THREE GIRLS SINGING IN THE TRAIN.

THREE GIRLS SINGING IN THE TRAIN

Three Girls Singing

The first privately owned Malayalam television channel Asianet is often regarded as the most popular television channel in terms of viewership not only in Kerala but also among the Malayalee expatriate population outside India.  In a way it connects the gargantuan populace of Malayalees all over the world by virtue of its programmes in a wide variety of genres including the much acclaimed music based shows. We all know that, the ‘Idea star singer’, a much successful musical talent reality contest is now one of the most popular shows of its kind in south India. However, my favourite programme in Asianet is ‘Hridayaragam’, a brilliant piece of musical work aims simply at the ecstasy of hearing ever green Malayalam film songs, through which you can also select a melody and send it as a dedication to your near and dear ones. While watching this programme, one can see the bulk of such dedications are from two prominent sections of scattered Malayalees who are working in arid lands of the Middle East or those who are exceptionally bored with the monotony of armed forces life. Since yours truly belongs to the second group, which always gets solace and gives solace by telling and thinking like, ‘ Aree   bhayya..,at least we are in India na...’ albeit it takes less hours to reach Kerala from Gulf countries than from the North-Eastern parts of India where one can find much concentration of our brothers in armed forces. I often watch this programme with a heart  brimming with enthusiasm and mixed emotions.

While talking about connecting the gazillion Malayalees to their home land, it comes to my mind a name that has now been a part of Malayali culture and a sweet nostalgia in the minds of Malayalees all over the world. As the longest daily running train in India which covers a distance of over 3000 kilometres one side and in all respect a sovereign socialist, secular, democratic, republican, superfast express of Indian railways, "Kerala Express" could narrate tales of torment and triumph that spans several volumes, if it had a mouth to speak and a hand to write.

For obvious reasons, long distance train journeys have not always been fascinating for me.  During my almost twenty years of Para Military service, I have travelled extensively around India and have been using the trains to traverse its vast expanse. I have had some interesting experiences as well and earned a few pals that figured to lasting friendships and a few, of course instant ones like the momentary intoxication of beer.

Yesterday while watching ‘Hridayaragam’ , it just came to my mind the reminiscences of a train journey I had from New Delhi to Trivandrum few years back. The journey will be remembered for its inimitable gaiety and the companionship provided by three beautiful young girls by virtue of their exquisite talents of singing. This post is dedicated to those cheery and chirpy girls who had taught us a few lessons about music in such a short period of time and also convinced us that if you are not dumb, you can sing. Yes. Each and every human being in the face of this planet can sing.

This time, through this post, I will try to connect these two diverse stuffs , the Music and the Train journey. Let us see how it goes.           

If you are a new comer at the New Delhi railway station at around 11 am any day, you will get hell bounded thinking that you are wandering around ‘Palayam market’ in Trivandrum or ‘Mitai Theruvu’ at Kozhikode and you may ask someone out of hallucination, where you will get some Puttu-kadala or Kappa-Meen curry. It’s during this time that the station would be high jacked by ubiquitous mallus thronging from all direction to a single platform for a few hours and the hard core Marathi Manoos, Bengali Bhadralok, Bihari Babus or what to say, the Haryanvi Jats would talk in Malayalam out of compulsion. It’s indeed a place outside Kerala, though for a few moments,  where mallus could speak their mother tongue without being ridiculed by a Hindi bhai, who would say, ’ Aaree Oyeee....phir shuru kar diya...ye kudu-kudu?’.  Apart from all, there would be no communists or congress, Hindus or Muslims or in that matter no Sukumarans or Nadesans. And yes, recently  I got a news that  our great saint, Maveli, frustrated with the political stunts in Kerala, got his flat booked nearby Pahad Gunj to see this peerless Mallu unison and harmony, though it cost him few  extra bucks as the house agent was a Tamiliyan staying somewhere near Mullaperiyar, as talk says.

On one such hot and sultry day, I reached the New Delhi Railway station to board the Kerala Express for my onward journey to Trivandrum. I had the comfort of having a 3^rd AC berth confirmed,  not an easy achievement for an armed force officer whose leaves are normally being sanctioned at the last moment due to “no apparent reason as such”. This time the odds were in my favour, thanks to the Special Protection Group and its veritable reputation, for that my ticket was confirmed in ‘headquarters quota’.

 Normally I would spend the two nights and almost three days of boring and strenuous journey in the confinement of my berth whereby reading and re-reading the bunch of magazines I’d stock from the station book stall with intermittent sleeps. I’ve never experienced any problems in taking long ‘naps’ in those cramped seats amidst noise of constant fidgeting of other passengers even on day time. To me these journeys are sometimes, excellent pad for sprawling my imaginations and taking a few important decisions.   

In came these three girls with a whole procession, probably their friends and relatives, to see them off. They all seemed to be very boisterous and were giving each other pleasant hugs and little kisses. The girls were much young and cheery.

When the train pulled out of the station, they settled in their seat opposite to me. In my customary serious outlook which I maintain during long train journeys, particularly when I was in the elite SPG lest I gave away my covert nature of my job, I glanced at them out of inquisitiveness and found all of them were beautiful and cool though. My analytical ability albeit with some difficulty selected the girl in red outfit as the most striking among them. 

It would probably take me few hours to analyze about their work and family details, I thought. May be I wouldn’t even in my whole journey of three days, by chance if they had been briefed by their relatives to avoid speaking to strangers. Either way, it won’t matter much for me.

The remaining two seats were occupied much ahead of us by an older Tamiliyan couple who were going to Coimbatore.    

After a while, I thought I may befriend the girls and start the confabulation, albeit with some reluctance due to apparent ignominy I may had to face if the girls opted otherwise. It’s my experience that once people sussed out who was in it for the longer haul, they starts talking and got into some interesting conversations till the end of the journey.

”Going to Trivandrum?”

I asked that universally accepted question to start any sort of  conversation.

My voice brought a sudden silence in the coupe.

