Kyunki Saas bhi Kabhi...

 

When someone gets married and forms new relations, the most obvious thing to do would be to use new names to address the members of the new family. But can anyone address the mother-in-law as “saas” and the father-in-law as “sasur”? That sounds so disrespectful, you would say, isn’t it? And I would agree as well. After all, we have relegated all the in-law words to the back benches of our vocabulary. “Saala” and “Saali” are now official expletives that have fallen well below the redemption point. “Saas” comes with the baggage of being the conniving evil in any family. And poor “sasur” often gets dragged into routine conversations as a half-expletive. So, you see, despite all the pretence of treating the in-laws as their own, the Indian society secretly indulges an alternate mindset that stokes the exact opposite viewpoint.

So, what do people do instead? Society prescribes that one must address the in-laws in the same way as they address their own family. This is never easy for anyone to implement. So, how do urban Indians arm-twist their way out of the situation? Simple. They put all the synonyms that they had learnt in grade two to good use. For example, if they call their own parents “ma” and “baba”, the parents-in-law can be “mom” and “dad”. This is a perfectly acceptable solution and I have seen this system work well in many families. Some people do address their in-laws by the same name as their parents. If their parents are “mummy” and “daddy”, so will be the parents-in-law. Yet, when they mouth the word “mummy” they actually mean “wife’s mummy” or “husband’s mummy”. “Spouse apostrophe s” remains silent! But everybody can sense that. Even the saas, kyunki saas bhi…

Perhaps we can destigmatize the words- saas, sasur, saala and saali and start to use them to address the in-laws? This would serve two purposes, firstly, the words would regain respectful places in our vocabulary and secondly, nobody would have to start a marriage under the pressure of unrealistic expectations. Can we accept that the in-laws are not a replacement of one’s family but an addition, a welcome addition?

I think it is high time that we Indians let go of our timeless love for hypocrisy. If you are single you can try this out in the future. (And let me know if it works!) For some of us, the ship has already sailed. So, what do we do? Simple. We will pass the burden of what we couldn’t do to our children. Winks!

Enid Blyton was a Sanghi

 

What do you think of the headline? Preposterous! Isn’t it? Yet, I can dig out a story where she has been praising the holy cow in all her earnestness.  It is titled “The Red and White Cow”. You can take a look at it if you want. The story is about a little boy Peter who used to hate cows as they seemed to be like enemies to him. Until the boy’s mother explains that milk, cream, cheese, and other dairy products that the family enjoys are actually gifts from the cow. The story ends with Peter deciding to be friends with the kind cows. The simple plot that has delighted hordes of children from around the world can now seem pleasant to some groups while being quite offensive to others! Some loonies may even be prompted to put a label on Enid Blyton for writing such a story. And that is what this article is about. Why are we trying to cancel the greatness of Enid Blyton? I know...the cow story is not the reason. But is there any solid ground that justifies the current outrage?

Another story that I would love to highlight is “The Book of Brownies”. Here Blyton has described bald-headed bespectacled people from a mythical Land of Clever People who insist on talking in rhyme all the time. When I read the story back in my childhood, the characters reminded me of Indian sages chanting shlokas. The little me was pleased to think of India as the land of clever people. I guess if a child is made to feel secure of their gender, ethnicity, and nationality, they are likely to see more of positive parallels in the stories they read. When I made this point to some haters, I was told that Enid Blyton was not likely to have held such a generous opinion of Indians. And a lot of examples of racism, xenophobia, and misogyny from her books were cited. Agreed, some of the content was quite shocking and needs moderation. But how can we suddenly go to hating her after having worshipped her for so many years?

The author was a product of her time and wrote certain things that do not sit well with us in the current context. But should that prompt us to dissect her books and make unsavoury remarks about what kind of a person she must have been? We do not talk ill of the dead for a reason. They are not here to defend themselves. Why not apply the same rule to Enid Blyton and respect her memories? She is after all the unofficial English teacher for millions of Indian children.

