The Silent Moaner – A Malgudi Tale

It was a usual bright morning in the quaint little town of Malgudi. Venkatesh an early riser was on his way to the vegetable market. A Physics teacher in Malgudi’s Albert Mission School it was a special day for him. Dressed in white, he wore a lungi folded up from his knees and a glaring white shirt. His brand new red moped twinkled under the sun. Beaming, he drove it at a snail's pace. The overwhelming aroma of a bottle full of coconut oil came off from his hair. He had neatly-combed them on either side.

‘Humpf!! You don’t get anything pure these days. Everything seems to be adulterated. What will happen to this country, God knows…’ he grumbled, shaking his head.

As if Mahatma Gandhi, just before slumping on the ground, handed him the responsibility of the nation. Entitling him as Ah.... Two long strands of hair had fallen on his forehead making him halt for the second time. Irritated, he turned off the motor, straightened them up and pedalled forwards.

‘What masterji!!? New moped?’ a man called out, returning from a field nearby.

A lota in his hand, wearing a chequered boxer and a white banyan he stood at the opposite side of the road. His boxer laces hanging up-to the knee he had his eyes fixed on Venkatesh’s motorbike.

Venkatesh quickly landed his two legs and killed the low dull sound of the motor.

‘Yes Thanappa! I bought it yesterday….’ he replied, flashing his white teeth. ‘You know it has a top speed of fifty.’ he bragged.

‘Arre, Venkateshji? Why have you fitted a torch in-front? Turnoff your head light….! It’s day, not night!!’ Thanappa laughed.

‘You will not understand that. It’s a bit complicated for you.’ Venkatesh retorted sharply.

A Physics teacher that he was he applied his knowledge wherever he could. A dynamo fitted on the pedal chain, a torch tied in between the handles, a thin wire connected both. His backbreaking pedalling made the torch flicker faintly.

‘Humpf! From where do such stupid people come from? Number one, joker!!’ he mocked the man within.

‘Achha? If it has a top speed of fifty then why are you driving it at fifteen?’ Thanappa asked. He had crossed the road and walked up to him.

‘I am leaving. I have work.’ Venkatesh exclaimed pedalling away fiercely.

‘Arreee…! Give an answer Masterji… Where are you going?’ he shouted trying to call him back.

Venkatesh hated such people who simply wasted their time. ‘Humpf! They will waste their time as well as my time.’ he rebuked. ‘Go and bathe first! Dirty fellow!!’

Finding himself in a tricky position he scampered away.

‘Who will take care of my family if something happens to me? He will…’ he declared inside.

His excuse, time but the fact that he was scared of driving relatively fast was his primary concern.

‘It’s my moped, my light. It is turned on or off, day or night…who is he to comment on it?’ he continued murmuring. ‘Humpf! There is no shortage of jokers in Malgudi.’

Venkatesh finally reached the market huffing and puffing. He parked his vehicle right at the entrance, looked around, touched the seat, prayed silently for a minute and went in.

‘I have to be aware. There are plenty of thieves in Malgudi.’ he mulled turning back time and again.

‘Have I locked it!!?’ he panicked. He ran back, took out the key unlocked it only to lock it again.

‘Namaste Masterji. You came so early today?’ a vegetable vendor greeted as a jittery Venkatesh approached him.

‘Yes, I bought a new moped so reached quickly.’ he replied smiling.

                ‘What will you buy today? It’s a very special day…’ the vendor lured.

                ‘Give these vegetables to me. Hurry up! I need to leave quickly.’ he said, jerking his fingers. The names and quantity of them were listed by his wife. He took out the long piece of paper from his chest pocket, uttered the names out promptly, handing over the muslin bag to him.

                ‘Wait, wait masterji...I don’t have everything...’ perplexed, the vendor exclaimed.

                ‘Give me whatever you have. Please, hurry up!!’

Venkatesh snapped his fingers, pleading. A shabbily dressed man lurked around his treasured possession. He had his eyes set on his moped. The vehicle in-sight, sparkling under the sun, he was wary of the filthily dressed man. The seller in the mean-time weighed the vegetables diligently and stuffed them in his bag.

‘Hurry up! Give it to me, quick!’ he asked looking away, worriedly.

‘That man...’ he uttered stopping abruptly.

                ‘He will steal my motor vehicle. I have to keep my eyes on him.’ he told himself, frowning.

                ‘What happened, Masterji? Who is there?’ the vendor asked. Perched on a cement platform he leaned forwards, searching.

                ‘Huh! Nothing. Give me the bag.’

                ‘It has everything except these two vegetables.’ he stated. Holding the list in-front of Venkatesh he pointed out the names. An inattentive Master looked away. His mind was full of grave thoughts.

                ‘Masterji! Are you listening?’ he cried out.

                ‘Huh! Everything is fine.’ he said, grabbing his bag. He paid the vendor quickly and scooted out.

                ‘Phew! God saved me today.’ he thanked feeling relieved on touching the handle of his moped.

                ‘Give me something to eat, sahab!’ the beggar uttered, trudging backwards. The strict school teacher kept quiet.

                ‘Sahab?’

The beggar called out again. He touched Venkatesh’s speckles white shirt.

                ‘I don’t have any money. Go, away, please...’

He unlocked his moped. Set the bag down on the narrow platform and struggled to get away, quickly.

++++

               

                ‘You did not bring pumpkin...and peas...?’ Sumitra, his wife asked.

                ‘I...’         

‘You are leaving tonight, how will I manage the rest of the week?’ she criticized.

‘Sumitra...I had some work today so could not bring everything.’ he lied. ‘Where is Lakshmi?’ he asked changing the topic.

                ‘She is sleeping. But I had given you the list, how could you forget?’ she scolded.

                ‘You know what happened...!’ he cried out recalling the beggar’s dreadful face. ‘Thank-God that I reached on time otherwise...There are plenty of thieves in Malgudi. Even going out has become a problem these days.’

Sumitra kept quiet believing in his husband’s words. She continued hanging her clothes in the courtyard to dry.

                ‘My train is at eight o’ clock in the evening. Pack my clothes in the suitcase and also my dinner.’ he instructed his wife, getting up.

                ‘But the station is only fifteen minutes away, what will you do for one hour?’

                ‘Do these big trains run on time? I don’t want to take a chance plus it will also get dark by then...’ he feared, going in to his room.

                ‘Lakshmi, get up.’ Venkatesh commanded his seven year old daughter.