“Yes” said the girl in red churidar.

“And you?”

“Yeah, me too”

I wondered if I would be able to take the conversation a bit longer, but somehow thought otherwise.

The train was speeding past ‘Mathura’.

 From their gestures and chat, these girls, I thought, are contrary to the usual guise of women I’ve seen elsewhere in my journeys. 

When the stupendous lunch I had at the Railway canteen and the hectic schedule of the past couple of days started besieging my head, I surrendered myself in my upper berth, stretched contentedly and soon fell into a much wanted slumber.

 A boisterous laugh followed by a stupendous clapping woke me up in between. The girls were poking and nudging each other while playing a much popular musical game in our part of the world, ‘Anthakshari’. Oh now they have started playing Anthakshari to banish the boredom, voila..., these girls are singing very well. I mentally appreciated their boldness in singing the songs in its required volume contrary to many girls who sings barely audible to themselves. May be they have some formal training, I thought.

The train, occasionally blowing its hooter, was now racing past the historic city of Gwalior. When the sound of music started spreading across the compartment, few from other coupe started joining us. By evening, when Kerala express was screeching past Jhansi, these girls wore an incarnation of Jhansi- ki- Rani (Ranees) as they were already in a conquering mood with several admirers around them. In the mean time our part of the compartment seemed pretty crowded though. Music session went late into the night as dark skies of Madhya Pradesh went past and we didn’t even notice, when the capital city of Bhopal arrived. 

 When the train was stopped at the next station, Itarsy at around 11.30pm, we call it a day and the audience dispersed to their places with a promise that they will meet again tomorrow. It was like a congregation of likeminded individuals with open mind assembled for a common cause of entertainment.  I slept well enough that night,  thanks  to the mesmerising effect of music and the Chicken Biriyani I had as dinner  started its soporific effect on me.  

Train was racing with the dark skies of Maharashtra the whole night.

All passengers, as usual were late in getting out of their quilt even as the shimmering orange rays of the rising sun to the east announced the formal start of second day of our journey. Many, like me were in fact woken up by the catering boy who came with breakfast. Our train was running through the baked lands of Andhra Pradesh and had just gone past Ballarsha.  

All the awkward, weary breakfast of Upma-Vada, had vanished and it was with a veritable enthusiasm that we assembled to start yet another session of ‘Anthakshari’.  Red churidar girl was the first to start with; it was a Tamil song, “Etho oru pattu, en kathil kelkum...”Few people soon walked into our coupe to turn it into a makeshift music theatre inundated with over enthusiastic audience.  We did not feel it as a disturbance but it was all about killing boredom by creating an ambience of musical bliss particularly when one among them, let us call her Miss. X, was singing extremely well. I was flabbergasted and was in fact craving for more melodious songs from her and she didn’t disappoint me as well. We were in fact enamoured of her sweet voice and exquisite musical talent.  

 Soon the girls had come up with an idea which was like a bolt from the blue sky to many of us.

 “Everyone present there should sing a song.”

Though the Idea seemed to become palatable to the crowd, very soon I found, few of them had furtively left the scene, leaving behind few die hard music fans. My being one among them, my analytical mind under the guise of being practical would ask me to mind my business leaving others to take such a huge risk of being either gobsmacked or disgraced by the audience. My being aware of my limitations, I displayed a paranoid revulsion to music, when my turn came. But these girls were the last ones to get distorted. With no other option to haggle over the meagre excuses, I was resigned to their adamant resolution.

To select a song from the gargantuan list of incredible songs in Malayalam, Tamil or Hindi, was as hard as selecting a gold ornament from Josco jewellers at Pattom. Relinquishing my inhibitions to the great energy these girls generated in me, I started singing my favourite song though I thought I have never had it easy when it comes to singing in front of others. Even more ominous was the presence of these girls who espouse music. An old Kishore Kumar hit, –Mere naina sawan badho- was what I finally decided to sing. And no sooner had I finished my song, than they appeared pleased with my effort. When it was done with, I saw few exclaimed faces which was an indication of me doing justice with what I did. One of the girls said, “Hey you can sing”, a statement that completely put me off balance. I thought my act of ostentation didn’t go futile.

The Tamil couple sang an old duet which was an incredible experience to our ears,  regardless of their different lingo.  Though the song was unheard before, I thought, this old couple is an epitome of love and affection even at that age. The rhythm of their song when harmonises with the clatter of the metallic rails,  was indeed mesmerising. My sincere regards to them. The arid land of Andhra was negotiated with pouring rain of music. At night when we returned to our berths we were already a peer group.

 Third and final day, our train had now reached the gods own country at about 8 in the morning. Palakkad, the granary of Kerala got its name from Pala, a beautiful tree with sweet scented flowers and Kadu (the forest). The district is, in fact, the gate way to Kerala for it longest mountain pass stretching over 40 kilometres on the foot of Western Ghats.  It’s always been an incredible experience to me to observe the lush greenery embellished by vast paddy fields, tall coconut trees swayed by the wind, shallow lagoons and huge lakes as the train whooshing past them by drowning myself in the comfort of window seat.  Entering Kerala has always been like a little drizzle pouring in gentle drops, with a splash of bracing breeze moistening my arid mind, giving rise to a huge urge to merge with nature by getting rid of these grudging comforts of a mechanical life. 

 Contrary to last morning, almost all the passengers were awake when the train entered Palghat. Sudden hullabaloo in the platform, the voice of hawkers calling,  “Dosa- muttaayyy, Parotta muttayy......and that typical...kappy kappy kappy,  in Mallu slang was like music to ears. Nammude  nadu. Oh how beautiful land...!

That day went without any music or exuberance as people were eager to get down at their respective stations.

One of the girls gets down at Thrissur and then starts that attrition of passengers. Few die hard music fans got down at Kochi. By the time the second girl gets down at Kottayam, the compartment was almost empty. In our roll, Miss P and myself were the only ones left as we were to the last station of Kerala express, Trivandrum. We were confabulating about few trivial issues and I for one am happy that we had a talk session on music too.