Funnily enough, I found recently that Dick from the Faraway Tree series has been rechristened as Rick (for obvious reasons) and Dame Slap is now Dame Snap. She only snaps at errant children now instead of slapping them. While a bit of editing may be necessary at certain points, too much censoring will alter the past irreparably. And the children will never find out what social evils were prevalent in the past and how people fought to reform the society. This is extremely important as such examples from the past can motivate them to cleanse the society of the prevalent evils in the future.

And if we still are hell-bent on eradicating Enid Blyton’s books, the best approach would be to write better books, books that are captivating enough to inspire the imagination of an entire generation of children. Because, we, the fans of Enid Blyton will settle for nothing less.

 

 

 

Night ’N Shining Armour

 

She had oiled out the last trace of frizz from her hair and smeared a splash of red on her lips. And now she was examining her face in the mirror from various angles. The face that stared back looked so much prettier than her real visage. Pleased, Hidimbi stood up. It was now time to select a fabric that would complement her voluptuous frame. If anyone found out that she was investing so much time on her appearance under the present circumstances, they would have doubted her sanity. But Hidimbi did not care. When it came to him, she did not pay any heed to the rules. She had always been unabashedly crazy about Bheem. It had all started a long time ago when she and Bheem were rather young.

###

Back then Hidimbi used to live under the care of her elder brother Hidimba. They had been orphaned at a very early age but being heirs to the richest family in the forest district, the siblings were not exactly helpless. In fact, it made Hidimba much fiercer than his ancestors.

He knew that he and Hidimbi would have to rule the forest district one day. And, he did all that he could to train her to be a capable leader.

When Hidimbi was in her late teens, she was assigned to work with the security team of the district. Hidimba used to oversee the bigger duties and ensure that each one in the tribe was happy and well-fed.

At the end of one scorching day, Hidimba was bathing himself in a stream, when two of his trusted men came running and informed him about the vicious Pandavas being sighted in the outskirts of their territories.

“The Pandavas from Hastinapur?” a shocked Hidimba sprang out of the water and began to dry himself. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” confirmed his men. “They are in disguise. But we’re sure it’s them. Their mother Kunti is accompanying them too.”

“Then they must be here to survey the situation,” said Hidimba, grinding his teeth. “And soon they will be back with an army to encroach upon our land. Run off and warn others to stay indoors. I’ll deal with the scoundrels.”

Hidimba started looking for Hidimbi. She was supposed to be the one in charge of security. At length he found her gazing into the stillness of a pond, trying to line her eyes with the thick, dark sap of a crushed flower.

“Hidimbi!” he roared.

Startled, Hidimbi dropped the berry and stood up in fear.

“I can’t believe you are sitting here doing nothing,” he yelled. “Come with me and help me to stave off the frail princes while we can.”

With this, Hidimba strode ahead through the forest while his sister followed him, grudgingly. Any other brother would have shortlisted a few potential suitors for his sister but Hidimba just did not seem to notice that his sister was all grown up. Hidimbi thought of their dead mother and sighed. Had she been alive, Hidimbi would not have to tolerate such poor treatment.

“Our mother was a valiant warrior who throttled and devoured the frail kings and princes,” Hidimba commented aloud as if reading his sister’s mind. “She’d be so ashamed of you.”

“Mum wasn’t a cannibal,” shot back Hidimbi. “Nor would I ever eat human flesh.”

“You don’t have to actually eat them, you idiot,” said Hidimba. “It’s a figure of speech. Just kill them and throw them to the wolves. That’d get the signal across and they’d fear us as cannibals. Fear…that’s the only thing that would keep those greedy people from imposing their ways on us.”

“Ok, I understand,” said Hidimbi. “But let’s just shoo them away. No need to kill them.”

“Yeah, you shoo them, I’ll kill them,” said Hidimba making a face at his sister.

The siblings stepped fast through the thick trees, dry leaves crunching under their feet. As they were about to reach a clearing, Hidimba hushed his steps and came to an abrupt halt. He parted the leaves of a bush and peered. The hut of the Pandavas was visible at a short distance. He pulled Hidimbi and gestured at her to observe carefully.

A tall and broad fellow was guarding the hut. He looked very different from the usual lot of frail princes. Unlike them, he was huge in build, much akin to the men of the tribal clans and his pale complexion was tanned to an alluring shade of brown. Hidimbi kept staring at him with an open mouth.

