the devotees with water and food. Why should they take food from these two men, Ram Sharan wondered.

Ram Sharan finally heaved a sigh of relief when he and Arti got lost in the crowd and those two were nowhere to be seen. The rituals took about three hours. Arti wanted to attend the Qawali performance near the Mazaar, but it was already late and Ram Sharan wanted to head back. “But then, we would go from Anarkali lake,” she quipped while tying another mannat ka dhaga. “This one is for your Gangi, khush ab?” Arti said with a twinkle in her eyes. She was much more beautiful than Gangi. Taking the Anarkali lake route would mean an extra hour but Ram Sharan gave an approving nod without much delay, as both of them loved the view of the lake. Ram Sharan wished that Arti wouldn’t spend much time there. 

On the way back, they stopped at a tea stall near collector’s bungalow. The junction here had split into narrow roads leading to different directions. Ram Sharan needed a cup of tea – a luxury he enjoyed whenever he travelled outside his village — and Arti needed to respond to nature’s call. She headed towards the unkempt field just behind the tea stall as Ram Sharan sipped a hot cup of tea.

It has been some time and Arti isn’t back yet. Ram Sharan asked for another cup. “Is she having an upset stomach? She was having food from all sorts of people, whatever those filthy old men were offering.” he contemplated. Thirty more minutes passed. Ram Sharan grew nervous. He called out to Arti and walked into the field. She was nowhere to be seen. Clueless he returned to Ghazi Mian. Ram Sharan searched frenziedly near the Qawali gathering. Arti wasn’t there either. His heart sank, his vision got blurred and Arti’s innocent smile recurred incessantly on his mind. He wanted to get to the police station promptly but the sea of crowd was difficult to navigate through and no one was interested to help Ram Sharan. Flustered he went back to tea stall. While other customers found his account amusing, the stall owner guided him to the nearby police station. He walked along with Ram Sharan to lead him towards the police station. Ram Sharan waited in the police station for that whole night but in vain. No one even bothered to listen to him.   

By four in the morning, Ram Sharan lost his control and started sobbing. All he remembered is that someone dragged him out of the police station. Somehow he pulled himself together and started walking towards Anarkali lake. He was sure that he would find Arti there. The sun was glaring when he reached the lake. Ram Sharan flopped on the ground clutching onto his stomach, which was wringing with hunger. He had not had a morsel since last afternoon. He dragged himself towards the muddy shores of Anarkali and dipped his legs right in. A cool wave of comfort went right up to his head. In the blazing landscape, with the murmurs of people praying to the Mazaar adjacent to the lake, Ram Sharan gave in to slumber.

Ram Sharan ran around the lake several times calling out to Arti. All of a sudden someone pushed him hard, from behind. Ram Sharan fell facedown on the edge of the lake and felt a strong pair of arms holding him down. He started choking as he breathed in the water of Anarkali. Ram Sharan got up with a jolt. It was a bad dream. His throat was bone dry. He drank up from the lake and walked into the adjacent field. In less than 10 steps he found Arti, next to a bush. Hysterical, Ram Sharan took her head on his lap and started laughing as teardrops started rolling down his cheeks. Arti was laying limp. As he caressed her forehead, Ram Sharan felt some sticky liquid behind Arti’s head. It was blood. There was also a wooden piece. Inserted between the legs of his only daughter. A piece laden with dried blood, which had almost turned black. Ram Sharan pulled out the piece with great care and covered the bare body with her ghagra choli, which was lying under an adjacent tree.  

Ram Sharan could neither think anymore nor did he have any control over himself. “Arti must go to heaven. Such a nice little girl she was. Yes, she deserves this much,” he murmured as he trudged along with his daughter’s dead body. He knew that she couldn’t be taken to Gangi. He prayed to Ghazi Mian and Hanumanji. He wanted to cremate her by the bank of Sarayu and wished that he could reach there as fast as the wind. He wished to become the Vayu Putra himself. Suddenly Ram Sharan felt overwhelmed by thirst. He stretched his hand for his mug. But someone held his hand, “Are you dreaming Ram? Get up and have some food.” It was Budhia sitting next to him.

“Listen, Ram, I will be in the Hanuman Mandir tonight. Kansi and Durga will be there as well. There is a night-long katha session,” he said. Ram Sharan was too dazed to respond, he just nodded. He also wanted to attend the katha but he knew it for a fact that he wouldn’t be able to move tonight. Budhia was busy taking out plates from the plastic bag dangling from the tree. He seemed excited about the programme. Kansi and Durga were helping him to arrange the plates. The delicious aroma coming from the nearby chowmein thela attracted Ram Sharan. Recently two young chaps started this thela near Ram Sharan’s tree. He has never given it much thought about their menu but the neatly diced colourful vegetables and the aroma have always intrigued him. Budhia was friendly with everyone. He would often chat with the chowmein boys although he never bought anything from their thela. There have always been a few thelas selling food items in and around this junction. But recently the number of such thelas and the variety of items they sold have gone up remarkably.

Kansi and Durga helped Ram Sharan to sit up and stretch out his wounded leg. “You have high fever Ramu, you feel like a burning coal.” Kansi murmured. “Don’t you worry Ramu, I will offer a special prayer to Hanumanji for your speedy recovery. We all will pray for you.” Budhia was unable to conceal his excitement about the evening katha despite being concerned about Ram Sharan. “Now, don’t try and act smart. We will be back soon. And don’t forget, Hanumanji is there for you. Always!”

The first time Ram Sharan came here to settle down he had to fight hard. Budhia was using this Babul tree and the next one as well to keep his belongings. And when Ram Sharan asked for a bit of space, Budhiya did not restrain himself from pushing him violently towards the service lane. That injury mark on Ram Sharan’s shoulder hasn’t faded yet but the hostility is there no more. Soon enough they became friends. They shared plates, rice, aloo chokha and many other delicacies they prepared together on their makeshift chulha.

Kansi covered Ram Sharan with a chaddar before leaving for the katha. Ram Sharan followed them walking towards the temple for a while. Since childhood, he believed that Hanumanji was the greatest besides Ghazi Mian. It was because of Ghazi Mian he could find his Arti. But why did Ghazi Mian let him sleep? Else he would have found Arti much earlier. And maybe would have been able to save her. But why is he holding Ghazi Mian responsible? Hanumanji, the great Vayu Putra has also considered all his prayers in this otherwise cruel city. It was Hanumanji who gave him the strength to carry Arti, to face Gangi. Although he still regrets wasting a night at the Police Station.