                ‘Shall I serve you coffee?’ his wife inquired, standing at the door.

                ‘Let her get up first.’ he replied in a stern voice. ‘Laksmi get up. You should not sleep so late otherwise you will become a bad girl…’

                ‘Hmmm...Pitaji, let me sleep, no!’ Lakshmi cried out.

++++

‘Don’t cry unnecessarily.’ Venkatesh told his wife; his tone harsh. Standing at the doorstep with his suitcase in hand he was ready to leave.

‘Take this torch and umbrella with you. It might rain any-time soon.’ his wife offered wiping the tear drop from her face. Gusty winds blew as twilight slowly faded away.

‘Pitaji, where are you going?’ a pony-tailed Lakshmi asked.

‘I am going far away, go inside.’

‘Hmmm...’ she emitted shaking her head.

‘Travel safely and please, come back quickly.’ his wife advised.

‘Take care of the house. Lock the doors and windows in the afternoon itself and don’t go out anywhere in the evenings with Lakshmi.’ he released a multitude of warnings. ‘As soon as I finish my work I will come back. It’s just a matter of few days.’ he said, tranquillizing himself more than his wife. With a heavy heart he waved his hands and walked away into the darkness.

Giant drops of rain had started bouncing on his nose. Looking up to the dark clouds, he clicked open his umbrella. Deafening thunder and dazzling lightning in the vicinity. The blustery winds threatened to drift his frail umbrella away; his hand in danger of breaking away along with it. The rain was getting heavier by the minute. Wet from his waist, Venkatesh walked swiftly towards the railway station. Seeing the station bulb lit from a distance, a sense of comfort filtrated down to his gut. The tracks just hundred metres away, a banyan tree the only dimly lit shelter he decided to run and post his half-drenched body under it.

‘Where are you going, sahab?’

A woman’s voice made him stop on his tracks. He flashed his torch on. A young woman in her early twenties, dressed in a tattered saree called out. Legs folded up, hands tied around them she sat by the roadside. Her body wet, her sleekly curved figure was visible from her soaked, transparent clothing. He shut his torch instantly, viewing it from a close range.

‘Who are you?’ taken aback by her sudden presence he shouted at her.

‘The weather is not good, sahab. Don’t go.’ she warned.

‘You don’t have to worry! Go, do your work.’ he told her, flashing the torch on her face to have a close look. The falling rain drops were skiing down her fair face. Her body attractive he switched it off looking down for a brief moment.

‘My house is close-by, you can take shelter there until the train arrives.’ her hand shivered as she pointed towards it in a sluggish tone.

‘I am living in Malgudi for the past thirty years. There is no house around except that of the station master. Am I a fool to believe in your words?’ he mouthed, yelling at her.

The lady a stranger Venkatesh was not a man to listen to any eerie person. He raced away and stood under the banyan tree. The rain had become torrential. The stormy winds swayed the bulb over him violently. It eventually exploded plunging the area in complete darkness. His clothes completely soaked, umbrella providing a weak resistance he remained firm braving the nature’s fury.

‘I should have listened to her.’ A thought crossed his mind.

Eyes squeezed, he looked around. Striving to see or hear anything but the relentless rain. A dim light glimmered at a distance, behind him. Trusting it to be the light coming from a reliable source he made up his mind to approach him.

The torch in one hand, he struggled to close down his umbrella. Groped for his suitcase, picked it up, turned around and ran frantically in the direction of the light.

                ‘Open the door! Is someone there? Please open the door!!’ scared, panting heavily, he knocked.

                ‘Come inside quickly!’

The door opened. He barged inside, turning off the torch light. His clothes dripping wet, his eyes closed, he trembled unrestrainedly.

                ‘I had told you, sahab, not to go.’

Venkatesh opened his eyes. He had a shocked expression on his face. It was the same young lady standing in-front of him.

                ‘I need to go... Open the door. Let me out!’ he panicked rushing towards it.

                ‘Where do you want to go? Can’t you see it’s raining outside. Just sit inside, quietly!!’ the lady scolded, screaming at him. She blocked the door with her hands and body; desperate to keep him inside.

                ‘No, I have to go. I will miss the train otherwise. Please free me...’ Venkatesh cried out closing his eyes.

                ‘What do you think? I am some ghost! Wait, I will prove it...’

The lady walked away. Venkatesh stood there helplessly.

‘Open your eyes and check for yourself...Open them!!’

He fluttered his eyelids up. Recognising dark-red blood staining the mud floor he backtracked immediately. The lady had cut her right index finger with a sharp object.

                ‘Now do you believe in me? What else should I do?’ she said wincing in pain. She grabbed the loose end of her saree, tore a long piece out of it and wrapped her oozing finger.

                ‘Sit in that corner.’ she ordered. Head hung low he put his suitcase down and tamely followed her orders.

                ‘Are you the only living person in Malgudi?’ she shouted in anguish.

Venkatesh had crouched himself at a corner. His body shivered continuously. He remained silent staring at the oil lamp burning in the middle of the room.

                ‘You know who you are? You are a terrified rat!’ she carried on in her rough tone, mocking his posture. Eyeing him menacingly she trudged ahead and sat in the opposite corner.

                ‘Humpf! Shameless beggar! Look at her clothes.’ he grumbled, looking down.

                ‘Why are you not looking at me? Look up.’ she ordered in a grave tone.

                ‘No.’ Venkatesh spoke out, breaking his silence.

                ‘Why? Just because my clothes are improper...just because my body is visible...?’

                ‘Stop it!’ he shouted staring at her.

                ‘Where do you live?’

                ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ he shot back, glancing at her meekly.

                ‘Why?’

Venkatesh remained silent.

                ‘Because, I am a beggar? That’s why?’ she glared at him, continuously. ‘Aren’t beggars human beings?’

                ‘What is your name?’ Venkatesh inquired. He could not help but stare at her resplendent face. Her voice full of life, he found it innocuously soothing.

                ‘What do you do?’ she persisted, disregarding him.

                ‘I am a teacher in Albert Mission school.’ he stated proudly.

                ‘You are a teacher!!’ she exclaimed. ‘What do you teach your children?’

                ‘Physics, Do you even know what Physics is? Humpf!’

                ‘I don’t know it but I know that I am brave.’ she gave him a terse reply. ‘I am not afraid, like you. What is the use of Juji if you cannot live happily?’

She kept on pelting awkward questions at him. Accustomed to reprimand children in school, he felt it a bit unusual on being scolded by a stranger. ‘Even my wife does not speak to me like this!’ he complained within.