“Can do you do it?” asked Hidimba, after a long moment.

“Oh, sure, him I can eat up,” muttered Hidimbi cheekily and followed her words with an audible gulp.

“So, can you bring him here for a fight?” Hidimba repeated his question firmly.

“Yes, let me try,” answered Hidimbi and she proceeded towards the hut.

Bheem, the fellow guarding the hut, was looking at the setting sun when Hidimbi approached him in small, silent steps. All of a sudden Bheem turned around and saw her. The fading rays of the sun cast an orange halo on Hidimbi’s face and for a second Bheem was charmed.

“Who are you, young lady?” asked Bheem. “You shouldn’t be alone in this strange, evil forest.”

That one line of apparent concern pushed a besotted Hidimbi off the edge. She fell in love.

“Erm, I came here to warn you,” began Hidimbi. “My brother Hidimba does not like you or your type. You have to leave soon.”

“We’re no ordinary people,” disclosed Bheem. “I’m Bheem, the second son of Kunti. Your brother can’t tell us to go away.”

“My brother knows who you are,” elaborated Hidimbi. “Maybe you should come with me and talk to him.”

“Yes, I will,” Bheem got up. “Your brother seems to be a difficult person. I think I should rescue you from him.”

At this Hidimbi’s heart danced in joy and she gave Bheem a spontaneous hug. Bheem was taken aback. But he liked the feel of Hidimbi’s warm, supple body against his skin. He was hesitantly placing his arms around her when they both heard a murderous roar in the background.

“Get off my sister,” cried Hidimba as he jumped ahead and separated Bheem from Hidimbi. Then he rained a slew of punches on Bheem’s face.

“Brother, I like him,” begged Hidimbi. “Please don’t strangle him, I want to marry him.”

“Shut up, you idiot,” said Hidimba as he challenged Bheem to get up and fight.

Bheem was not someone to cower away in fright. He got up and promptly engaged in a duel. For several minutes they fought, ignoring Hidimbi who cried in the background.

Finally, Bheem pinned Hidimba down in the ground with his arms behind his back, and with one sharp dig of the elbow, he broke Hidimba’s spine. He died on the spot, letting out a terrible scream.

Bheem turned towards Hidimbi with a jubilant smile on his face, expecting another hug from her. What he saw instead gave him a big shock. Hidimbi was weeping with her face hidden by her hands. Right behind her, Bheem’s four brothers and mother Kunti were standing, watching the spectacle.

After a while, Hidimbi looked up and said with a broken voice, “You didn’t have to kill him, he was my brother after all.”

The hurt in her voice pained Bheem and he folded his hands to apologise for this action. But Kunti spoke up first.

“Bheem, you have to marry this girl,” she ordered.

The idea of marrying an unknown woman whose brother he had just killed seemed to be preposterous to Bheem. He walked quickly to Kunti and whispered into her ears, “Are you sure, mother? She is nice but I am not ready to marry her.”

“You killed her brother who was the de facto king of this forest district,” whispered back Kunti. “The only way to save the situation from here is by marrying his sister and becoming a part of their family. Do you get it, you airheaded son of Vayu?”

And then Kunti marched ahead, knelt down beside Hidimbi and took her in her arms.

“Don’t cry dear,” she said. “My son will marry you and give you all the happiness that you deserve.”

Never having received any form of maternal love, Hidimbi’s heart was moved by the tender touch and she began to sob heavily.

The very next day, right after the funeral of Hidimba, Bheem and Hidimbi got married in a small ceremony conducted as per the tribal rituals. The people of the forest district were utterly confused in their feelings about Bheem. They could never love the killer of their leader Hidimba. Yet, they could not hate the man who married their other leader, Hidimbi. They decided eventually that the past had to be laid to rest, and welcomed the new son-in-law with some uneasiness.