Ram Sharan was sanguine that his physical pain would dissipate by daybreak by the grace of Vayu Putra but he could not to sleep. A sense of delirium had engulfed him. He was there, awake, but he was unable feel his own presence. His wounded knee started throbbing like the way temple of his forehead did whenever he carried someone heavy in his rickshaw or pulled for a long distance. The throbbing increased, till he could feel a ringing inside his head. 

Through the Babul tree Ram Sharan could see the glowing stars losing their sheen and melting with the blackish blue of the night sky. He pulled the chaddar over his head and closed his eyes tightly. Darkness engulfed everything but soon a kaleidoscope of images surfaced. It felt like watching a bioscope, the ones he saw in his childhood through a peephole. Children from the entire village would gather around the magic box and wait for their turns. The bioscope mostly showed images of monuments from across the country but inside his head Ram Sharan could see the faces of Gangi, Arti, his mother, Budhia, Ganga Prasad. They were smiling and the faces were changing. They tried telling him something, which Ram Sharan was unable to comprehend. He wanted to speak to them but the faces disappeared even before Ram Sharan gathered his thoughts.

In his slumber, Ram Sharan felt someone gently tugging his left arm. It was Hanumanji, the Vayu Putra himself. Ram Sharan pinched himself. He was awake indeed. Forgetting his leg injury, Ram Sharan leapt up and fell on Hanumanji’s feet. “Could you take me to Ayodhya?” Hanumanji asked while pulling him up. Ram Sharan nodded in affirmation while looking at Hanumanji’s face. He looked charming! Ram Sharan was immediately concerned. How can he take Hanumanji on his rickshaw, it is not in a good shape! He could no longer feel the pain on his right leg. Oblivious he scrambled towards his rickshaw. The seat cover was dirty, damaged. What a shame! Hanumanji had to seat on this? He tried to tear it off. Baffled, he looked at Hanumanji – his face had no sign on impatience. Ram Sharan wiped the seat carefully and bowed his head before Hanumanji. Taking the cue Hanumanji climbed on to the rickshaw. Ram Sharan touched his feet with veneration and started peddling. He wanted to be the fastest today, faster than Hanumanji.

He did not look back, did not stop, and went on pedalling relentlessly. He could feel a thick liquid flowing down from his right leg but there was no pain. Ram Sharan did not care. The great Vayu Putra was with him. He thanked Budhia, Kansi, Ganga, Gangi, Arti, his mother, they all had prayed for him. Without looking back, he thanked Hanumanji, whole-heartedly. Then he looked up to the sky and thanked Ghazi Mian. For the first time, he felt truly blessed.

It was easy for Kansi and Ganga Prasad to gather funeral woods for Ram Sharan. The government has recently started making a cycle path and several trees were cut in Gomti Nagar. Budhia was out for a far more challenging task. He went looking for a pandit to perform the last rites of Ram Sharan. They only solace was that Gomti river was nearby and there were cremation places on its banks. Kansi lit a biri and wondered why the passers-by did not even look at them. Maybe they made a peculiar sight.

I am seeing Bapu almost after a month and he is yet to see me, as he is fast asleep on the veranda with his rug half covering his body. I do not know what he does these days except that he drinks – morning, evening, night and then the cycle repeats. I moved his legs away, which were blocking the front door, to be able to take Amma inside.

Shamli would never step into this crumbling house. And this thought has clouded my mind for days. All I want, is to get away to a better place with Shamli – far from this wretched village, from Shamli’s father Shambhunath and my C#$%@& Raju self. No matter what, I know a simple fact – I will now keep both my identities – C#$%@& Raju and Chengra Raju.

The immediacy of hiding the revolver in a safe place, promptly suspended my thoughts on discarding identities. Raju can survive even without any identity, without Singh sir and this village. Maybe Bapu and this house with Maa’s smell matters to me. I can still smell her here. I return from the railway crossing only to fill my lungs with Maa’s smell. Can Bapu also smell her? I have never asked. We have hardly spoken in the last few years.

Should I keep this revolver inside the chullah Maa made but never used? She always cooked outside, even in the acme of winter. No, I will return this revolver tomorrow. But isn’t tomorrow, today already? I should have just shot Singh sir and thrown away this damned revolver in the jungle or left it on the rail track for next train to crush it beyond recognition.

I sat down next to Amma, with the revolver by my side. Amma in her sleep resembles a crouched child. We do not have a proper bed in this house and the floor is too cold. I could only find a tattered bedding wrapped in a sheet for her. It is still better than the culvert and her sparsely jute coat, which someone must have stitched by putting a few jute bags together. May God bless that soul.

What should I do now? Should I prepare some food for Bapu and Amma? What would I tell Bapu when he wakes up? As these thoughts juggle in my head, my hand starts to fiddle with the revolver again. They say this is a service revolver. Dwivedi havildar once said that Singh sir has few more like this. But those are not service revolvers! He blurted wearing his trademark ugly ear-to-ear grin as I was cleaning this revolver the other day. Singh sir taught me how to take care of it. Is it fully loaded? I feel the urge to unlock it. I hesitantly pick it up just to put it down again. My mind wanders back to what to tell Bapu when he wakes up.

I searched everywhere. There is nothing in the house. Bapu has stopped cooking since long, and all my meals come as Singh tax from the shop owners at the railway crossing. From dawn to midnight, the crossing is crowded, engulfed in a swarm of dust and noise. I sometimes wonder whether all railway crossings are so dusty. But I can only wonder, as I never left this village except the one time I visited Singh sir’s house in Rampur.

The half-made concrete slab that juts out vulgarly at the crossing somehow gets a relief by the green paddy fields flanking it. The irrigation canal, right next to the crossing, helps to keep the farmland green for most of the year. I wish my father still had that little piece of land. He sold everything except this little hut and me? He would have done that too if both were not made by Maa. No doubt he loved Maa, maybe he still does.

The culvert on the canal has been my hangout since childhood. This is where I have spent several hours of slumber. But now I hardly get the time to rest. Maybe because I am smarter than other children who sell garlands or peanuts hot from sand filled frying pans. Otherwise, why would Singh sir choose me? Dwivedi and Yadav havildar did not like the idea when Singh sir wanted me to be his Chengra. But it hardly matters as at the end of the day they can only scratch their balls and glare at me with their crooked eyes. Even almost a year after I became a Chengra, I strongly sense their discontent.