                ‘Do you lie to your wife?’

                ‘Who do…?’

He kept quiet, giving the lady a cold stare.

                ‘Answer me!’

‘Because you were afraid that she will laugh at you and curse you? Isn’t it?’

He nodded, looking down at the floor. ‘You are a coward.’

Venkatesh felt restless from inside. The interrogation straightforward he found himself at a loss of words.

                ‘You are not a good teacher then!’ the lady stated.

An uneasy silence followed.

                ‘Do you want to eat something?’ she spoke out, lowering her voice for the first time.

                ‘What is the time? The train can come any moment now. I better leave.’ he panicked again.

                ‘No train will come. Can’t you see how bad the weather is outside?’ she rebuked him vociferously.

                ‘But I have to go, it’s urgent.’ Venkatesh retorted reasoning.

                ‘Go, I will not stop you this time.’ she said, ushering him out in a manner.

He mulled over it listening to the long thunderous noises coming from outside. His breath, bated. The rain lashing outside, lightning sparks occasionally breaking through the thatched roof he gave up the idea of venturing out in the dark.

                ‘Do you want some puffed rice?’ the young lady offered him the second time.

                ‘No! My wife has given me food. I will eat that.’ he declined her offer.

                ‘Yeah! Yeah! I forgot I am a beggar.’ she ridiculed, compounding his agony.

                ‘Where is it?’ Venkatesh cried out in a stifled tone.

                ‘What? What are you looking for?’

                ‘My Tiffin! I cannot find it.’

He searched his suitcase thoroughly but could not find his dinner.

                ‘Close your suitcase and take this.’ the lady offered her puffed rice in a dirty looking bowl.

                ‘I am not hungry.’ Venkatesh uttered locking his suitcase.          

She kept the bowl near him. Lied down and turned her back at him at her corner.

‘You will not eat?’ he asked her sheepishly. Nowhere to go, stranded, starving, his stomach emitting weird noises he had no choice but to listen to her.

‘I am not hungry.’ she promptly replied.

He emptied the bowl in a hurry and sat staring at the lamp. Predetermined to go back home the moment the rain would stop.

                ‘Where am I?’

The sun beating down, dazed, Venkatesh strained his eyes open. He noted the time in his watch and sprang up in a flash. It was ten o’ clock in the morning. The night long and tiring he had dozed off inadvertently.

                ‘Lamp? Lamp!’ he recollected the events of the previous night. ‘Where is she?’ he asked himself looking around for the young lady. Hair strewn; clothes soiled he clutched his suitcase and ran out searching for her.

‘Is this my house...? It is my house!’ baffled he turned around and paced up and down; He had spent the night sleeping on the front porch of his own house. ‘How did I get here…? Who was she…? Why didn’t my wife open the door…?’ his mind was filled with endless uncertainties.

                ‘Sumitra! Sumitra!!?’

Perplexed he dashed towards the door and called her out.

                ‘Coming!’ a voice shouted back.

                ‘It is my wife!! But how is it possible?’

The door flung open. Venkatesh hustled in. It appeared as if he had set out to explore his own house. ‘Huh!! You came back so soon? What happened to you? Your clothes... your hair...is everything fine.’ Sumitra asked running towards him, clutching his hand from back. ‘Why are you quiet? Say something!! Speak up!’

He turned towards her and spoke out in a soft tone, ‘Shall I bring the remaining vegetables...?’

The Holy Dip - In a Drain

My life is not an open book. It’s just a dusty Playboy magazine. Hidden under the carpet, I sneak a look into it once in a while. Capturing the breathtaking frames only after my family of pirates is fast asleep.

The kindergarten days: Do you remember them?
I do vividly, for a specific and an extra special reason. It was the first time I had kissed a girl fondly. Fondly!! Woah, oh, oh, oh! What? What are you thinking? By now you must have started fantasizing. I knew it!! Dirty Mind!
I had kissed the curly haired one on her cheek more out of genuine affection than anything else. Hang on!! I remember kissing her, where…? It’s gone a bit blurry. Let me think…. ‘Hmmm…’
‘The blog! Romeo!!’ a voice reminds me, as I write, jolting me from my fantasy.
‘What blog? Don’t disturb!! This is much better.’ I shot back at him. ‘The feeling is divine.’
‘Dip? Drain?’ the voice echoed, dragging me away from the stimulating scene.
‘Diaper?’ I asked myself, absentminded. ‘But, I don’t have any children!!?’
‘Look up!! Idiot!!’ he shouted, slapping me hard.
‘Oh! Yes! Now I remember.’

I had just joined Don Bosco School, Siliguri. “Admission Granted – STD I” was what, was stamped, on top of my charismatic miniature photo; passing a strenuous little exam prior to it. The people alien, I roamed around the campus with my then only friend Arpan Chettri. He was the sole recognizable face when I shifted from my humble kindergarten school to this Richie-rich one. Like two brothers reunited in the lost and found section of the Kumbh-Mela. Arms around each other’s shoulders we wandered singing the Sholay tune.
‘Arpan! Look at this drain.’ I exclaimed, stopping abruptly; we as usual wandered during the break time.
The rainy season at its peak, an unrelenting drizzle characterized the day. Soaking the light rain I stood at the edge of the broad, two-three feet high drain. Gazing and hearing the gurgling sound of water gush away. The extreme force of it flushed down everything and anything that came in its path. Glancing sideways I noticed the other kids frolicking by its side. Some dropped leaves, some paper boats. Others tore up their boats to drop pieces of paper with their names written on it. All competing, racing along the gutter with their individual articles, set afloat. The speed of the current carrying them enabled them to decide the winner.
‘Arpan!!?’ I called out. Turned back and searched in my vicinity but could not find him.
‘He must have gone to the toilet.’ I told myself shrugging; continuing to follow some of the closely fought contests.
‘Splash!!’, ‘Shuh! Shuh! Shuh...’
These were the only sounds I could hear the next moment. The latter without any doubt uttered by me struggling against the tide. The burbling noise of the water entering my ears followed them. Picking my head, out of the water I looked up to find Arpan standing atop. A smile on his face to begin with, he broke out in a laughing fit. I got up on my feet immediately, displacing the cold gutter water on either side of me. Not able to get out of the drain after few tries I stood erect. My feet apart, enduring the cold current. My hairs, white shirt drenched. My light grey half-pants completely soaked, stained to a darker colour. Water slipped through the pockets causing my sensitive areas to become stiff. Shocked, panic-stricken I began forming small cups of water with my tiny palms. He backed off, viewing me throw the drops furiously in his direction, still laughing out loud. Nothing else nearby to inflict my rage on him I resorted to my last option. The helpless child that I was began crying. I sobbed inconsolably for a minute or two. Vowing never to forgive Arpan for his shameless act and never, ever talk to him again, till my last breath. Fortunate to have my two cousins studying in the higher grade of the same school I saw them rushing towards me. Grabbing their hands I pulled myself out of it, grazing both my knees in the process on the rugged concrete. One held my legs, the other my arms. My face skywards I forced it down, searching left and right. But Arpan was nowhere to be seen. I assumed, him to have run away seeing my cousins, probably scared of being beaten. Stretching me they both transported me to the assembly hall. The principal came running thereafter. Consoling me he offered me a Hawaiian shirt and a black pant. A unique, stinky smell came out of them. No other option I wore it; to be the odd one out in the whole class for the rest of the day. I had instantly become the center of attraction for no deed of mine. They giggled staring at me, others cracked jokes. Alienated, I glanced at Arpan menacingly but he sensibly looked away.