For a year Bheem and Hidimbi lived together in maddening joy. Once married, Bheem realized that it was the best decision that he had ever made. His wife was very different from all the other princesses he had ever met. Unlike them she never made fun of his unusually large appetite, nor did she ever chide him about his weight. In fact, Hidimbi was the only one who ever cherished Bheem for who he was and it did not take him long to reciprocate her love. In due course of time, Hidimbi gave birth to a baby boy. The baby was huge at birth and he squabbled loudly, flailing his chubby limbs in air. Bheem was the happiest man that day. He went to call his mother and brothers to come and bless his baby, Ghatotkach.

“Sit down, son,” said Kunti, handing Bheem a golden chain. “This is for your son.”

“Won’t you come-” started Bheem.

“And, these are for Hidimbi,” continued Kunti, handing out a pair of gold bangles.

“But mother, will you not-” tried Bheem again.

“No, I have to stay here and pack,” said Kunti firmly. “You will give the gifts to your wife and son and tell her that we are all very proud and happy.”

Bheem turned to his brothers for some support but they were looking at Kunti, nodding their heads in agreement. He accepted the gifts and stood up uncomfortably.

“And, then, you will come back,” said Kunti. “Tomorrow, we are leaving this place.”

“Hidimbi has just given birth,” said Bheem. “Plus, the baby is too small. They can’t travel now.”

“They are not coming,” clarified Kunti. “Only you are. A simple tribal girl won’t fit in our royal lifestyle.”

“But she is my wife,” Bheem was shocked. “And she is so much better than the typical girls of royal lineage.”

“Oh, please Bheem,” said his elder brother. “Even you didn’t like her in the beginning.”

The reasoning went on for an hour. In the end, they had convinced Bheem to leave his wife and infant son behind before they left the forest.

For months Hidimbi could not believe that her beloved Bheem was really gone. If it was not her little boy Ghatotkach, she would have probably killed herself.

###

Even decades later, the memories made Hidimbi flinch. She got up and wiped her eyes.

Picking up the recently received scroll from her desk, she read the lines again.

“My dearest Hidimbi,

I write to you to find out how you have been. In all these years that we have been apart, there never has been a day when I have not thought of you.

You might be aware that a terrible battle is ongoing at Kurukshetra between us and the evil Kauravas. The day has come when I present to our son the most blessed opportunity that one can imagine. I call upon him, on behalf of emperor Yudhishthir, to report to Kurukshetra immediately and to take part in this battle of honour and truth.

Love,

Bheem.”

Hidimbi crumpled the scroll within her fist as she went out of her room. The handwriting was Bheem’s but the words were not. It was either Kunti or Vasudev who had been dictating the letter to Bheem, she knew. Hidimbi went down the winding stairs and ran across the garden to reach the west wing of the palace where Ghatotkach lived with his wife and children. She had to discuss this before she could make a decision.

Hidimbi went inside the hall and called out for her daughter-in-law, Ahilawati. But no one answered. She sat down on a cushioned seat and decided to wait. As she glanced around, she felt very pleased. Her son had built this palace on his own. It was a well-decorated and comfortable home. And, unlike the frail kings and princes, Ghatotkach and Ahilawati did not employ slaves to clean or cook for their family. Hidimbi wished Bheem could take a look at what a fine man his son had turned out to be. A faint cackle of laughter broke Hidimbi’s chain of thoughts. She walked towards the big open window and looked out.

Ghatotkach and Ahilawati were seen playing with their children in a field. As she watched them happy in the company of each other, Hidimbi felt a deep sense of contentment. Despite the absence of his father, Ghatotkach had succeeded in being a good husband and father.

She wondered what she should do about the call from Hastinapur. If she did send Ghatotkach to the war, they would use him as a pawn for sure. His role would be to protect a cousin, or a step-brother, or an uncle of higher value.

And, if she did not send her son to the war then it would be Bheem who would have to step up and take the hit to save the more precious ones in his family. Bheem has always been expendable to Kunti.

Hidimbi felt immensely enraged at the awful situation and thumped hers fists down on the panes. Through the window, she could see Ghatotkach starting to walk back towards the palace with his wife and children. In a split second, Hidimbi made her decision.

She took out a sheet of parchment and wrote a note to Ghatotkach telling him that she was going to the south for pilgrimage and would be back within two weeks. Placing the note on the writing-desk, she left. Hidimbi went to the stable and took out her horse. She was going to go to Kurukshetra, alone.