Yes, I used to sell much more than my friends, negotiate a better price from the owners of makeshift shops. Most of the shop owners knew me as a child as they are from my village or near about. They initially resisted C#$%@& Raju earning a living, but soon things turned, as I became the Chengra Raju of this crossing. Their disdain to C#$%@& Raju is no longer there, or maybe my attention has shifted from them to Dwivedi and Yadav. I do not have to even look at the shopkeepers to ask for the money. They just push the amount into my pocket. I do not even need to count as it is Yadav havildar’s job. For him too it is very simple – he knows the average. He just has to multiply it with the number of shops.

I have a designated pocket for this collection. The other pocket is for Singh tax from truck drivers. Singh sir once told me that this collection would be Chengra Raju tax soon. He will not take any cut, nor would Dwivedi and Yadav. But he was too drunk that night, and I am sceptical whether these two cunt eyes will ever let me have the exclusive right to Singh tax.

The crossing always had a few homeless people loitering around – some of them would beg, a few others would be reclusive but nonetheless all of them would be half clad, with their skin bearing thick layers of unwashed dirt. Often they would be kicked and shoved around by the rowdy children or Dwivedi and Yadav. I never understood what joy they derived out of such acts. For that matter, everything is funny to these children. They even laugh when the impatient car drivers almost run them over as the railway gate staggers open after a nagging halt. But these mendicants remain calm irrespective of the degree of chaos at the crossing. I have failed to understand where they emerge from and where the disappear eventually.

Amma was no different. Or rather, she was a bit different – at least to me. She hardly spoke. I think she only spoke to me. Though I never understood what she exactly said when I brought her food or a fresh marigold. But I could sense the change of expression in her eyes and her lips curving in to a smile – as kind as the first drops of monsoon, ending a scorching summer. Many called her “budhiya” but she was Amma for me. Dwivedi even ridiculed me when I referred to her as Amma for the first time. I did not bother to give him an explanation.

Amma came here, about three weeks ago, in one unusually cold October evening. For these three weeks, she did not move much apart from shifting around the culvert. At times she would try stretching her legs on the ground while resting her back on the cemented slab, to find a comfortable position. Maa would probably have been of the same age if she was alive.

Maa always used to put a marigold in her hair, but not in summer. In summer she used to be irritated with her long thick hair. I was looking at the marigold in Amma’s hair when Bapu came in. Singh sir dragged her through the paddy field and then into the jungle; I carried her in my arms through the bumpy village roads, still the flower remained.

I am waiting for Bapu to say something. I will not look at him till he says something. I am sure he is still there at the door. Maybe waiting for me to say something. He might have seen Amma at the crossing before. He does not utter a word for the next few minutes. I get impatient. The revolver is still lying on the floor, naked. He comes in and sits beside me. – “What about Shamli?” He asks. I get a bit taken aback as I expected him to ask about Amma or the revolver.

What about Shamli? I always thought that my promotion to the post of Chengra of railway crossing would efface my C#$%@& identity. But it never happens that way. Could there be any more explanation?

Class six, and both Shamli and I quit school – for very different reasons yet we gravitated to the same seismic direction. She left to help full time in her father’s shop near the railway crossing and I left, not being able to cope up with the cold waves of that cruel winter, which changed the course of my life forever.

Many old people died in my village that winter. In fact, every day someone was dying. But Maa was not that old. After cooking outside, she asked me to help her serve. I was rather reluctant to leave the warmth of the blanket. When Bapu returned she was seated near the door, clutching it tightly. Bapu thought she was asleep and tried to wake her up. Her hand fell on the floor, limply.

Shamli had cried for days when Shambhunath told her that she could no longer go to school. Shamli’s mother died almost immediately after her birth. We never talked in school. Leave alone Shamli, I did not speak to any girl. I came to know about her mother and how she cried on being told to leave school, only last year, when for the first time we met outside her father’s shop.

I have never stopped thinking about Shamli, not for a single moment, not even during Maa’s funeral. Not when I stopped going to school or when Bapu started drinking and I kept waiting for him, alone at home. More than a year went by like that. I did not have any friends. Not a single one in my village or school, not even at the crossing. I am the Chengra, Chengra Raju care of Singh sir.

We are the only C#$%@& family in the village. I knew how to keep physical distance with other children during everyday activity in school. No one told me anything, not even the teachers. But I knew it for a fact that, my keeping a distance was not discouraged by anyone. Not even Shamli. I doubt whether she even knew my name. Despite this deep awareness about my C#$%@& being, I was unable to cease my thoughts about Shamli, wanting her, longing to see her smile or that peculiar urge to hold her hand. I was so overwhelmed that it never occurred that Shamli is a dangerous daydream that I should avoid.

Visiting Shambhunath’s shop seemed better than staying at home and waiting for Bapu. Nothing was permanent about that shop except Shamli and Shambhunath. Half raised mud walls, supported by bamboo sticks and a black polyethylene sheet sparsely covering the sky above. Inside there were three rows of bamboo benches. Singh sir’s post was a few yards away from the railway crossing and Shambhunath’s shop was located right in the middle of the two.

What would I ask? Should I go inside? But for what? The pakodas and samosas are tempting, but I do not have a single penny. I stood there for hours ignoring the infrequent but unwelcoming stares of Shambhunath. I start trotting towards the railway crossing. Children were selling, laughing, fighting and shop owners were busy with their usual chores.

“I also want to sell.” – I told a flower shop owner. He did not respond. I repeated – “I also want to sell”. He looked at me, and without uttering a word handed me one marigold garland. “Give me at least three”, I retorted. “Sell this first” was his stern impersonal reply. I stood up and approached the nearest vehicle. The driver promptly pointed to a freshly bought garland around Shivji, seated on dashboard. The railway gate was closed, and there was a long haphazard queue of all sorts of vehicles. One train passed by, then another. The gate was still closed, the drivers were getting irritated. They were waving their hands to all of us selling things as if they were driving flies away.

The third train was passing. I had very little time. The gate would open any moment. I climbed on to a truck, almost hanging on the driver’s door. He looked at me. His eyes clearly expressed he did not want any garland. It might not have been more than fifteen seconds that we looked at each other, but it seemed like ages. He then pushed a note in my pocket with his left hand started the engine of his truck.

That was my first sell, no, first income without selling anything. The truck driver did not take the garland. I came back to the shop and handed the five-rupee note to the owner. He had a strange expression and gave me three more garlands. So now I had four, which I managed to sell by evening. From a total of thirty, I got ten rupees as my income.

I spent some time looking at Shamli’s shop before deciding to return home. Bapu was angry to not see me around when returned. I did not cry, nor did I resist his beating. I did not tell him that I have got a job, I have started earning. I had dream that night. I was driving a car, with Shamli next to me. I was cherishing the sparkle in her eyes. It was probably Lucknow. I have never been there, but it did feel like Lucknow. No one in Lucknow knows C#$%@& Raju.