++++

‘Maa!! Where is Arpan?’ I asked my mother coming back from school one day. It had been close to ten days since I had seen Arpan.
‘I don’t know. Why? Don’t you meet him in school?’ she asked.
‘No.’ I replied in short refraining to divulge further details; specifically my gesture of avoiding him consciously.
‘I also did not see his mother for few days….’ she stated, pondering. A frown developed on her face. Homes close-by, our mothers often ran into each other in their favourite grocery shop.
‘Leave it!! He will come soon… may be.’ I said shrugging, reluctant to entertain the thought of a rogue Arpan at length.
‘No, no!! Let’s go this Saturday evening and check what the matter is!’ she proclaimed, forcing me, shaking her head vigorously.
‘But why? What is the need?’ I cried out, opposing her decision in the strongest of tones.
‘Fine! You don’t go. I will.’ she said. Turning back she walked swiftly into the kitchen, seething.

++++

It was Saturday evening. Although I had protested, I did not want to stay alone in the house and be haunted. Lollipop, the award I trudged along with her to reach Arpan’s house. Burdened by a sense of guilt; not having spoken to my once close friend for that many days.
‘Don’t be naughty. Don’t play for too long. We have to go early and don’t ask for anything to eat.’ my strict mother issued me a host of warnings, ringing the bell.
‘Oh! Ranzzaan! Come! Namahste!’ she greeted both of us.
Entering, my eyes immediately began searching for Arpan. My heart thumping fast I was wary of how to start a conversation with him.
‘Nomoste, Nomoste! How are you? I…’ my mother greeted back.
‘Where is Arpan, aunty?’ I inquired, interrupting. Looking at her, I prayed that he be somewhere far-away from his house, playing.
‘He is inside. Go in that room.’ she replied, pointing. A purdah (separation cloth) hung, did not permit me to peep inside from a distance.
The dreadful answer received I went up to the room, leaving both of them behind. I moved the cloth aside and peeped into the room.
‘Don’t ask me…’
I could hear Arpan’s mother talking to mine.
‘He is sick for the past…’
‘Sick!!?’ baffled, I asked myself. Overhearing, I stood quietly at the door-sill.
Arpan lay there on the bed. His face turned in the opposite direction. His body covered with a brown quilt up-to the neck. Panic-struck, I turned around and exited the room. Afraid that Arpan would get up and start blaming me for his illness.
‘Go, inside! He is there.’ his mother urged. ‘He was taking your name in sleep for the past few days.’ she said, increasing my anxiety to abnormal levels.
‘Why?’ my mother inquired, smiling.
‘I don’t know. He was in his sleep.’
Caught in no man’s land I about-turned and entered the room, again. Arpan had twisted his face in my direction. His heavy, sleepy eyes marginally open; he gazed at me from the distance. The nervous I took out the second lollipop from my pocket. Holding it in my hand like a bouquet I moved towards him, taking measured steps. The wrapper on it served as the ‘Get Well Soon’ greeting card. Hoping that my gift would please him and more importantly he would not complain to my and his mother.
‘Here, take!’ I offered him. My voice wavered as I stopped close to him, by the bed.
Pulling his hand out of his cozy cover he grasped the stick.
‘What happened to your eyes and your nails…?’
Dismayed and perplexed I questioned him examining his nails and eyes closely. Pale yellow in colour they seemed to be a unique, eye popping occurrence to me. One, I had never ever encountered in my short life span.
‘Are you still angry?’ he queried in a stifled voice. I noticed; his face too had turned pale yellow.
Not knowing what to say I simply stared at him. Mixed emotions ran through me. I was not able to determine whether his mistake was greater, or mine was.
‘Forgive me, Ranjan. I made a mistake. I am sorry.’ he said, repeating one of our moral science lines recently taught in school. A tear drop streamed down from the corner of his eye.
‘I am sorry as well… for not talking to you.’ I uttered, clearing my throat.
‘Are we still friends? I don’t have anyone else to talk to in school.’ he asked, reasoning innocently.
‘Yes I am. I will talk to you.’ I assured him. ‘Eat the lollipop. It’s tasty. Tut… tut!!’ I told him, emitting sounds from my mouth.
‘Don’t eat that!’ her mother screamed from behind. She came into the room with my mother.
‘See!! The chap is suffering from jaundice and he wants to eat chocolates.’ she admonished Arpan. Frightened I backed off allowing his mother to sit at his side.
‘But mom, Ranjan brought it for me!!’ he begged.
‘Eat it later. You are not well now, no.’ she said stroking his forehead. Snatching the candy from his hands she kept it away from him.
‘I am feeling better now. Give it to me!!!’ he cried out in a shrill voice.
‘Eat it later, Arpan. It doesn’t matter.’ I said trying to calm him down.
‘Look! Listen, to what your friend is saying.’ her mother told, winking at me.
A wink: The meaning of which I understood later in my life; courtesy my mother. Five years down the line, I was in the same school, I played near the same drain, it was the same me. But Arpan, my friend was far, far away…

Thank-you all for reading; until next time, the moti-bhaddi aurat (fat-ugly lady) sings. It’s BYE!!