The journey was long and tiring. It dishevelled Hidimbi’s clothes, melted her facial make-up and blew up her hair into a mess. But she no longer cared about how she looked. She would see Bheem for one last time and then face the deadly weapons at war.

It was night time when she finally reached the battlefield. It was not hard for Hidimbi to recognize Bheem’s tent. The emblem of Vayu was inscribed on it. Hidimbi sneaked past the sleeping guards into the tent and sat on the floor beside Bheem’s bed. She stared at his sleeping face and gently placed her hand on his forehead.

“Hidimbi?” said Bheem, rubbing his eyes as he woke up.

Hidimbi nodded her head. Bheem sat up and looked around.

“Where’s my son?” he asked.

“I decided to keep Ghatotkach out of this,” Hidimbi said. “I will fight in his place.”

Bheem placed his hand on Hidimbi’s head. He lovingly stuck the loose strands of hair behind her ears before tilting her face upwards towards himself by the chin.

“You’re still the same brave girl I fell in love with,” said Bheem. “You did the right thing by not letting Ghatotkach come. But I can’t let you fight, dear. Your husband is still a strong man.”

Bheem held up his arms and flexed his muscles for display. Hidimbi smiled shyly.

“I am so glad you came,” said Bheem. “I can die in peace if my time comes tomorrow.”

“Don’t say that, please” Hidimbi urged. “Let me help you.”

Bheem pulled her closer in an embrace and caressed her back.

“I will not die,” he said. “We will win this war. But you must go back to safety, my love.”

“And after you win the war, what will you do?” asked Hidimbi, as she rested her head against Bheem’s chest, listening to his heartbeats.

“I’d serve my brother, the emperor happily,” Bheem replied.

Hidimbi looked at Bheem. His face, lined with age, reflected pain for a moment. And then it was gone.

“You’d never be happy here,” protested Hidimbi, pulling herself away.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But this is my duty.”

That is when Hidimbi realized what her duty was.

“You are coming with me,” Hidimbi said, decisively.

In the next few moments, a dumbstruck Bheem saw Hidimbi drag in a dead solider and drape him with Bheem’s clothes. She arranged the body on the bed and pulled Bheem out of the tent with herself. She doused the tent with inflammable oil and attached the end of a long, burning coil to it. Then she and Bheem stepped through the shadows to leave the battlegrounds quietly.

Just as they reached the waiting horse, they saw Bheem’s tent explode in flames. Confused guards began to shout and several men started to run towards the big fire.

Hidimbi mounted her horse first and pulled Bheem up quickly. Then she patted her horse and it gathered speed.

“Hidimbi,” whispered Bheem, holding on to his wife, as the horse sped through the darkness of night.

“Yes?” she asked.

“I’m finally going home,” said Bheem. “Perhaps I have always wanted this…thank you...”

“I had to do this for you,” replied Hidimbi. “It was my turn to save you from your evil brother.”

Weight of Unbalanced Karma

 

I wake up with a jolt as the bulky jeep screeches to a stop. Bhuto gestures at me to wait while he hurries out, slamming the door shut. I yawn, and try to stretch out my arms, but grimace to grab my shoulder instead. A sharp shooting pain is knotting up in my neck. Cursing Bhuto for choosing the bumpiest of all roads, I try to massage out the discomfort.

Bhuto is back soon with hot tea in a clay pot accompanied by toasted bread and questionable butter on a steel plate. He smiles at me revealing his stained buck-teeth. A stench from his unwashed mouth fills the air inside the jeep. I pass him a gum and proceed to get out.

“It’s not safe, babu,” protests Bhuto and extends his hands to block my way.

“Shut up,” I say and slap away his arms.

I sit down on a tree stub to have my breakfast while Bhuto, with his huge frame, tries to block me from view. Two men are visible at the eatery across the street but their worried faces seem to be enveloped by whatever issues fate has chosen to hurl at them. But Bhuto imagines that they might want to keep an eye on me.

The food would have tasted good actually, had it not been for the scratchy, fake moustache that Bhuto has pasted onto my upper lip. I look angrily at Bhuto. He looks back at me with devotion.