“Where are you going?” – I did not respond to Bapu. I got ready even before he woke up and I was just waiting for him to see that I am going. I had made up my mind to earn double that day. I must save for Lucknow, if not Lucknow it could be anywhere, where I could be Raju – not C#$%@& Raju.

I was inside Shambhunath’s shop by the third day. Quietly I sat on one of the three bamboo benches and waited. “What do you want?” – It was Shamli. She asked me while attending other customers. The sleeves and legs of her Salwar Kameez were folded, for her convenience. She was shifting quickly between Shambhunath’s oven to customers. She came back to me and repeated the same question, this time with a tinge of irritation – “There are other customers waiting. Tell me if you want to eat something.”

I pointed at the samosas and gestured that I need two. I was observing her walk, talk and occasionally smile. She was taking time. But it was okay as eating samosas was not my priority. I could wait. She arranged two samosas on a plate with green chutney. Right then Shambhunath mumbled something to her, and Shamli came back to me but without the plate. “Do you have money? A plate costs ten rupees.” – She asked. I nodded and flashed a ten-rupee note. Her face was expressionless. She returned with the samosas, but on a piece of newspaper. I was used to such treatment. I knew it was not Shamli but Shabhunath. There are so many customers in his shop. He did not know them, their lineage. But he knew me. How could he betray his lineage? I folded the samosas in the piece of paper and walked out. Our eyes measured each other as Shamli took the money from me.

“What did she think when she looked straight at me?” – I pondered that night but could not find an answer. I was again at her shop the next day. The same treatment continued except today Shamli asked a few more questions, like why did not I try the pakoras instead. This went on in the same manner and sequence till I was designated Singh Sir’s Chengra.

Singh sir spotted me within two weeks of my peanut and flower vending at the crossing. By that time all shop owners were giving me things to sell. I was the fastest and the smartest seller – envied, loved, teased by children and harassed by the ones older than me. It was Yadav havildar who tapped on my shoulder as I was waiting for the rail gate to close, with a plateful of coconut pieces. He told me to meet Singh sir at the post. I was not scared. I knew all of them, Singh sir, Dwivedi and Yadav havildar. Everyone at this crossing knew them.

Casually, I walked up to the post. Sitting on a plastic chair Singh sir was checking a register. “Anything wrong sir? Please let me go back quickly. I have to sell these coconuts before noon, I have promised Prasad fulwala that I would sell all his flowers this afternoon.” I uttered all this in a single breath, but he did not respond. He continued flipping through the register. I had no idea what to say next. I cannot go back to the crossing before I was permitted to do so. I tried to grasp the situation from the expressions of Yadav and Dwivedi. They both were wearing mischievous smiles coupled with cruelty and their customary cuntness. How could both of them always express in the same manner? How could they have the same horizontal slits in their eyes? These two must be twins, separated at birth and by the evil conspiracy, reunited on job.

Finally, Singh sir looked up, closed his register and placed it on the floor. “Listen carefully, son” – He paused for a moment and glanced at Yadav and Dwivedi before turning his gaze to me. “You have a job son, a very good job with lots of responsibility and respect. Listen to me carefully.” – He was speaking slowly, stressing on every word he uttered, and in retrospect, I think those words were meant for Yadav and Dwivedi too. “I know you are a very smart boy, but how long will you continue selling peanuts, flowers and these coconuts?” – Singh sir continued, with both legs spread forward and hands folded behind his head. “Be a Chengra for me, for us. Collect money from the trucks, we will train you, protect you, you will be the king of the crossing, and as for the shop owners – I will tell you how much to collect from everyone.” – Singh sir paused, unclutched his palms from behind his head and stood up, thrusting his hands into his pant pockets. “Think about it.” – He continued. “Every evening you will come back here, deposit the amount you collected to Yadav or Dwivedi, take your cut and go home, Shamli will be yours within next six months.”

I was speechless. He knew everything; he cared for my love, my impossible love. For a moment I wanted to hug him but I did not. I came back to the crossing and left the coconut plate at the shop owner’s. He was saying something, which I did not reach my ears. I was walking back home, in a trance, thinking about what to cook for Bapu, something nice, something that he would appreciate, something to bring back Maa during our dinner.

Yesterday, it was not even dark when Singh sir called me to his temporary post. Dwivedi and Yadav were already there, arranging things on the floor; glasses, dry fruits, water. There were three whiskey bottles. They were planning a party. “Why do you look so stumped? Sister fucker its sir’s birthday, he was looking for you.” Singh sir wasn’t there and Dwivedi never missed such an opportunity hurl abuses at me. I did not react. Normally, I don’t. It was one of those moments where C#$%@& Raju came back to haunt Chengra Raju – as a bitter reminder of reality.

Singh sir walked in and flopped down on the plastic chair. He started the usual ritual of thumping whiskey bottle softly with his palm. He was ready for a long drinking session. I was calculating my collections for the day. In fact, I was deducting the earning I missed due to this birthday celebration. The frequency of celebrations has increased over the last few months. It must have been over three months since Singh sir visited his home in Rampur. He looked up only after pouring his first neat peg. “Ask Shamli to make a special plate of Pakoda.”He did not look at me while saying this; rather he was gesturing at Dwivedi and Yadav to sit near his feet to pour them drinks.

A gush of hot blood shot up to my head. This has been happening for some time – Singh sir’s special interest in Shamli. I noticed this first when the four of us went to her shop just before Dussehra. Shamli was wearing a lovely new Kameez, bright yellow with red floral prints strewn all over. Singh sir eyes were glued to her neckline as she bent forward to serve Samosas. Suddenly he grabbed her left hand and asked for more Chutney. He did not even look at her face; his eyes were fixed, cold, at the warm protruding flesh. I left at once. I did not look back, did not hear when Yadav was calling out, loudly.

That day a seed of vile feeling about Singh Sir got planted inside me. Soon it spread its roots deeper, when I started hearing about his frequent visits to Shamli’s shop. Why would Shamli make anything special for him? “Shambhunath makes the Samosas.” – I did not have to gather any courage to say this to him. I knew what I was hinting at. I knew I could lose everything I earned instantly, my dreams, Shamli, car, Lucknow.

“Don’t teach me.” – His answer was cold. He paused for a moment before unleashing his tongue off his usual control, which I have observed since the beginning of my Chengra days. “Saala C#$%@&! Go and ask your Shamli to make special Pakoras for me. Tell her it’s my birthday today. Also I will be happy if she comes here to wish me.”