The Renunciation

‘I don’t want to leave this place, Ram! This is my birthplace. I just want to live here peacefully.’ I cried out, storming into the safe confines of the kitchen.
Expressing my revolt over the conversations going on outside, I slammed the heavy silver tray on the wooden table. The thunderous sound of it echoed in the large room, making us close our eyes momentarily. Eventually, the clattering noise subsided to enable us to restart.
‘Who is asking you to go? And Why?’ Ram asked, subsequently, in a perplexed tone.
‘I just heard them talk about some sort of separation.’ I stated, pointing towards the courtyard.
‘Here deliver the tea first. Come back. We will then talk over it calmly.’ Ram said politely. In an assuring manner, willing to hear my grievances the moment I returned.
I picked up the utensils one by one and placed them carefully on the tray. Two kettles, one filled with liqueur tea and the other containing hot milk. Three pairs of cup-saucer and a small bowl of sugar, filled to the brim. All articles splendidly designed and made out of glossy china clay. I gave the finishing touches by intricately arranging three white cloth napkins at the empty side. Folding them diagonally and setting a silver spoon on top of each one. Finally, placing an extra spoon at the side of the sugar bowl I completed the royal job. Etiquette learnt from my father, having seen him perform several times since I was a child.
‘What presentation!!? You have mastered it, Mian (Gentleman)! Bahut acche (Very good)!’ Ram exclaimed, attempting to cheer me up.
I glanced at him menacingly. Adjusted my pagdi (headgear) and set forth for my destination. Cautiously holding the tray close to my chest, I entered the courtyard. The voices grew louder and stronger as I approached them with nimble feet and eyes fixed on the finely cut grass below.

‘You realize, Mr. Jinnah, what you are just about to do?’ I heard Mr. Mountbatten’s stern voice. ‘The Congress would never agree to this.’
‘I am not worried about anyone else except the welfare of the Muslim people.’ Mr. Jinnah replied in a firm voice.
‘What would you do, if you were in my place? Mr. Jinnah!!’ Mr. Mountbatten asked aggressively, constricting his eyes.
‘I would have given Muslims Pakistan, by now.’ he uttered bluntly.
‘Pakistan? Has this man gone mad!! Isn’t Hindustan for all?’ I told myself placing the tray on the table, beside Mistress Edwina.
‘If India has to be divided into India and Pakistan, the same principle would apply to Bengal and Punjab.’ the Lord remarked promptly.
‘I will have my say when the time comes.’ he responded in an authoritative tone.
‘You are doing all this just for power, isn’t it?’ Mrs. Edwina Mountbatten asked raising her eyebrows.
She signaled me to leave, simultaneously, desiring to serve them with her own hands. I turned around and scampered back to stop at a distance near the courtyard entrance. I stood there like a robot, frowning humanely. With eyes fixed to the ground, unmoved most of the time, awaiting their next order. The restlessness and anger seethed inside me, hearing their divisive political conversations.
‘You realize, Mr. Jinnah, that this will cost you dear,’ the viceroy warned. ‘It will cost you the future of Pakistan, everything! You won't have a wooden table or chair in an office in your Pakistan. Or the money to buy an olive green army water bottle.’ he spoke out explicitly showing his contempt. His wife looked on at his face with dismay.
Mr. Jinnah chose to remain quiet, clearly perceiving the meaning behind the viceroy’s words. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye, in an attempt to gauge his response. But the expression on his face suggested that he was in no mood to share the pie with anyone.
‘My people, the Muslim League has chosen me. Not you!’ he stated emphatically, sipping his tea.
‘You seem to be adamant. Just think over it for once. Don’t force anything for which you may have to repent in the future.’ Mr. Mountbatten advised, escorting him slowly to the main door.

I picked up the crockery and walked back hastily towards my designated zone. Dejected and surprised over the uncertain future of the country and my life.
‘What is the matter Bilal? You look disturbed.’ Ram asked in a concerned voice.
‘I don’t believe this. I just can’t believe this!!’ I uttered.
‘What has happened? Tell me? Is everything fine in Lahore?’ he inquired in a panic-stricken voice.
‘They are dividing this country, just for the sake of power and to satisfy their self-esteem.’ I declared.
‘Who is dividing it? How is it possible?’ he asked frowning.
‘Mr.Jinnah! He wants to create a new country for himself called Pakistan!’ I announced, removing the pagdi from my head. ‘And Mr. Mountbatten will create it by dividing Punjab and Bengal.’
‘Whatever is happening is not correct. But how can we stop them?’ he questioned throwing his hands up in the air. ‘I know they have the people’s support and have charged up their ignorance politically.’ I said.
‘Don’t you hear every day? News of trains carrying slaughtered bodies of Hindu’s or Muslim’s from different parts of the country?’ he said demanding an answer from me.
‘I know that Ram. But… what if the country gets divided? What should I do?’ I asked, hesitantly. A silent prayer to God followed for not allowing the day and my apprehensions to come true.
‘What do you do? Meaning? You have your family here. So we will stay here together like we do today.’ Ram spoke out, giving me a wary look. I sensed an unknown fear in his tone.
‘But my relatives and loved ones are in Lahore… How can I leave them? I… I have to take care of them as well!’ I stammered. A cold sweat developed on my palms making me ponder about their welfare.
‘Why don’t you ask them to come over here as soon as possible?’ Ram said figuring out an answer instantly.
‘No Ram! You just told me the news of the trains. It’s impossible now.’ I responded.
It was evident from Ram’s face that he had no solution to my problem. The realization that our strong bond of friendship and brotherhood would one day be destroyed and torn apart, had hit us hard. It was the first time when we eyed each other as a Hindu and a Muslim. I had no option but to follow suit. We remained silent, waiting helplessly for the political catastrophe to separate us.