All the people, she said, those who are not unfortunately dumb on this beautiful planet can sing. And they all sing too in one way or other. She continued, “Those who says, I’ve never sang a song in my life, is in fact doing it often unknowingly.  Imagine you are in a bus stop with your friend, let us call him ‘Sanjay’, talking trivial things and suddenly his bus came and he boarded. Soon you remembered something and yelled at him from behind, ‘ Sanjaayyyyyy......call meee in the eveningggg.....’ . Now here you are simply elongating few alphabets with a rhythm..Ok. That’s all about singing.  Yes you do sing quite often.”

But, my dear friends I have to disappoint you by telling that you have to plough ahead quite a distance before you can develop as a professional singer. Few of our film stars like Amithabh Bacchan, Mammooty, and Suresh Gopi etc who are blessed with high and powerful voices can barely acknowledge singing if they asked to. But yet they sang some time or ever even in front of vast audience. So it’s all mental rather than physical. But the ability to sing with perfect ‘Shruthy or Key’ is an inborn talent like any other talents which makes few exceptional.

There are still few who can actually sing but do often shy away from it due to lack of self confidence. Singing is all about confidence than ability. Since singing and speaking are controlled by different sections of our brain, those who have speech difficulty or those who stutter can but sing beautifully.  

Now that you have successfully overcome your mental blockade, the things are getting easier for you. Iam by telling this not encouraging that you will become a Yesudas, Muhammad Rafi, Latha Mangeshkar or Chithra by practising music. They are of great voices. You have to understand that, Great voice and Good voice have its difference. They are rare and god gifted. 

It’s all about looking inside ourselves and identifies the hidden talents showered by the almighty on us, and also to ponder over the fact that, life is precious but fragile and during our limited stay on the face of this planet, we should try to explore our hitherto unknown talents whatever it may be.  

Thanks to those three god gifted girls who by virtue of their talents engrossed us, otherwise I would have passed the journey poignantly in my upper birth amidst the weariness and cramps of a long journey reluctantly sleeping for three days. I don’t know whether I would have any such boisterous journey in my life again and I’am not even sure I would conduct a journey to Delhi in any near future at all. But one thing is sure, that I won’t mind doing long journeys inside the compartment of a train in such an ambience....

P.S :-    Getting inspired by them, I once tried my hand at singing, in a Diwali function organised by R.A.F and made a mess of it....

Want to see...?    Ahem.....Please ensure that all privacy requirements are observed...!

P.P.S:- My fav songs in Malayalam:- Kudajadriyil kudikollum.., Kudajadriyil kudikollum..., Kudajadriyil kudikollum..(100 times), Poykayil kulirpoykayil, Azhake nin mizhineer, Anakha sankalpa gayike, Poomaname, Devanganangal Kaiyozhinja , Poovankuzhali penninundoru, etc etc etc...

In Hindi- Chand jaise mukhade pe, Mere Naina sawan badho, Oh sathi re there bina bhi kya, Madhuban kushbu detha hai, Kahan se aye badara, etc etc...

In Tamil:- Nilave vaa, Kannaei Kalaimane, Etho oru pattu etc ..

MASH ON MERCILESS

MASH ON MERCILESS

Khaleem Khan, father of Amjed Khan with his photo

(Sorry my brother Kishun Kujur. I couldn't get your photo.)

                                           
                                    My salute to both of you


I seek to espouse the title of this post, as a catchphrase which I’ve singled out intentionally while considering the perpetual cannibalistic approach of Maoists in abducting and killing innocent policemen in the line of duty.  Series of incidents occurred against the backdrop of escalating tensions in the states of Chhattisgarh and Odisha recently shows how Maoists ridiculing and desecrating the very essence of humanity by unleashing relentless brutality. The latest information is that an Asst sub inspector, Kruparam Majhi, of Odisha police has been shot dead soon after his abduction in Nuapada district of Odisha, yesterday. He was travelling in a motorbike when he was attacked and abducted by ten armed naxals in broad day light. His body was found in a nearby forest two hours later.

Sukhma collector Alex Paul Menon

Another high profile abduction of Sukhma collector Alex Paul Menon on April 21^st from Manjhipara village of Sukhma district, which set the whole country on tenterhooks for almost a fortnight, has ended on a happy note when he was released by Maoists on Thursday night.  As soon as news papers flashed this news,  we have heaved a sigh of relief and thanked the state government and all those who had worked for the safe release of the officer with much fervour. Villagers of Samathanapuram, a hamlet in Tirunelveli district, from where the collector hails, have burst into jubilation as the news spreaded among them. They burst crackers and distributed sweets out of boundless joy, which was telecasted live by hoards of media personnel who were present there since the abduction of collector. Once again the phrase, “All’s well that ends well”, got better of things.  

 

Far away in Chhattisgarh, meanwhile, impoverished populace of two small villages witnessed a saga of broken hearts and shattered aspirations when bodies of two young men, who had sacrificed their lives in the line of duty, were taken on their final journey. There weren't any media personnel or senior politicians. The bullet riddled bodies of Amjad khan of Nagari village in Chhattisgarh’s Dhamtari district and Kishun Kujur of Yashpur village were laid on rest amidst emotional scenes but not with much paraphernalia, albeit they too were associated with the same incident that happened at Manjhipara village twelve days ago. The only reason for this dichotomy is because, they were the body guards of the abducted collector, who were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred by heavily armed Maoists who came with a well planned strategy to kidnap the top official of the district under broad day light. Both were shot and killed instantly with brutal coarseness.  

Khan, a post graduate in history from Pune University was a bachelor, while Kujur is survived by his wife Seema and two small, four and one year old sons. Me being a serving government official, the code of conduct tagged with my job, restricting me from writing my soul out on this issue.

Here, I’ve no intention of arguing for the deceased policemen or their hapless family members who were deprived of their loved ones and bread bearers, but to look upon in a different perspective, the plight of few men who safeguard someone else’s life with their own.