I knew what I had to do. I brought Samosas and ample green chutney for them. I spat on the chutney and mixed it well. I wanted to see Dwivedi relishing it. As for Singh sir, I was no longer his Chengra. I watched them for few minutes savoring the samosas and chutney. Then waited outside near the makeshift post. I had to think through a plan for Singh sir. Dwivedi savouring my spit did no longer induce any pleasure in me. I had to think of something big, something to compensate my loss of dreams.

I did not know when I had slept off. Loud grumblings from inside woke me up. The floor inside was a mess. Both Dwivedi and Yadav had passed out on the floor, Singh sir was trying to wake them up by wielding his belt. All I could understand from his inebriated grumblings was that he wanted to go to Shamli’s shop. “She did not come. Why did she not?” His futile complaints had no effect on them.

“When did she come?” – Bapu was trying to make sense of what happened. He was not asking me; he was talking to himself, sitting beside me, clasping his knees tightly. Then he got up slowly and went outside hesitantly. He came back within few minutes; this time ina more deft manner. He was holding an earthen pot and was searching for a piece of cloth. He rummaged near the bamboo hanger, where Maa kept her clothes. There were only three or four worn-out pieces, which still gave me and Bapu company, with her smell.

Bapu finally found a green blouse. He sat near the feet of Amma and started soaking it with water from the pot to clean her toes, then her legs. She was still asleep, motionless. Is she dead? Is it due to cold, or the animalistic aggression of Singh sir? She should not die. She could live with us, happily. I would find another job; I could even go back to selling flowers.

I should have followed Singh sir when he went out, wielding his belt. I should have stopped him but I did not. At that moment I had nothing to do with Singh sir, Shamli, my dreams, Lucknow. I did not have an alternate plan, so I slept instead. I was somehow convinced that I would have a plan soon enough.

On waking up, I aimlessly trotted towards the crossing. Deep dark surroundings of the shop indicated that Shamli had gone back to her home. But could my alternate plan be without Shamli? No, She must be there! I would do whatever to make sure she is there. What if she is late, still washing dishes, arranging things for next day. What if Shambhunath left for home and Shamli was alone. No, the shop was closed indeed. Two dogs were playing with leftovers strewn outside the shop. I wanted to return home and go back to sleep. I have never felt so tired – as if my whole being was burdened with incessant, intermingling thoughts.

Amma was not in her usual place on the culvert; just her jute coat was dangling there. Where was she at this hour of the chilly night? I do not even know when I picked her coat and walked down to the paddy field, paving through mud and sat down under a big mango tree near the edge of jungle. A part of me wanted to reflect on what I was doing, another wanted me to cease thinking and go home. I did neither. Clutching Amma’s coat near my chest, I started walking, aimlessly, but not towards home, towards the jungle.

The noise I heard, after walking a bit further, was coming from my left, maybe from the edge of the paddy field. In less than a minute I found myself standing two meters away from Singh sir and Amma. Amma was lying on the ground, trying to say something with her usual hand gesture, as if trying to get rid of invisible flies. She was strip naked, so was Singh sir. He was still grumbling, and again, the only word coming out of his mouth that I could comprehend, was Shamli.

I found his pants touching my muddy feet. He was already on his knees. The first thing I searched for in the pants was his revolver. It was right there and it was loaded. Thank you, sir, for those good old days and your trainings.

When I pushed Singh sir from above her, Amma was no longer conscious. Blood from his head made Amma slippery. It took substantial effort to wrap her up with her jute coat. An invisible force drove me as I started walking towards home with Amma on my shoulder – not forgetting to pick up the revolver before leaving.

I think it is about time that I get some sleep. Bapu is taking care of Amma. He is cleaning her forehead now. It seems Amma has opened her eyes. Stay here Amma. Stay with us. I will bring new saris for you and a warm blanket. Shamli will not mind if I spend some for you from the saving. She is a good girl. Let me sleep for some time now but stay with us, please.

Although this nickname Saddam was relatively new, it became instantly popular in the village. And Anwar did enjoy the sudden attention apart from the times when Ammi would throw her usual tantrum, “Anwar, it is time for lunch. Where are you going at this hour?” While walking towards station Anwar tried to steer his thoughts clear. It is time that he takes a vital decision and severs all ties with Saddam. He is Anwar and no one else.

Since Abbu left for Mumbai, the train station has been Anwar’s solace. There is only one train that stopped at this obscure station. It did not torridly race across like other trains, shattering the meshes of long deserted afternoons. Anwar waits for his Abbu to return although he knows that Abbu will not head home before monsoons. To Anwar, the moist smell of monsoon is reminiscent to homecoming of Abbu. The lone train halts with a screeching metallic noise and a chestful sigh of relief. Abbu leaps down with a broad smile glowing on his face. He never fails to find Anwar. Anwar relives this visual repeatedly in his mind – Abbu would walk towards him, heavy bags lugging down from his shoulder. He would come close and run his fingers lovingly through Anwar’s weary hairs. Anwar would pretend to be irritated but would savour every bit of Abbu’s warmth. He would intently listen to the anecdotes shared by Abbu, as they headed home.

Anwar flopped down on the wooden bench and heaved a deep sigh. His eyes shimmered with the sunlight trickling through leaves overhead. This lacklustre Neem tree is the sole provider of shade to this lone station bench. The station had no announcements for trains and was devoid of shops and beggers like other stations. Sometimes there will be an odd vagabond sleeping on this bench in the unconditional accompaniment of stray canines. The stationmaster became significant due to his conspicuous absence. To find him was a task for even the village headman. And precisely for these reasons, Anwar felt at peace at this station. He could talk to himself for as long as he wanted. At least till the time, Ammi’s voice would ring inside his conscience, “Anwar, it is already late! Why do you always trouble me so much?” A distracted Anwar would lift himself up and trudge towards home, most unwillingly.

This morning when Anwar spoke to Abbu, he promised to get him a new mobile phone and a geared cycle. Calling Abbu twice a day has become a ritual for Anwar – once before school and then again at night just before slipping into the bed next to Ammi. At times Ammi would talk to Abbu about day-to-day chores, which never intrigued Anwar. Ammi never showed any curiosity regarding Anwar’s conversations with his Abbu. She would seldom glance at Anwar while working. Sometimes she will quip, “Anwar, once you are done, you need to go and charge the phone from the market.” Anwar dreaded going to the market and begging the shopkeepers, whom he rarely knew, to charge his phone.