‘Pakistan!! What is this nonsense called Pakistan?’ Mr. Nehru shouted.
I stood there at a distance from the table, staring down at the grass in the lawn.
‘You aspire to become the Prime Minister of this country. Don’t you?’ Mr. Mountbatten inquired in a mocking tone.
‘Yes! But…’
‘You must be Prime Minister of India. Giving away Pakistan is the only way... Don't start wavering now.’ he cautioned.
I spotted Mr. Nehru deep in thought. His agitated gait conveyed me that he was steadily giving in to the viceroy’s persuasion. ‘But how does he intend to form Pakistan?’ he inquired.
‘That is up to me to decide.’ the Lord declared beaming. ‘Half of Punjab and Bengal and the whole of Sind along with the North-West Frontier Province will become Pakistan.’
‘I cannot allow a man from the Muslim league to become the Prime Minister of this country. If that is what he wants let him have it.’ he said succumbing to his own pressure.
‘I will bring the date of the Partition closer and would want to leave as quickly as possible. Pakistan will have to scramble against itself, really!!’ he said demonstrating his ascendency.
‘Who will decide our borders?’ Mr. Nehru inquired in a baffled tone.
‘I have made preparations for that. A committee headed by Sir Cyril Radcliffe will be performing that job.’ he replied readily.
‘Do you have a date in mind?’ the, to be Prime Minister of India asked in a worried tone.
‘Huh? Errr… Fifteenth August next month!’ he said hurriedly.
‘How can he fix so casually? It is an important decision and he gave it so randomly and easily!!’ I wondered.
‘That early? How is it possible?’ Mr. Nehru asked, echoing my sentiments, hearing his prompt answer.
‘A civil war is staring at us in the face. What else can we do? We will speed up the process. It can be done in no time.’ Mr. Mountbatten assured.

A month was all that I had to pack up my belongings and vacate India. The feeling of leaving my friends and dear ones caused an overwhelming grief to rise in me.
‘Will I get such a respectable job there? Will the Pakistan I will be residing in be as good as my India?’ my mind was inundated with numerous such questions. I had no answer to any one of them. Only time would tell.
I came inside shortly after Mr. Nehru’s departure. Met Ram in the kitchen as usual. Our gossips and hours of jovial talks had been reduced to a mere formal greeting. On entering the room it I passed a cold look meeting his eye.
‘The date has been decided.’ I said in a depressing tone.
‘So? When are you leaving? Bilal Mian!!’ he asked with a careless attitude.
‘On fourteenth august Pakistan will be formed. Fifteenth India will get freedom.’ I informed him ignoring his taunt.
‘Fifteenth! But that’s Friday! They did not consult the astrologers?’ the Pandit (Hindu scholar) in him sprang up.
‘Why what’s the problem?’ I inquired, confused.
‘Tch… Tch… Tch… It’s a very bad day!’ he remarked.
‘Yes! I heard it too from some of the astrologers. But what’s so bad about it?’
‘Rather than accept it, the people of India should accept British rule. Under the calculations, August fifteenth is lying under the Zodiac sign for Capricorn. This sign is known for its hostility to all centrifugal, pulling-apart, forces. Therefore, it is the worst possible day to do a partition. And on that day, India would be passing through the influence of Saturn, a very unlucky and unfriendly planet.’ he stated, relaying the predictions done by the other astrologers, scrutinizing and cursing the day endlessly.

A month flew past in no time. It was time to go. The strong desire for power had separated my soul from the loved ones. I didn’t know what was in store for me in the unknown land of Pakistan. I bid goodbye to every one of my community except Ram. It was a moment not to remember, but certainly to die for. I marched towards the obscure border with my family not knowing the hazards of crossing it.

‘Oh! God! Where am I? Allow me to stay here….’ I said slowly closing my eyes, clutching the ground on either side of me. A hazy figure moved around me, finally wielding it’s sharp power on my neck… ‘Hey...’

Racing With The Dead

‘Life is a race. If you do not compete you will be like broken egghs!!!’ Notable lines which I am sure we all remember, being uttered by VIRUS in the film ‘Three Idiots’. But it seems that many people in India have been following the literal meaning of it from generations. Why am I saying so? In what context...? Bear with me for a minute; we will get there pretty soon!

Riding on my friend, Milind’s bike; covering a distance of twenty kilometers back and forth on the bumpy roads, five days a week, to reach our office does take a toll on my body. Our spinal cords, predictably and irreversibly are slowly being deformed. I do not know about him but as far as my prophecy goes, I do visualize myself stooped, groping and walking with a stick in hand. A frightening thought, I beseech to God, to not allow it to come true. That’s not all! The adventure of eluding domestic and wild animals, rapidly moving erratic vehicles taking moody turns whenever they feel like thereby choking up the traffic periodically only flares up my existing aggravated distemper.

‘I am so fed up of all this man!’ Milind remarked stopping his bike at an entrance of a narrow street in Mundwa.

It was a typical traffic bottleneck one which we were familiar with, traversing the route on an everyday basis. I shifted my position within the limited space available in an effort to release some of the pain soaring up my spine from the squeezed tail bone.

‘Look behind! Is there any space to take a U-turn?’ he asked raising his helmet screen.

I strained my neck to look behind as directed and expectantly discovered a long snarl of vehicles littered all over the street.

‘Nope! No chance!’ I uttered. My voice suppressed because of the horns that blared.

We normally do take a detour, on finding the street choked up from a distance. But at that moment, a voice told me from within, “It’s a special day”. So, with no space to move backwards, we stuck around hoping for the situation to improve.

‘But for how long should we remain stagnant? Build a camp by the side and wait for the mess to clear up? Even there is no space for a camp!!’ I told myself as we were getting late for office.

The stalemate eventually ended with Milind showing his driving skills to find the smallest of openings between the obstacles and free us from the morning traffic ordeal. The race was on from that point onwards. We were already twenty minutes late because of someone else’s fault and we had to make up for it now.

‘Don’t increase the speed. Let it be late! I don’t want to land up in a hospital, early morning, bed-ridden for six months!’ I thought.

As I was about to express the same sentiments to my biker, he did the unthinkable. Milind increased the speed near the Kalyani Nagar turning in a bid to overtake a car, causing my heart to palpitate even more violently.

‘Oh God! No hospital! Better to die instantly than be in hospital!’ I prayed.

Milind safely overtook the car, though, halting at the signal near a bridge leading to Yerwada where our office is located. I stopped praying, for the time being, to change positions and relieve some of the pain originating from my tail bone.

The signal flashed green, enabling us to start our hasty journey, over again.

‘Smoke?’ he inquired.

‘Yeah! Let’s stop near the corner.’ I said.

I knew very well that we were late but ‘What’s the big deal if we are late by another ten minutes.’ I thought. ‘Completing work within the required deadline is important not the time we take, to reach office!!!’ I exclaimed deep down in annoyance thinking about the stringent policies.

We puffed our cigarettes calmly, to their butt, stubbing them out, the moment no smoke came out, from it and our lungs.

We sat on our respective positions on the bike to speed away one last time in the direction of our office.

Milind stopped the bike with a sudden jerk as we were approaching the Yerwada road, letting out a renowned cry. ‘Thok Diya!! (Banged it!!)’

I peered from the side of his head to view the ill famed scene.