Almost two decades ago, we all remember, in a reticent village approximately 30 miles away from Chennai, our beloved former Prime Minister Rajiv Gandhi was assassinated while campaigning for a Lok Sabha candidate at an election rally at Sriperumbudur. He died instantly. Few meters away, Sub Inspector Pradeep Kumar Guptha of Delhi police had a little life left in him to ask what is more imperative for him than his own life. All those rescuers and party workers who responded to the initial disaster were screaming and thronging with a question that the whole nation asked amongst each other in the next few hours. ‘Is Rajivji safe? Is the leader safe...?’.

Mr. Guptha, while wilting away, taking his last breath asked the same question with a slight difference. ‘Is my boss safe...?’ Nobody answered him, as they were hysterically running towards an important life, much more precious than his own that of a policeman. I may thank those who didn’t care to answer him; otherwise he would have left this world with a grieving heart.

Life of a body guard is just about the willingness to make the supreme sacrifice for a person to whom he may not even remotely associated to. In a profession where the price for a mistake is always death, the job of a body guard is usually a thankless one. Kujur and Amjad did exactly what was expected of them to do as body guards of the collector. They committed themselves to it at the cost of their lives.

I will never either blame the collector nor will I accuse him squarely for this incident.  A dutiful district collector could not by any means confine himself in the comfort of his air conditioned office enjoying the panache of special privileges accorded to his job, but  has to reach the masses with the developmental activities the government entrusted to him for the welfare of the society. We should not vilify his intentions. Whereas it’s the government machinery including his own office as district magistrate has to decide the level of security he deserves according to threats from newer areas and in keeping view of the present threat perception. Sukhma, a place often frequented by me during my tenure in Dantewada district, is well known to me as a region where Maoists have a significant influence over the local populace. In a place widely accepted as a critically affected area, the decision to visit a remote village to attend a function which was highly publicised well in advance with a meager two armed guards in a motorcycle was indeed a high risk affair. As the bereaved wife of Kujur, poignantly said lateron while talking to media that, if the collector had carried more force, her husband could have been alive, is an indication as to how much the policemen and their family members are aware of contemporary security scenario of that place.  Maoists once again have exhibited their infamous modus operandi of attacking their enemy in sheer numbers and thereby managed to abduct the collector without much resistance from his bodyguards. Here, the most important concept of personal protection, "the element of surprise", was compromised to a larger extent. .  

 Any senior administrative officer, though grudgingly, has to take decisions at the spur of the moment by taking into consideration certain issues which are more prominent than his personal comforts.  They have to live by the fact and at times taking risks would become imperative.  But still, it is my personal opinion that, every individual should be aware of his threat perception and to a large extend is responsible for his own protection. By virtue of being a person who had almost eleven years of experience in the elite Special Protection Group (SPG) an agency responsible for the protection of the Prime Minister of India, I can categorically say that, if a subject intentionally deviates from the existing norms of security, then no one can save him. If you have a high threat perception, you have no choice but to abide by the well defined norms of security, which will eventually save you and your dear ones from being ravaged.

 Some news paper reports quoted Khaleem khan, father of deceased Amjad khan who said, “I don’t agree with what they (government) are doing. Naxals will keep up their pressure like this. They will kidnap more officials to make similar demands...”  After reading this, I thought, isn’t the same fact that the security experts and high profile media men came up with one unanimous conclusion at the end of several brain storming sessions conducted in their studios in the aftermath of this incident?  

No human life is less or more important than another. Let us not be casual over issues worth paying deep attention. Maoists are now on abduction spree. They are least bothered about human lives and ethics. They can go to any extent to achieve their targets. Abduction and merciless killing of unarmed policemen returning from leave or other official assignments have become a routine affair.  Intelligence reports suggested that, naxals have managed to consolidate their positions considerably during the suspension of the armed operations against them in the wake of recent kidnappings. It affected the intelligence gathering mechanism also. Maoist used this period to lay out a vast network of landmines which will be used extensively against the Central Paramilitary Forces in those naxal infested areas. Means more lives of security force members.  All senior public servants should understand the grievousness of the situation and should ensure adequate security measures while venture out to unknown places where naxalites have stupendous hold.  Basically you need to understand that your stupidity may result in you having to spend days in their captivity and more over in releasing hardcore militants who were captured by brave policemen by putting their lives on tenterhook. Now here it becomes pertinent to say that, there is only a hairline difference between ridiculousness and courageousness. Nobody should ever have to flaunt their chivalry at the cost of someone else’s life.  

  

 Reports also suggested that, naxals managed to recruit new cadres and procure more arms and ammunition in an effort to strengthen their establishments, particularly in the states of Chhattisgarh and Odisha during this period. It is definitely a galling setback for the Central Para military Forces. In the wake of these events, abduction of Sukhma collector seemed to be a game plan of Maoist well orchestrated at the cost of the lives of police men. The more prevalent questions are, when will Maoist’s atrocity and bloodbath end? When will they come to the main stream politics and join the government in resurrecting the impoverished tribal populace in the far flung hinterlands of India? Their merciless attacks and cold blooded murders are rising day by day. It seems that they have as much penchant for police blood as do wolves for sheep’s. Now it’s the time for the government to initiate concerted and stringent military action against the Maoists thereby finding a perennial solution to this problem once and for all. A soft approach on these brutal killers will do nothing to mar their intrinsic image of cannibals that seemed to engulf them.

The motto should be, ...``MASH ON MERCILESS``

P.S:- Being an Ex- SPG officer served in that elite organization for almost eleven years, I will always be proud to say, 
" Why you wanna try to get us down, when even bullets couldn't do...." 

JAI HIND.........JAI BHARAT MATA...!

WORK IS WORSHIP

WORK IS WORSHIP

"This picture, I've got from the facebook yesterday. Looking at it, I thought of writing someting as a comment. And Lo..., the comment has turned out to be a short story, rather a mini story which I've then posted there. I thought of posting it here too...  ...Any ways...here it goes..."