“How much longer?” I ask after placing the empty plate down.

“Two hours, at the most,” he promises as he opens the door of the jeep for me. I peel off the moustache, hand it to Bhuto and enter the jeep.

He tries to object but stops when I pull down my oversized cap to cover the most of my face. He seems to be more bothered than me about concealing my identity. But honestly, I also do not wish to be recognized or photographed in this part of the country.

Bhuto runs to return the plate to the shopkeeper. He comes back quickly after paying the bill and gets in behind the wheel.

Soon the jeep roars ahead over the rugged terrain and I drift back into the past instinctively.

Bhuto was only five when I had rescued him from his native village. His father had left after selling his unwed mother to an oil baron located in the middle east. Hapless Bhuto was at the mercy of the villagers when I took him under my wings. I stationed him at the safe house I owned in Ratanpur. In due course of time, he grew up to be a fiercely faithful henchman. When he seemed to be ready, I handed over the charge of the safe house to Bhuto. I was giving him the gift of freedom and power. But the wastrel still cried his eyes out when I drove out of Ratanpur for the last time. He knew I would not bother to keep in touch. It would be too risky. That was more than two decades ago.

And, in the last week, when I was recuperating in the deepest emotional abyss of my life, Bhuto decided to call me and urge me to meet him. I was about to disconnect the call when he said that it was about Hiya. Immediately I prodded him for more information. But he insisted that the phone lines might be tapped and it would be dangerous for him to divulge more. So, I had to meet Bhuto again.

Hiya is my daughter, whose charred remains I have cremated in the last month. She had gone on an excursion with her friends from college. The cursed bus had toppled off the road, catching fire and killing all the children.

My vision haze at her thoughts and I quietly wipe off the accumulating tears. If Bhuto sees me crying he will begin a litany of insufferable consolations. I look out and try to marvel at the beauty of nature, instead.

Tall trees with scanty leaves whizz past our jeep. The red soil starts to look alive as the glow of the morning sun begins to brighten. The place is notably warmer than I remember it to be. The trees are fewer too. I wonder if there is truly a correlation between the two. My idle thoughts and the simple scenery could have combined to form a neutral experience for me but my memories would not leave me alone. They are rushing in incessantly to meddle with my present.

I used to come here often along these same roads. My wife Pramila had no idea about my dealings in Ratanpur. She has always been the typical good wife, dutiful and silent, just the way I had wanted her to be. She happily bore me four wonderful sons, never questioned my decisions and accepted my sovereignty over her body. In return, I loved her dearly. That is why I had to visit the safe house to satiate most of my carnal fetishes. They were too disgraceful to do with Pramila.

When my wife was pregnant with our fifth child Hiya I decided to let her have the baby even after we found out the gender. The trend of flaunting daughters was on the rise among the powerful. Having a daughter could boost my public image.

I was quite shocked when Hiya was born. She had inherited my facial features and her mother’s porcelain complexion. Looking at her beautiful face I realized that I too had the potential to qualify as a handsome man; it was just my pitch dark skin that had stood in the way for all these years. Since then my baby girl took up a place in my heart that I had never known to exist.

Incidentally, it was soon after Hiya’s birth that I had distanced myself from the operations of the safe house in Ratanpur. Earlier, I used the safe house sometimes to hold secret meetings with my guests from the business world. Countless deals were sealed there which went on to pave the way to my steady rise. The meetings would usually be followed by a night of debauchery and merry-making. But with political ambitions in sight, I needed to be more discreet. My new connections chose to hold conferences at other safer places. And with the generous growth in my net worth, aspiring models were more than willing to take care of my sexual needs. I had simply outgrown the amenities of the safe house. However, I could not just dispose of the women who entertained there. Also, there were clients who had grown into the habit of visiting the place. That is when I promoted Bhuto to manage the safe house and cut the Ratanpur episode off from my life.

And now, here I am, travelling with Bhuto to Ratanpur, praying desperately to see my only daughter saved by some miracle. But, as I travel deeper into the hinterlands, my hopes begin to dwindle alarmingly. There are things far more sinister than death itself, that could have befallen Hiya. I can no longer push away that menacing trail of thought. I clutch my hair with both my hands and feel like tearing them all out.