‘Special! I knew it!’ I exhaled. But what followed was even more spectacular.

A cabbie, traveling at a fairly low speed had just touched the rear end of a bike causing it to wobble a bit on the road. Two decent, well dressed, probably educated youths were on the bike. I had seen them earlier that day maneuvering their vehicle and overtaking us and others at a high, rash speed.

‘Come out! Bastard!’ they both parked their bike in the middle of the road, in front of the Tata Indica and signaled the driver to come out of the car. Like two trained hoods.

‘Your father will come and fix this! Rascal!’ one of them shouted.

‘Sir! It’s just a minor scratch.’ the cab driver said politely and asked them to move their motorcycle.

I could clearly perceive the anguish in the cabbie’s mind as the two men approached his window.

‘Pull him out!’ they yelled.

The two seized the man by his collar and dragged his body through the window. Not allowing him ample time to open the door, let alone having a modest conversation. By now the horror on the cab driver’s face was evident.

‘Stop! Stop! What are you doing?’ the man cried.

The man fell with a thud on the road. The two youths then commenced their assault. Kicking him, on his stomach, his head, stamping on his hands intentionally as the man tried to save his body parts, wailing continuously in pain. Few people, who had already gathered around, tried to separate the rowdy youths from the cabbie, but in vain. As he was just being assisted by the people around to get up on his feet, the two caught him by the collar again. Now, they started hurling and depositing slap after slap in the direction of his face and ears. All the man could do was, hide his face behind both hands, folded on it. Trying to resist their thrashing and unruly behavior. Finally they were separated by the group gathered. The two youths sat on their bike and fled the scene immediately, probably fearing a police case or something. The face of the cab driver resembled a humiliated look. He was bleeding from the corner of his right eye with red and blue patches on his face, sobbing inconsolably. Some asked him to go to the hospital but he shrugged his shoulders and trudged back to his car. He sat inside and cried quietly for a minute, rubbing his eyes with his fingers, struggling hard to compose himself. He then ignited the engine of his car and fled away from the area shamefacedly.

I was close to tears viewing the whole incident from a distance and I am sure Milind must have felt the same.

‘No! Life is not a race!!’ I told myself. ‘But why do we have to behave like broken eggs!!’

‘Are we dead? Or have our consciences become extinct?’ I asked as we finally reached office.

‘Am I traveling with dead people around me?’ the questions started flooding my mind.

We remained quiet for some time. I, because of the trauma of it, enacted again and again before my eyes. We met at four over our daily dose of cigarettes and tea, recollecting the incident and venting our anger in the form of distinct curses and abuses.

To err is human but to beat him is insane, unpardonable and absolutely does not belong to this world.

Why do we behave like beasts sometimes? Are we really humans or animals disguised in the body of humans? Who has given us the right to hit anyone? Can’t a conversation solve a problem?

I am sure most of you might have encountered such ugly incidents while wading your way through traffic in Indian cities. I am tired of blaming the government or the administration, now. Justice can be done, following other unique ways as well. Let’s try and adopt them and make our India a better, more endurable place to live in.

A gross, inhumane episode, which I know is not the last one I have seen, but one which will always be forever etched in my memory. I hope, the corpses rise up from their death sleep and instill life in their souls again…

My Re-Discovery of India

Childhood is that wonderful time of life, when all you need to do, to lose weight, is take a bath. Our minds and hearts are filled with nostalgia when we remember our carefree childhood days. Playing around like nomads, roaming like a group of orphans from one playground to the other, trying out new unimaginable ideas and morally banned substances, imbibing and uttering, memorized, newly learnt abuses at each other without any prior knowledge or understanding of them and a horde of diverse, comical actions to accompany all of these. Amidst all this frolic and madness, the mere thought of returning to our homes would clog our hearts with unbearable pain of having to deal with the mental strain of mugging up the significant lessons published, mercilessly in the pile of drowsy books, causing us to become sleepy-headed immediately.

My days, of being a child were no different. A small incident which occurred when I was a ten year old boy enabled me to take an unprecedented turn in my life. Now, after analyzing myself all these years, I can firmly say that it was ‘The Turning Point’ which propelled me to drift away with the pensive current into ‘No Child’s Land’. I still get goose bumps when I vividly remember that day… I left my house early morning, as usual, to board my school bus which had it’s nominated stop at a distance of approximately one and a half kilometers from my house. The coldness of the morning air made my legs, exposed downwards from the knee, jitter, as I walked lethargically towards the bus stand. Midway through my early morning trudge, overlooking my shoulder I saw an unsusceptible man jutting his head out of the window from an advancing bus, moving speedily in my direction. Concerned, I hastily stepped aside on the pavement leaving the entire roadway vacant to allow the accelerating vehicle pass soundly from a considerable distance. The bus whizzed past me making my hair flutter as I shuddered violently to confront the spine-chilling blast of air generated and displaced by it’s speedy movement.

“See and walk you idiot!!!” the man whose head was protruding from the window shouted at me as the vehicle sped away disappearing into the early morning dense fog.

“Why did this guy call me an idiot?” I thought, not able to make any sense out of his curse, aimed specifically at me.

Suddenly a gust of cold air blew over, trembling me further causing the right side of my face, from where the bus had raced past, feel cooler than the left side.

“What’s the problem? Did I develop any abnormality?” I pondered as I touched the left cheek which I perceived, was absolutely fine.

Then I felt the right side, I was aghast to sense a slimy, foul smelling fluid smothering the right part of my face, gently streaming down from the side, just below the eye line in the direction of my chin.

“What on earth could this be?” I wondered, cautiously placing my right index finger on my cheek, groping, subsequently sniffing the fluid.

The realization of it eventually struck in me, the moment I made an effort unknowingly to inhale the filthy liquid… Yes! By now you should have guessed it!! The slimy fluid was nothing else but saliva splattered all over, at one side of my face. I demanded the man and the moment back from God so that I could thrash him to my satisfaction but later when I recalled the incident, leisurely, I realized that it was not such a good idea. The saliva in the meantime had reached the end of my chin, ready to start dripping at any point of time.

“I have to act quickly!! But how will I clean it?” I asked myself as my mind was occupied with the dilemma of cleansing it and getting rid of the repelling smell off my face.

I did not possess a water bottle because of my own silly fault, no handkerchief either, and I did not want to wipe off the sickening secretion using my school shirt, scared of the mocks my friends would articulate, when they would discover the offensive, stinking odor emanating out of my shirt.