Muttering curses over the recent boom in Shopping arcades, I glanced through the glass window of my own small grocery shop at the market road and found that the old lady is yet again missing today. She has now been missing for almost a week...I thought. The lamp post, under which she used to lay out her paltry collection of vegetables on sale for almost a year, gave a melancholic look.

Sitting under it, she never yelled at anyone to attract attention. Very few people would turn up to the effort of buying vegetables from her as the stocks would not suffice to make a ‘Sambar’ or ‘Aviyal’ for an average family.  The question of how much a profit did she makes at the end of the day often surprise me. But then, soon I found she had a regular customer though. A rich man who comes at 12 noon sharp in a bright red luxury car with tainted windows to buy whatever vegetable was left unsold.   Every day the car would screech to a halt in front of her and then comes out a hand as the front window rolled down automatically, would collect vegetables, exchange money and took off again. She would then pack up the utensils and vanish from the scene in a hurry. None of my customer had any connections with her and thus the old woman ever remained as a mystery for me.

Chandrika, another old lady who have not yet enticed by the high –tech shopping malls and thus remained as a steadfast customer of me just came inside with a small list. Reaching for the list and still gazing down the lamp post I asked her,  “Amma...do you know that lady who used to sit there with some vegetables? ...She is missing for few days...what happened, Eh..?

Staring down the lamp post, she released a long sigh. “She is no more now...my son...She died a peaceful death last week while sleeping.”  Paused for a while, she looked at me and asked sceptically, “You don’t know her...? That contractor Sahadevan...you know...he is her son... Poor lady,  she struggled a lot with a vegetable shop at her native village to bring up her children. All are well off now at various places. But till last breath, she won’t compromise herself. She came to this town last year when Sahadevan built a new house in the town square."

After closing the shop bit early in the evening, I went to the house of Sahadevan to pay my condolences as he was my friend too. There I could see on the front wall of the veranda, a wood engraved huge portrait of that old lady with a caption inscribed below...

“My Mother... Who taught me to live Ethically and Morally... Who taught me the value of Own hard earned money...Who taught me..., Work is Worship.”

 While pressing the calling bell, I saw towards my left in the corner of the patio, one ' bright red luxury car' with tainted windows. 

Ralph, I Miss You...

      Ralph, I Miss You....

RALPH- THE ROUGH

It’s been more than a week since I blogged. A best friend of me called me back the next day and explained to me how lacklustre and tedious my blog is. Then he gave me some pointers on how can I better the whole outlook of my blog. According to him, mine is a narrative style of writing which is more journalistic than blogging and thus evokes no interest in readers, piques no curiosity, and is not doing well with the very purpose of blogging. Great advice from a great friend.

Then I thought...., Oh my goodness, what exactly does he mean by “sincere expressions on ordinary topics to evoke interest”. Let me clarify... so I asked him. But then , he asked me in return,

“Has a dog ever bitten you?”  I said “No, I’am absurdly good at climbing trees”.

My friend was growing impatient.

 “Ok. Let it be...now tell me, have you ever met with an accident which wiped out your existence from this planet, though momentarily?” 

“Yes twice.”     

“ Ok very good, then go write about it...will be an interesting read for me...Good night” he disconnected the phone.

Such a good friend...I thought.   Now there is enough reason to be sceptical of the quality of my blog writing, that I thought I should better leave it altogether or just plough ahead with some scraps to keep it alive at least for some more time. Since blogging is something that gives me pleasure and makes me elated, I thought,  I should stick to the pretty good second option, though I’am not a blogaholic nor would I intended to be one.  The satisfaction I get when I’am in a world of my own for a few moments, which doesn’t create any problems for others, is just incredible.

Now that I’am seriously thinking about writing a post, I wonder the stuff may be boring to many of you, but here I know how badly I missed my “RALPH”, a couple of years ago. Yes, I had a dog, a majestic looking ‘German Shepherd’ that I owned from a reputed dog breeder in Kerala once I’d developed a fantastic respect for this breed after realizing that this particular breed has a very special and unique bond between its master since time immemorial. Dogs carry a very high emotional capacity and thus they are the first ones to be attracted towards the human beings. They go by ‘feel’ rather than ‘instinct’. As humans have the most emotional senses than any other living beings, animals are attracted more towards them.

Anyway, my Ralph was barely one month old when he came to my house late one evening amidst all the cheers and jeers of my family members. Though far away from my house, I could well imagine my children’s faces beaming with joy and fascination. I could hear them laughing and jeering at the little pup who would be their new companion to pal around in the coming days.  A month later, I took a short leave to join my family and to see how the new comer in my house enjoying his stay. It was a fascinating experience to be with this little cute dog. Very soon he started wagging his stubby tail, jumping all over me and playing with me. It was nice to be able to have a wonderful vacation with him.

One month old Ralph, with my Son

One more member added to the list of those who have sincerely been worrying about me, on the last day of my leave phase. It has always been disquieting for me to say adieu to my family and friends after spending few days in euphoria with them. As an armed force member you don’t have many options. 

Months passed.

I was astonished to find, when I came back after few months, how quickly this pup developed into an adult dog. This time, I’am bit scared going near him as he was violently swirling inside the cage and barking at me ferociously.  I never imagined he would be growing up so fast.  Going by what experts say, dogs seldom forgets their first master, but here, this man, the way he behaves, I thought, he wants to rip me apart. Few gesticulations to calm him down went in vain. Then the decision from an armed force officer, "Come what may", I told my wife. “Open that door”. Not sure about animal instincts, I took an evasive action, just in case. Few stitches here and there and an extended medical leave due to a brutal dog attack was what I expected to come about.

Ralph, 8 months

The door was opened and then Voila...! He raced to me, jumped up in the air, stuck his legs up on my stomach and started licking my hands. Gazed up at me, he was wagging his tail as if he was so pleased with my coming. He barked and growled, trying to tell me something in his own language. When I nudged him as his small but razor sharp teeth were hurting me a little, he bounced back as if like wants to climb up me. Ralph is now an adult dog, I thought.  