This mobile phone was the only one to turn to when Anwar wanted to complain. When he decided to take the phone along to school, Ammi resisted vehemently. And the very next day was the fateful day when Anwar reincarnated as Saddam. Although the phone was a means to communicate only with Abbu, that day Anwar ended up calling the Block Officer. His numbers were painted with thick red colour on the school wall, flowery decorations marking its border.

Abbu had a hearty laugh when Anwar expressed, “I want to talk to you every day, at least twice a day. I want a mobile phone!” That time Abbu was visiting after six months. He was complaining about the quality of food he had to eat from the dhaba next to his chawl. In the chawl, Abbu was sharing a small room with five other people from the village. Anwar knew these men by name as they had visited Anwar’s home once. Abbu worked as an embroider for a designer company. Their workshop, where they worked for over twelve hours a day, was not too far from the chawl. Abbu even worked on Sundays. “What to do with Sundays? It is better to be busy with work,” he said as Ammi complained to him about not coming home often. The phone was a great asset for Anwar but never as priceless as Abbu’s board smile when looked at Anwar lovingly.

Abbu used to have a tailoring shop in the same market where Anwar went to charge the mobile phone. The market was a rather haphazard row of makeshift shops with electric connection jutting out from all directions. Those days were so much sweeter for Anwar. Abbu used to leave home every day at eleven and would be back before seven in the evening. Then Ammi did not have these shining utensils and gas connection. She used to struggle every day with the mud chulha. Nonetheless, Anwar was happier. Abbu would prepare him for school and at night feed him with his own hands before putting him off to sleep.

One sudden morning the news of Abbu’s departure hit Anwar like a bolt from the blue. He could not go to school. He plastered himself to Abbu. Ammi did not utter a single word. Abbu assured Anwar that he would talk to him every day. After three months Abbu returned home with a mobile phone. Abbu always kept his word.

Those three months were insufferable for Anwar. He could not come to terms with the fact that Abbu is not around. Ammi tried her best. She has always been a woman of few words. She was the quietest person Anwar knew in this village and the most beautiful one too. She talked the most during those three months. She clearly sensed the hollow in Anwar and tried to compensate through her words and gestures. It intrigued Anwar. With these warm thoughts on his mind, Anwar caressed the dog lying next to him on the station bench. He chuckled to himself as he figured out Ammi’s strategy.

School was the place, where Anwar wants to realize his dreams. He wants to study well and not end up being a daily labour. But he was irritated with the incessant brawls. They were a regular affair in the school but neither the headmaster nor the teachers bothered to solve these brawls. They only intervened when these interrupted their discussion over some newspaper headline or a gossip received on mobile phone or their game sessions. Anwar despised these game sessions. The teachers would arrange a few pieces of stones on the table and play all day long. Anwar knew nothing about this game but it tested his patience. He himself intervened and stopped several brawls. His classmates and juniors somehow always respected him. But that day it went out of hand. Neither Dukhi nor Arti paid any heed to Anwar. They almost tore each other’s clothes apart. Anwar knew that unlike him Dukhi and Arti had only two sets of clothes, which were these uniforms. That day Anwar could not resist calling the numbers painted inside the flowery borders. He had no option. But this came at a cost, at the cost of Anwar’s reincarnation as Saddam.

Anwar called the Block Officer, who was initaially irritated but was gradually taken aback by the fact that a standard seven student had called to complain about the indiscipline of teachers. As if his number on the wall just a mere decorum and never to be dialled. Shortly, he reached the school. Anwar felt that maybe there would be an end to these brawls for once and all. But the Block Officer turned out to be no different than the teachers. He just joined their game with a nonchalant smile. And that was the precise moment Anwar was named Saddam by headmaster Sharma. “Beware of him”, the Block Officer quipped before leaving the school premises. He ran his fingers lovingly through Anwar’s hair. Abbu did the same. Anwar hated the Officer.

The next time Saddam called the District Officer. It was winter. The mornings wore a veil of fog and the northern wind waved chilly shivers through the village. It was time to distribute sweaters for the children but the school seemed reluctant. Although Anwar had two sweaters, he was unable to wear them thinking about his ill classmates Dukhi and Arti. They had no clothes apart from their uniforms. In his last visit, Abbu bought two warm colourful sweaters for Anwar and a lovely finer one for Ammi. Anwar called the District Officer to asked when could he send the sweaters to the school, as the children needed them. The very next day sweaters were distributed. This time the headmaster did not take it lightly and made that obvious during the morning assembly. But Anwar could not care less. That night he called Abbu exuberantly and narrated his achievement in detail. The sudden turn of events left Ammi flustered but Anwar was gleaming with joy.

Next was the District Magistrate. It was not pre-planned; in fact, Abbu was the one who suggested Anwar to call the District Magistrate. Anwar wanted to make this call before the arrival of Abbu during the rains. He was returning after six long months, the longest he stayed away since he left for Mumbai. Anwar came out of the classroom with an excuse of going to the toilet. He switched on his phone and called the District Magistrate. He talked in a firm tone – “Our teachers never take classes. They are busy playing games during school hours. I want to go to Mumbai, with my Abbu. How would I survive?” The Magistrate patiently heard Anwar without uttering a word but he could feel that the Magistrate was nodding in agreement.

The Magistrate came for a surprise inspection the very next day. He held a long meeting with the teachers. Anwar tried to fathom what transpired in that meeting but was unable to arrive at any immediate conclusion. The Magistrate called him into the office during lunch hours. He was sitting on the floor. Anwar walked in, touched his feet and stood in a composed manner at a distance. The Magistrate gestured Anwar to sit next to him. He seemed to be a nice man. Anwar spoke a lot, about Abbu, Ammi and his future plans. The Magistrate listened to him patiently and blessed Anwar before he left.

Due to the recent activities, Saddam had become a popular name in the school but after the Magistrate’s visit, he instantly became a celebrity. The younger children started calling him Saddam bhaiyya to which Anwar would gently smile back. Some older boys ridiculed him but it did not bother Anwar. The classes have become slightly regular but Anwar is yet to be convinced. When Abbu called that night, Anwar expressed that he does not want to study in that school anymore and wants to accompany him to Mumbai. Ammi refuted strongly, “Don’t even think of leaving the school. Abbu is not toiling in Mumbai for you to become a daily labour.” Anwar was unsure what he was missing more, his studies or Abbu.

The constant mocking was unable to distract Anwar from his fight for a better school for one and all. One day the students were asked to disperse as the teachers were leaving for a meeting to the block office. The Saddam in Anwar was rekindled. He excused himself behind the garb of stomachache and did not hesitate to call the Block Office. “Who would teach us if you call the teachers for meetings during school hours?” he complained. Soon the teachers came returned to school. There was no longer ridicule, not even mockery. Anwar was deeply affected by the rage and irritation he felt in the sparse words of the teachers.