“Stop the jeep,” I growl.

Startled, Bhuto thumps down on the accelerator and I almost get thrown out of the seat. I yell curses at him.

Bhuto tries to calm me down.

“What exactly has happened to Hiya? Is she dead or alive? What did you do to her?” I ask him fast. “I can’t wait any longer. Tell me now.”

“Babu, I only tried to help her,” Bhuto says. With his six footer frame of all muscles, the idiot still trembles at my yells.

“We are very close to the safe house now.”

He points his thick and calloused finger at what seems to be a dead end. In a flash, I remember the illusion that hid the safe house from clear view. I nod and try to pacify my racing heart. The jeep rolls on at a slower pace for a while, before turning right sharply to get into an unseen alley. The jeep twists its way for another minute to lead to a clearing. Right in the middle of it is the safe house. It looks bigger somehow. Bhuto has gotten it painted in absurd shades of red and blue. But I have no time to give him the earful he deserves. I run wildly to get inside.

All the windows on the wall facing me are open and I begin to peek in through them one by one. It is through the third window that I spot her. She is sitting with her back to the window. Her head is drooping towards the front, covered by her cupped hands. Is she crying? Two raw, red wounds sprawl across the fair skin on her exposed back.

Scenes from the past begin to flash back rapidly, of me and others disrobing the unwilling girls, to reveal their firm, young bodies.

My blood begins to boil as I see Hiya seated there. I turn around and find Bhuto right behind me. I slap him hard on the cheek. It probably did not hurt him one bit but he takes a step back.

“After all that I have done for you,” I say. “You couldn’t even protect my only daughter?”

I take two steps ahead and push Bhuto hard on the chest with my hands. He starts to chatter something in defence. I have no wish to listen to his explanations. I start to punch him recklessly.

This is when Hiya and the other inmates run out to investigate the source of the commotion.

“Baba,” exclaims Hiya. “I can’t believe you kept all this a secret for so many years.”

My daughter is now standing in front of me. She is alive. But she looks weak, drained. I shudder as I think of the possibilities that she had to endure in the last few weeks.

Meanwhile, sensing the distraction, Bhuto has moved a few feet away from me. The clout knows that he is stronger than me and yet makes a big show of being afraid.

I glare at him.

“Baba, stop being angry with Bhuto,” urges Hiya. “From now on, I accept him as my dearest brother. You should happily accept that too.”

I feel like someone has punched my guts out. Bhuto has chosen to betray my faith in the worst possible way.

Yes, I had sired him a long time ago. Yes, I had sold his mother off. But I did repent my actions. I made sure that he got a comfortable life with sufficient power.

I was the one to give Bhuto a life. And today he is trying to take mine away.

I guess he has put in a lot of effort to trace his father. When it turned out to be me, he got greedy. I slip my hand into my right pocket and place my fingers firmly around my pistol. He needs to learn one final lesson.

“You shouldn’t have revealed my shady past to my daughter,” I mutter. “It doesn’t matter that I fathered you. You’ll always be the son of a whore.”

Before I can take out the gun and shoot Bhuto, Hiya lets out a piercing scream. She always does that to get my attention.

“Baba?” she sounds hurt. “What’s going on here?”

“Babu…babu-” Bhuto stammers.

I notice that it sounds very similar to “baba”. It fills me with disgust.

“Tell me all that you know,” Hiya commands Bhuto.

Scared, I observe his countenance. It looks all muddled. Did I just leak my own secret? Did he not find things out?

“I only know that my father pushed my mother into prostitution,” he mumbles as he stares hard at the ground. “And then he abandoned me.”

 “Don’t talk to Bhuto,” I warn my daughter. “He runs a covert racquet that deals with human trafficking, drugs and what-nots!”

“No, baba,” she speaks firmly. “He runs a facility where he puts up the people he saves. When our bus caught on fire, I was thrown out through a broken window. And I lay on the ground for hours, unconscious. My back was badly burnt and there were bruises all over me. Some local goons on finding me had decided to quietly sell me off at a port. That’s where Bhuto appeared like a messiah and intervened. He brought me to this shelter and put me under care.”