It was during those days, did I realise that my Ralph is but a ferocious and agressive dog. After observing him for a while, the vet to whom we took him for a vaccination injection, told me that this dog is a little ferocious beast and need some training and few extra precautions while taking him out for walks as he would dare attack anyone to whom he thinks not his kind of. Iam aware of his uncharacteristic rage towards the visitors to our house while on sheltered in his cage, but this one was a bit of shocker to me. He had the power of few dogs combined and was too aggressive.  In my absence, I’am sure my wife wouldn’t be able to train him properly or groom him as a good canine. I tried my best to train him a bit by taking him with me every morning when I went out for my daily jog and found he truly enjoys that. We would practice, sit-stay and catch the ball exercises in the morning or in the evening in the small aisle of my house. Days passed in a hurry and the vacation was over in a flash.

After a 5 Km jog

I was a bit worried when I started getting those telephone calls at my work place, about the mischievous character of my Ralph and his over enthusiastic activities which caused him to be altogether banished from the heart of my family members and neighbours. My mother who would not talk anything disturbing to me particularly when I'am on my work place was also found worried about him. The latest incident of a daily wage labourer who was working in a nearby house got almost passed out when she encountered Ralph when he slipped out the front gate and sprang towards her, evokes protest from the perturbed house owner. Even though it was an action out of playfulness, this incident earned him a reputation as an aggressive and ferocious dog potentially dangerous to the neighbours.  The only ones who still liked him were the residents of the nearby apartment for his thunderous barks at night for every unusual sounds or awkward movements around. In a place where citizens are weary of housebreaking incidents even in broad daylight, his presence was a much sought after endorsement.  

Heated discussions and negotiations by my family members, ended up in moving a memorandum to me to take an early decision in getting rid of this dangerous beast to avoid any untoward incidents in future.  All my last minutes efforts to convince them to wait for few more years till I get voluntary retirement from service went in vain. It was literally with a heavy heart, that I accepted the unanimous decision of my family members and asked them to approach our vet for an advice. Few days later the doctor introduced to my wife, the owner of a famous kennel in Trivandrum who was in search of a good stud dog.

Mean while I steadfastly refused a good amount he offered in lieu of my Ralph as I couldn’t even imagine selling him.

One fine morning, when the new owner came in, Ralph reacted to him none differently than any other stranger in the house. Far away, I was listening to the live commentary of events as my wife was doing the role of a commentator. She said, “I can’t see him being torn apart by Ralph. He is simply venting his rage towards him and barking mad…. I think he will break open the iron grill….. And the new owner is not reacting at all as if he has seen enough…. He is making some gesticulations at him with his fist. Oh…Yes…he calm down a bit…his ferocious bark has now been reduced to little more than a whimper… Now they are gazing at each other…, he is going near him and calling his name….he touched his nose…, I have to check…yes he is wagging his tail now…hold on….hold on…he is asking for his chain…. I will call you later.”

She left me anxious to know what happens next.  Few moments later she called me to give a vivid depiction of how my Ralph left our house calmly with his new owner. Once the door was opened, he sprang out and started licking his new owner’s hands. He repeatedly and gently taps the side of Ralph’s neck. The reaction was almost magical. Within moments, they became friends.  He simply chained him and took him away in a vehicle.

My Ralph came without me in my house and quietly left without me with no protest or hassle. If I would have been there, I want to tell him what a good and gorgeous boy he was. I won’t see him again as I’am sure it will upset him. I cherish every moment I did have with him and nowadays I miss him in my early morning joggings.

He was only a dog, I know, but it’s hard for me to forget him. What Ralph may have thought when he was taken away?  Difficult to say, I know. But he had a large heart to forgive us. He would have thought ‘why should I disturb you when you people don’t want me.’

I had to make a decision, ultimately though, to bid farewell to my Ralph. Even though I feel guilty about my decision sometimes, then I feel that I did something what’s best for everyone.  Like someone said, “those we can’t live without, but have to let go”

He was simply too big for my wife to handle and with a job in armed force where you could only stay with your family for less than three months a year, I was helpless. He was such a lovely dog, I’am sure he will be having a nice life with his new owner. He will learn quickly that his new owner, who can give him a lovely life, will love him too. 

Now I haven’t got a dog and won’t take the risk of getting another pet dog till the completion of my twenty years of mandatory service which is going to be over soon. Then I’ll go for a dog, the most ferocious one, the most powerful one, if not German shepherd, then a Rottweiler… or a GermanShepherdRottweiler…???.  Let me see…… 

.

THE UNSEEN SCAR

It was nine o’clock in the morning.
On the farthest corner of the mortuary, he stood alone with his head leaning against the wall and his eyes staring into infinity. His disbelieving eyes were found swollen and red from crying several times through the night. Running down his hands through his coarse grey hair, tousled and dry, he looked utterly shattered. His appearance of a pale and emaciated middle aged figure, who had forgotten to smile long back, resembled a modern day farmer. Although he was living a penurious existence due to rapid urbanisation and industrialisation that swept across his serene village in recent years, he kept guarded safely in his inner soul; a ray of hope, intact like a small wick that he thought would disperse the darkness that filled his life since long. That tiny flame has now been doused. His lone son, who had been his dream, left this world yesterday, abandoned him to the deepest depths of sorrow.
His occasional plaintive sobbing pierced the tranquillity of the room, the corridor and the bitter pong of chilly corpses.  
In that dimly lit room, a few relatives who were with him since yesterday and a few who joined him in the morning were found chatting to each other in hushed voices as if they couldn’t believe such an act by the boy, who they never thought would have the courage, nor the wits to undertook this drastic act of committing suicide. 
After a while, came an impassive mortuary keeper in his dark uniform, talking to himself and banging his head with his hand, cursing some his superior officer, probably for denying some trivial favours he asked to him. 
Few relatives, though grudgingly, followed him.  
“What is his name?” he asked haughtily in a loud voice.  His actions carried a false psychological egoism exploiting the vulnerability of the moment. In the whole of his outward appearance, there wasn’t any trace of nobility to be seen.
He ran his fingers up and down each drawer,  trying to locate the name of the boy and finally when he pulled open one drawer, it made a shrill noise  of metal grating metal. Few came forward to lend a hand in shifting the frozen body to a nearby stretcher. The slender body of the boy resembled that of a flower that bloomed beautifully but withered away sadly in the embers of reckless dreams.
Meanwhile, sounds of combat boots thudding against the floor came closer and the relatives made way for a police Sub-Inspector and a couple of Constables who were waiting in the duty room with inquest papers to check the veracity of facts.
“All of you may please push back” the Sub-Inspector looked obviously perturbed with the commotion around.
Seemed strict and scrupulous in his contractual obligations, one constable asked .