Anwar’s exam was due in three months, so was Abbu’s return. Anwar had made up his mind to leave this school. This time he had asked Abbu for a geared bicycle. The nearest secondary school was a bit too far to walk to. Abbu agreed in one condition. Anwar has to do well in his exams. As always Anwar was prompt with his reply, “Abbu, everyone passes in our school. I will too. Don’t you worry!”

Anwar felt that his exams were satisfactory. He was certain that he would pass. Finally, the day arrived when all the students had to collect their transfer certificates. As usual Headmaster Sharma arrived late. He glanced at Anwar and quipped, “We have a party after school today.” He lifted a big packet to affirm his words. For the last few days, Anwar was contemplating to say sorry to his teachers. He was not repentant but he wanted to express his feelings to them, especially to Sharma Sir, who was the one to name him Saddam. And Sharma Sir was also the one who had to bear with the repercussions of Saddam’s phone calls. Anwar was not able to concentrate on what Sharma Sir was saying. His mind was craving an opportune moment to talk to Sir, which seemed like an impossible task with so many students around. Anwar was a little apprehensive about being ridiculed further. He wanted to say sorry only when no one was around. He also wanted the blessings of his teachers, as he was about to begin a new chapter of his life. Anwar tried hard to focus on what Sir is saying. Did he say there is a party after school?

It was the same table, around which the teachers gathered for their chats and games. But today there was a cake on that table, soft drinks and packs of wafers as accompaniments. “I will go to secondary school. Abbu has promised to get me a cycle with gear.” Anwar said sheepishly while touching Sharma Sir’s feet. He wanted to ease the awkward situation. He went to all the teachers and did pranam. But no one touched his head as a gesture of blessing. They were busy with the cake. Maybe they gave their blessings silently, Anwar consoled himself.

“Thank you for the party, Saddam.” The room echoed with laughter as Sharma Sir uttered these words. Gupta Madam almost choked on the big piece of cake that she was biting into. Anwar stood dumbstruck. Another round of laughter filled up the teachers’ room. This time Gupta Madam did not laugh. Clearly, she was not willing to risk it again. 

“Saddam, this party was to celebrate this jubilant occasion of you leaving the school. There will be no more phone calls.” Sharma Sir added. Saddam could not hear anything apart from a deafening noise, which was gradually numbing his mind. Driven by an unknown power, he turned back silently and started walking away, far away from Saddam and closer to Anwar.

I do not know how long I stood next to you, Durga Amma. You repeated these lines numerous times. But now I will take you to a better place. Just follow me carefully. This new home will be drier, calmer, greener. There we will eat a stomach full, sleep the nights and dream uninterruptedly.

Durga Anna, look at these vehicles passing through the highway, leaving behind no reminiscences but trails of floating dust. They seem more caring than our own families. These vehicles navigate ahead, leaving us unscathed. Yes, I know that you will debate about those carcasses of cows we passed yesterday. Maybe reckless driving is not to be disregarded. There are fallacies – the hurry of reaching to family or giving into the trap of a fatigued wink of sleep. Undeniably, since the heavy downpours have started we have become vulnerable to warmth.

The heat was becoming unbearable. The monochromatic afternoon sky glared with all its aridness and dried up every hint of moisture from our villages. We prayed for the arrival of monsoon, Durga Amma. But nothing satisfies us. Now we are struggling to escape the waterlogged muddy fields that mirror the cloud-smeared skies. And we have sought refuge in these roads. They have become our luxurious abode. These roads bring misery into our lives as well. But isn’t misery our constant companion? She is just another Anna, who comes without an invitation and accompanies us as long as we go on. It is time Durga Amma that we find a road divider to spend the night. Roadsides are still damp from the heavy spell of afternoon showers.

The insects have already reached the inner parts of my ears and nostrils. They bother constantly with a ringing sensation of pain. I no longer have the power to flap them away with my ears. They go on breeding close to my right eye. Their numbers are only gradually increasing and my eyesight fading. I can only accept the eventuality of them feasting on my wounds. Every day there is more food for them and lesser for me. I am fading away day by day. But you are no better, Durga Amma. Your hands are emaciated, feet frail. I keep wondering how much strength is remaining in you to survive. I do not want to lose you, Amma.

One fine day they stopped talking to me. They would only communicate when they wanted me to move from one corner of the house to another. Even the food was thrown at me most reluctantly. As if it was a mere obligation. Since childhood, I have never craved for food. I enjoyed playing in the vast open fields of our village with other children. Sometimes my father would accompany me with roti and bhaji, to ensure that I eat on time. My husband did the same. I made sure everyone eats on time but never cared much about my meals. To be honest, I would never eat until my husband would constantly pursue me. No doubt that both my father and husband spoilt me heartily.

We got married when I was just a little girl. My husband took care of all my needs, pampered me in every way possible. My dreams were no longer dreams, they became tangible – the village, the dry riverbed, the greenery, my home. Instantly I became a part of these surroundings. Our first son was born after six years of marriage, followed by a second, third and then a fourth. But I craved earnestly for a daughter. Along with my husband I visited the Durga temple in our village. But maybe for the first time in my life, I was denied. Although I loved my sons, gradually I stopped longing for anything.

The story of my life was not strikingly different from you, Durga Amma. They prayed for years before they had me. The succeeding three bulls, galloped all day long, feasting on all that is green and the not so green fodder. None bothered to name the young bulls but I was named as soon as I breathed the first breath out of my mother’s womb. Maybe I was named even before I was born. They too dedicated a prayer to Durga Ma. The young bulls had no idea about their impending destiny. To the men, they were nothing but nuisance, wasting the fodder. But to those young boys, I was their little sister, apple of their eyes. They would always look out for me. And one fine morning, all three were gone in the blink of an eye. I waited for them, for days, for them to come back and lick me fondly, preparing me for the rest of the day. But I never saw them again.

Soon the fields were barricaded by sharp barbed wire. Were they put to protect the crops from us? But how is one supposed to navigate through these sharp nails at night? No, Durga Amma, I was not trying to steal food. I was just trying to take a short cut through the field. Suddenly I felt a piercing pain as the wires clawed into my flesh. There was a sharp pain in my right eye. I wanted to move ahead but I remained stuck there, trembling with pain. I cannot even remember when I lost my consciousness. The severity of the injury made itself apparent when flies started constantly accompanying me, not letting go of a single opportune moment to feed on my wounds.