“Is this what you call freedom?” I questioned the man in my mind. I still do not know, even after so many years, from where did this question or even the actions that I was just about to perform, flashed within me, being a small boy of ten that I was.

The words of my maternal grandfather, who was a passionate freedom fighter in his early years, later studied to become a benevolent doctor, resurfaced in me, providing an appropriate solution, thus rescuing me from the disgraceful position.

“Son!! Always remember, our soil is our mother, just as you love your mother, love and respect your motherland the same way. She will always come to your rescue!” my grandfather had once enlightened me when I was a small boy, perched on his dispensary table.

“Yes! The soil, it will rescue me!!” I said to myself delightfully and innocently picking up a handful and rubbing it over the spit.

The soil absorbed the saliva as it fell down to the ground in bits, rendering my face clean, emitting an endurable fragrance replacing my previously battered face. The transformation in me was evident from that moment onwards as I quietly embarked on a journey of my own which was to rediscover India, desiring to know her through my own eyes.

I started reading Jawaharlal Nehru’s book “The Discovery of India” after this incident, which, by the way is the first book that I have read, completing it at a tender age of eleven. But considering my age and power of understanding at that time, I was unable to grasp the intentions relating to the sequence of outrageous events with which the book had been written by Dr. Nehru. Few years down the line when I came across the dramatization of it in ‘Bharat Ek Khoj’ broadcasted by Doordarshan, the haziness cleared away presenting an evident picture of the horrific tales, frame by frame. Hindustan as it was earlier known, was always a land to conquer, from the Dravidians and Aryans to the British, it has constantly been raided and conquered by inhabitants storming from the north, despite the natural barriers provided by the Himalayas, vying for it’s rich and productive soil.

The widely acclaimed feature film ‘Gandhi’ was more of an eye-opener for me in many ways than a film depicting Mahatma Gandhi’s life. The Jallianwala Bagh massacre, the 1947 butchering of millions when India and Pakistan were crowned to be two separate sovereign states, dented my mind irreparably as I imagined my soul to be amongst those inhumanely acts of shame and disgrace. Looking back, glancing at the chapters of Indian History books that I studied during my school days, I could not find a single one to my liking where such cruel, barbarous acts were scripted at length, let alone the thought of penning a whole book on those gruesome days and times. Even to this day I cannot find one book on 1947 violent mass killings, made available in any school curriculum. What will our future generations learn? Freedom to us came at a cost!!! It just did not fall all by itself from the sky or heavens above!!! If our future generations do not learn how and at what cost India gained her freedom, our mother is bound to be vandalized again and again!

The land of Mauryas, Magadhas, Chalukyas, Guptas, Cholas, Pandyas, snake charmers, elephants… have given way to a land of famished beggars, perverts and money ravenous traitors. Did our ancestors win us freedom to visualize our ‘Bharat Mata’ in such pathetic state?

Does freedom mean spitting just about anywhere and everywhere? Does freedom mean, engaging in, corruption, eve-teasing, communal riots disrupting the harmony between states over trivial matters, burgling, playing petty politics with peoples life and money?

All of us want to be in a world of our own, enjoying life to the extreme. When an opportunity comes we all casually abandon our motherland and proceed to settle down in a foreign territory adopting an alien culture leaving our mother at the hands of hungry hyenas and jackals who keep scrapping her bit by bit, feasting on her, making her hollow from inside. The mother always feeds and shelters us throughout our whole life, and is this the way to repay for her unselfish deeds?

For generations our mother has been humiliated and most of us have stood beside her, watching calmly the dishonor caused by many of her and other extraneous people, how much more pain and suffering can she bear?

Why do we have to celebrate our independence on 15^th August? Why can’t we celebrate it every day? Why can’t we remind ourselves every single day that this is not the freedom that our freedom fighters had dreamt of, for them freedom meant driving away the British, thereby allowing their own people to live in peace and harmony, but did we manage to fulfill their aspirations? Rhetorical isn’t it? The answer well known!!!

Independence for us has acquired a different meaning all together, forcefully believing it to be a fundamental right of behaving in whatever way we desire, doing whatever we feel like and above all disregarding our mother and poverty stricken countrymen.

Yes probably by now our honorable prime minister may have hoisted the flag and delivered his Independence Day speech and some of us may have heard or slept over it, but does it serve the purpose? Even the flag hoisting takes place at a monument built by our invaders!!! Why can’t you celebrate the day in every other village… nominating one, in turns, each year???

‘Look around sir!!! We still have the same problems and difficulties which seem to have existed in our country for ages…’

‘How do you plan to eradicate them?’ if you ask, then probably another speech will be ready at his finger tips to be delivered and silenced.

‘Which is the first and foremost conundrum that you plan to work upon?’ if someone asks again, then I don’t think you will get an answer, because of the enormity of them. They leave behind internal matters and issues and roam the world for most of the five years term dealing with so called external matters and return back at the end of it to beg for votes.

Here is my question to you… How do we salvage the lost pride and glory of our mother?

As far as I am concerned we need to salvage her one at a time… taking up education and literacy at the forefront, in an utmost priority. Start it from your home, your own society…. We need to educate people and the future generations about her glorious past, the lives sacrificed in order to set her free…I know some people who have dedicated and still are in the process of laying their lives for our country; we need to join hands and extend our strong support towards them. My rediscovery and redemption of my mother, though carries on and will carry on till my last breath….

When the British administration led by Lord Curzon in 1905 ordered that Bengal must be partitioned into East and West Bengal, Rabindranath Tagore cried out to his countrymen by writing this song… translated in English by me… which I hope conveys my sentiments, paying a tribute to my mother…

‘O’ my mother, I bow down to your holy soil,

……

O’ my mother I sleep in your lap and will die here too,

…….

You have always fed me and given me everything, my mother,

But I cannot recollect anything that I have given back to you.

I have wasted my life in doing useless work,

But you have given me all the strength I needed, O’ my mother,

……..

O’ my mother, I bow down to thee.’

‘I have come with much expectation my dear mother; please call me near you,

Please do not return me empty handed, O’ my mother.

……….

No one loves the needy and the poor,

But I know you will nurture them,

………..

I do not need anything else, but to call you my “mother”,

I do not need anything else, but to lay beneath your foot,

If you will not nurture me then who else will care for me?

If you will not nurture me then where do I go sobbing?

……….

I have come with much expectation my dear mother; please call me near you,

Please do not return me empty handed, O’ my mother.’