 “Who is his father?”  
All looked towards the farmer while two among them helped him to the stretcher. He was staggering as he went; His emaciated legs, trailing and stumbling heavily and feebly.  
Near the stretcher, he was heartbroken. A long melancholic howl came out of his throat as someone prevented him from falling backwards. His loud, sort of animalistic scream reverberated off the walls of the mortuary room. He was inconsolable.
A deep sense of grief usurps the room.
Tears rolling down his eyes he stood there for long stared in pain at the undersized body of his lone son.
“.Why did you make me like this my son…, who will take care of us, your ailing mother and me…!.”
His voice sounded muffled as his throat clogged and heart grief-stricken.  
Few more minutes, his bawl gradually faded into a thin wail as he wiped the tears with his hand and sat crestfallen on the ground.
Looked upon the farmer, now with a soft voice, the Sub inspector asked.
“What was his age?”
Gazing on the roof he thought for a while and said in a brittle voice “Sixteen…Sixteen complete”
Meanwhile the other two constables were busy searching for any suspicious marks on his body, as part of their investigation, to make sure that it’s indeed a suicide and not a murder. The rope mark around the neck was thoroughly checked by the sub inspector himself and he seemed pretty convinced about it beyond doubt.

Suddenly the sub-inspector's  eyes got locked at a long surgery scar, though old, just below the ribs on the side of the dead body. Notwithstanding, an old scar makes no relevance in the bodily investigation of a suicide case, the Sub-Inspector asked out of curiosity.
 “What is this mark?”
Everybody looked and then turned their heads to the farmer with inquisitive eyes. He stood up with a curious face and then, it found, raced across his face an array of sheer astonishment as if he had never seen it before. It was an unseen scar.
Police Inspector didn’t pursue much about the scar, because they felt it was an old one and thus was not of any great significance to the inquest report. The body was then taken away by the hospital staff for a post- mortem. Hushed voices of relatives had now been turned into a noisy debate.  The scar sceptically found on the young boy’s belly was something they never heard before.  Still baffled and startled, the farmer walked alongside the mobile stretcher that carried the corpse of his son into the autopsy room. 
Somebody offered him a glass of water which he refused with a gentle nod of his head. In front of the autopsy room, outside the courtyard, he sat beneath a huge mahogany tree. An ideal place to calm down, he thought. Strong sense of repentance thronged like turbulent waves on his heart. Without anyone noticing, he cried silently with occasional mumble.
 “Please forgive me …my son….your father…Iam a wretch. But still…why did you do this to me. At least you….your mother…she is such a…such a poor women… ”.
Unable to bear the weakness shuddering through his body, he laid back against the tree and looked up. At a distance he saw, eagles’ sauntering through the sky.
“It will take some more time to complete the procedures” said someone impatiently, looking at his watch.   

A cool breeze from the huge Mahogany tree blew through the space and when it braced the feeble body of the farmer as if as an act of solace, he sensed a series of memories now flooding his mind just like the turbulent waves beating against the sea shore. His serene village and his small house in the middle of a vast paddy field came as obscure images to his mind.
 “Janaki must be still unconscious... losing her only son..., how could she be able to bear it” Farmer thought about his wife who fell unconscious just after seeing that bizarre sight of her only son swaying lifelessly in a rope tied around his neck yesterday. He was in his room when he heard her scream of pain. It was too late before he could do anything.
Why...did he do this to me...my almighty god? What is that unpardonable sin, Iam afraid,  I may have committed for punishing me like this....” he sobbed inconsolably.
" Yes, I have scolded him many times.  If I don’t admonish him, who will? He is my child; I wanted him to be an officer. When me and Janaki would become old and feeble, I thought we would retire to his support. But now, a worthless me..Iam a cruel, evil man...I’ve never gave him anything but torment...Will there be anyone to take care of Janaki?"
When little flecks of tears that rolled down his cheeks moistened his parched lips he wiped it with his hand.
“This is a fate of me which Iam solely responsible. Whenever I admonished him for not studying well that Janaki came between us and absolves my entire wrath. Many times she used to cry herself to sleep at night which I knew, but I never consoled her”.
“But then why.... Why did I scold him?”
Thoughts of a small village, rich with endless stretches of coconut palms and vast green paddy fields, wandering cows and sturdy farmers ploughing their fields with oxen tied to wooden plough, thronged his mind as waves of a tranquil sea. Clatter of the huge wheels of bullock cart carrying coconut husk and hay to the town reverberated in his ears. There on the farthest corner of a vast paddy field, he could see a cute, bubbly little boy with a small stick in his hand, chasing the chickens around the house, brimming over with laughter.  A boy, he thought will support him in his old age. A boy, who put colours in his otherwise dull and sombre life. A boy on whom he saw his future aspiration and woven his dreams.
 “Oh..God...How hastily did all disappear like a meteor that has fallen to earth?” he broke into silent sobs. 
The house he made with tears, sweat and pain was what he loved with proud delight. Sometimes, during rainy days, he crouched on the daubed floor of that thatched house and dreamt of a future full of mirth and merriment.
 Forty cents of land, Janaki got from her father as her share was so infertile that not even a blade of green grass or weed would grow on it. Moreover it was far from his house, almost three kilometres away. He neglected that land and almost buried it beneath the heap of his befuddled dreams. But Janaki always stood with him. She accompanied him everywhere like his shadow. He worked hard on his own share of paddy field and fetched enough money to run his family. He was a happy farmer then.  When the boy was five, he started going to a local village school.
“When he will become eight, we will get him admitted in a proper school in the city. He will bring solace to all our worries once he become an officer.” Many times he said this to Janaki.