“It’s not a shelter,” I shout out. “It’s a brothel.”

“No, it isn’t.”

This time it is the inmates replying in chorus. Some begin to narrate tales of how they have been saved by Bhuto to be rehabilitated.

 I turn towards Bhuto. In my pocket, my fore-finger is still placed on the trigger. Bhuto is looking away.

“And, what were you talking about, baba?” asks Hiya. “What shady past? Are you really his father? Tell me the truth!”

Her voice is now laced with acid. I have no answer to her questions.

“He meant that he has always been like a father to me,” says Bhuto in a small voice. “And, in the past, he had helped me to escape from the police by erasing my criminal records. Maybe, babu thinks I am still the same man.”

Hiya looks relieved with the explanation.

“Baba, you’re being really rude to Bhuto,” she preaches to me. “He is a saviour now, forget the past.”

I keep staring at Bhuto who refuses to look me in the eye.

“Bhuto?” I ask, my voice much softer. “So this place is no longer what it used to be?”

“Nothing is no longer what it used to be,” replies Bhuto. When he finally looks up his gaze has changed. The devotion that I have been so used to is suddenly gone.

Come on, go ahead and hug him. Tell him that you are proud. Tell him that you are sorry.

My conscience screams out to me.

I know I cannot do that. Why can I not? Why is there a weight heaving down on my bosom? I do not know.

Maybe, my maker has all the answers.

So, I wrench out the pistol, lodge the nozzle between my teeth and pull the trigger.

 

 

 

Ex Home

 

I unlock the huge padlocks to step into our old one-storied house. From tomorrow it will have a new owner. That’s a relief.

For more than five years my sister Mila and I have been trying in vain to sell it off. The house has 3 bedrooms, a study, a kitchen, and a bathroom. Yeah, that does sound pretty good but a closer look reveals how poorly planned the property was. The rooms were boiling hot during the summers and stony cold during the brief spells of winter. The backyard was infested with thorny shrubs that never flowered. Power supply was unreliable and no amount of sanitization could keep the pests away.

Mila and I now live in comfortable apartments. Father has passed away and mother lives with Mila. This house had become an annoying baggage to us. I managed to sell it off after a long agonizing wait. So here I am, on my final visit to our old home. Most of the furniture have long been shifted. It is only a nondescript cupboard which I have to remove before the new owner moves in.

I have made an arrangement with a scrap dealer to get the junk picked up. A look at my smartphone tells me that I have about 30 minutes of time before the men come over with the collection truck. I walk up to the cupboard and jerk open the chipped door to look at the piles of useless material hoarded by my father.

Rows of old exercise copies are stacked inside. Those remind me of our lacklustre childhood and annoyed, I shut the door. Perhaps I have banged the door too hard for the door rebounds and a sketching book falls out. A scrawny, cross-eyed girl dressed in impossible colours is now staring back at me from the open book. It is little Mila’s work from preschool.  I tear out the page and fold it neatly before pocketing it.

As I place the sketching book back my eyes fall on another copy. It is mine…it used to be mine. I pull it out and read through casually. Looks like I often had tried my hand at poetry. I stop at one poem, titled “My Dream Home”. It describes a simple house with four rooms and a small backyard. Right at the bottom of the page my father had signed and remarked, “Excellent!” I check the date. Three decades have passed! The poem was from a time when we used to stay at a tiny rented place. Was I a simpler person? With simpler hopes and wishes? I start to read the piece again but the loud doorbell interrupts me.

I stuff the copy in my purse and run to answer the door.

The men are here. They need brief instructions. And then they begin to stow away the lone cupboard. I lock the main door and start to walk away. And then…I don’t why…I burst into tears.

She and The Sun

Keep her in the shade,

Far away from the sun.

She is too frail.

The rays could burn.

She keeps getting weaker,

She looks pale and thin.

Seal all the windows.

Maybe the sun is seeping in.

She gives up the fight,

She passes away.

The doctor comes in,

Nods his head in dismay.

He looked for maladies,

But there was none.

She was just a plant,

And they kept her from the sun.