Noone said anything, but their gestures spoke louder than words. I was being thrown from one corner of the house to another. The food that was thrown at me became less to lesser. Anna Durga, I did not protest. I loved them and gave every bit of myself. Then what was my fault? Why did I deserve this cruelty? I needed little food, whatever they could afford for me. A sparse corner of the house or even the courtyard to sleep in. My love for them never lessened under any circumstance.

My eldest son was the cruelest, not that the others were kinder. Soon I arranged his marriage to a girl I met during the visit to my father’s place. She was like a breath of fresh air and as my eldest daughter-in-law she became my best friend. Suddenly one day, without any notice, my husband left this world, deep in his sleep.

Durga Amma, you never shed a tear while remembering your life, your family, and your journey as an Anna. I can feel the extreme pain in your eyes, I can feel the teardrops creating a turbulence within you. But you never cry. I have no control over my teardrops, they stream down my cheeks even before I realize.

You are not crying Durga Anna, it is the insects troubling your right eye. And your left eye is arid like our village. But I know that you are crying right now, as you do when you do not get food, when you see me going hungry or when you talk about your life. All these memories of fulfillment fill up the dry caverns of your eyes and of your heart.

They started pampering me more when my brothers left to be Anna. Maybe they were forced to leave. Now that we are going through this journey, I can sense their plight of being driven by the constant fear of not getting enough food or a piece of dry earth to rest. I strongly believe that I received all the pampering just because they wanted favors from me. And for the longest time I did not accept that my brothers would never come back. I use to search for them every day when they took me out for grazing in the half-barren fields. My gaze would be fixed at the greying horizon. There will be no sign of them. Soon I gave birth to a very handsome male calf. He had perfect white stripes on his back. We used to play all day long and used to steal our time together so that he gets his share of milk. He was a clever and agile boy, who wasnever apprehensive of the stick. Soon the physical and emotional pampering became sparse, although the food was still adequate, but not for my child. I knew they wanted to get rid of him, like my brothers. All they wanted is my milk.

There was not a single drop of rain last year, Durga Amma. The scorching sky sucked the land dry just like the drops of milk that were extracted of me. I could clearly fathom the disappointment in the eyes of the ladies when the last drops of milk were taken from me. I cried for days and night together when my only child was taken away from me. The old man of the house could not sleep but I could not hide my sorrows and accepted the punishment without any resentment. Akin to my eyes, my heart became arid like vast yellow fields, shimmering with waves of afternoon blaze.

I was also under the same misconception, Anna Durga. I too thought that it is time that they would send me to my father’s village when my youngest son came and said, “Take care of yourself, Amma.” “Dear son, I am fine as long as you are around and taking care of me”, I replied with a smile while trying to get up from the worn mattress, gathering my tattered saree. He waited there lingeringly, wanting to say something more. But left after a few moments of silence. Although I wanted to, I could not ask what he was meaning to say. It was my eldest son, who took me to the main road, beyond two villages. After several years I walked such a long distance. The last time I walked so much when I went to my father’s village to attend my aunt’s funeral. I gave them all I have, love, affection, everything I had. Then what have I done to deserve this? Why did I have to drag myself for such a long distance, when I did not even have a morsel of food for the last two days?

The sun overhead was at its scorching best. During the long, arduous journey my son did not exchange a single word with me. Throughout his childhood, I filled his world with stories. How naughty he was, what his father wanted him to be, how much he loved him. I was retelling those tales as we walked but he was walking well ahead of me. Not even a single word of mine reached his ears. He would only pause when I failed to catch up with him. His expression was of irritation, maybe he was hungry or just annoyed with my pace of walking. He did not utter a single word during the entire journey.

The bus was packed to its maximum capacity. My eldest son held my hand and dragged me inside. I felt his touch after several years. I wanted to hold him close to my bosom. My mind did not bother about the crowded bus; I wanted to give him all my warmth. The bus swayed in all possible directions as it moved on. I craved to catch a glimpse of my son among the interweaved meshes of dangling hands.

Neither could I see him nor could I ask him about our destination. I did ask him on our way, but he never bothered to respond. My mind was wandering back to the strong desire of wanting to hold him tight. Everything else at that moment, all questions, all doubts seemed trivial. I was sure that we are not going to my father’s village, as we have never taken a bus to go there. The bus stopped from time to time. Hoards of people would get down and fresh faces would replace the vacuum created by their departure. I waited for my son to call me when our destination arrived. The bus reached a place, which seemed like its final stop. Everyone got down including the driver. I remained still. There was no sign of my son.

It was a small town, Durga Anna. I arrived there penniless, draped in my faded saree and blouse, which I have been wearing for as long as I remember. I walked on through the unknown village, although there was a striking similarity with my home and this village. At home, as I would lie in one corner, food was thrown at me. Here it was just the same. People would throw food from behind their doors, while passing by or near the gate of a dhaba where I waited for a bit too long, causing embarrassment to customers. The only ones who did not throw food at me were other beggars. They would always share a morsel with me. My husband would never have food if I had not eaten. That compassionate man cared for every bite of mine. Then I met you, we chanced upon each other. We decided to live only on green grass. I would feed you with my hands and take some of it from your swollen mouth. We shared the greenness with much affinity.

We will have to travel longer, Durga Amma. The dividers here are too narrow for both of us to fit in. Are you too tired to walk on?

Do not worry about me, Durga Anna. I can walk on but you be safe. Let us walk on the left side of the road. Passers-by like us are insignificant to hurrying vehicles. They are trying to chase to their destination where someone is waiting for them, maybe a soft warm bed or a plate of comforting food. For us, we must find a place to sleep for the night. Maybe we can look for some food tomorrow at the daybreak. We must go on, Durga Anna.

Durga Amma, can you see the other side? An overgrown tree on the divider is beckoning to us for a night’s shelter. This seems perfect, Durga Anna. Let us wait patiently to cross the road. The vehicles care more about you than me. I do not mean to offend you, just cover for me if you can.

The night sky was studded with stars. I was trying to find my husband amidst them. I was fondly thinking of the nights when he would remain awake and drive away mosquitos so that I could sleep peacefully. I was lost in my thoughts and wanted to pour my heart out to you. But Durga Anna, where are you? You were right there next to me and now you are in the middle of the road, your legs severed from your body. Why did you leave me, Durga Anna like everybody else? What was my fault? I loved you with all I ever had. Why did you leave?

Alive are the insects, still hovering around your nostrils. Did I see a quick breath escaping your chest? Did I see you move, your gaze still fixed at me?