But fate willed otherwise.
The boy never seemed to be able to study his lessons well. He got poor marks. As he grew, farmer could see him becoming less and less interested in his books and rather found him always returning late in the evening with his clothes draped with mud and dirt. That made him outrageous and then, loud scuffles had became a regular affair in the house.
 “How will you ever become an officer with these marks?”
Many times when the boy would reach home late with some excuse or the other, the farmer would beat him terribly hard. Janaki would stick up for him and then he would beat her too. She would be begging to leave her son alone, sobbing.
Farmer found all his dreams gradually fading in the horizon.
An unknown disease that caught Janaki had turned the things worse for him. Gradually she lost her health to became a terribly skinned woman with a tired face. Sudden rise in fertilizer costs and labour problems affected the paddy cultivation, which saw many farmers including him shifted to daily labour for existence.  Meagre income he earned as a daily wager was hardly enough to meet even her medical expenses.  Life gradually turned into dilemma for him.
Years passed, the boy entered into his tenth class. They found their son burning the midnight oil through the year but never found him to be a happy student. The boy was worried too.    
Came the month of June. On a murky morning, the newspaper boy came late due to the incessant rain. Farmer was waiting for him at the porch since midnight. He knew the importance of that newspaper. The results for the tenth class exam would be there in it. The newspaper boy took one paper  and flung it over the gate straight into the porch,. As his trembling fingers were tracing down the roll number, he could hear his heart beating fast and loud.  And finally when the finger came to a  halt at the last number, a sudden darkness blinded his eyes. He sat back dumbstruck on the ground.
He remained stolidly silent for a while. Then he suddenly sprang from there, rushed across the room in a blind rage, jerked open the door and caught the boy by his hand and flung him into the ground. He beat him terribly bad with his fists. Farmer was fuming on him with anger in his familiar tyrant’s way. Janaki ran on in front of him and flung herself in a heap at his feet and besought him.
 “Let him go, be mercy...please...Let him go...you...My promise” she sobbed terribly.
All her pleadings fell on his deaf ears. His anger grew and it was almost as if he had become crazy, he continued beating him. Boy was crying and pleading too with his folded hands. He tried in vain to escape to the back of a cupboard.  
He pulled him out by his legs and dragged him to the portico and heaved him out the door.
“Go to any hell…don’t come here again…”, he furiously yelled at him, looking at him with his red eyes, he shouted again.

“Go away….You are not my son...”
A deep, prolonged thunder roared in the sky.   
The boy was bawling loudly for mercy. He was so frightened that words chocked in his throat. When he tried to come back, farmer raced towards him and pushed him hard to the ground.  
“Get lost ...I say...I don’t want to see you again...”

Haunted with rage farmer went inside.
Boy stayed there soaking in the rain, sobbing for long, then quietly turned back towards the gate and walked with heavy steps weeping inconsolably.
Something shattered in the portico with a thud sound.
Janaki, unable to bear the grief, fell down unconscious. Few neighbours came down running, tried to pacify the farmer. Few among them stayed away from the scene, outside the gate.
 The slender boyish figure, trailing and stumbling, gradually faded and disappeared in the narrow culvert.
Hours passed.
Back to sense, he took his bi-cycle and rummage around shouting for his son, but in vain. He came back home crestfallen and waited at the loggia, frequently walking towards the gate and back, until past midnight.  

The boy didn’t return.

All cursed him covertly and overtly for his plight. Janaki, as always, spend her days in the darkness of her room, crying.
One evening, two weeks after his departure from the house, the boy came back. The sky was overcast and gloomy.  He seemed so scrawny and pale.  That sheen on his face was not there to be seen, instead he looked weary and lost.  Seeing him, Janaki ran impatiently out on the veranda,  reached for her child and embraced him to her heart.
Tears pouring from her eyes said it all. It was like she got her life back. 
Farmer stood there silent, overwhelmed with emotions.  
For a while, boy stood there at the door staring at the floor, and then quietly left and plunged on his bed in his room snivelling silently. Janaki, went to his room, stood there at the door in agony and then reached to his side, leaning on the bed, she whispered in a tired, almost pleading voice, holding his feeble hand tight.
“Son...who else I got...You are the only one the almighty gave me...please don’t cry...It’s alright...nothing happened...Your mother is here...don’t cry....my son”
The boy said nothing but blub.  After a few minutes, she sighed heavily and left the room silently.
“I can’t stand this agony anymore” she said in a brittle tone to farmer. With much difficulty he controlled himself bursting into tears upon his plight.  Late that night, both of them cried a lot gazing at each other, when the boy had fallen asleep.
 He asked her,
 “Do you know how much I loved him...I could not speak of my love neither I could show it..., true..., but still.... how could he run off from us Janaki? You saw him, how pale he has become...How could I bear it....” Tears rolled down his cheek, he laid back against the wall.
Hours gave way to days and days to weeks. Farmer kept himself aloof from the boy. He would spent his days in the field doing farce jobs. Janaki served the food inside his room but he hardly ever took it but sat on the corner and muttered his apologies to her for making her sad. Gradually that too melted as he had fallen into a deep silence. He seldom spoke to anyone.   At times, he tried to come out in front of the farmer egging to say something. His tearful eyes were always asking for forgiveness.  
-2-
Some commotion outside the mortuary and one more carcass was handed over to some anxious relatives.
“Next is ours.” farmer heard someone telling.
It took only a few minutes to complete the formalities before the wrapped up body of the boy was taken to the ambulance.
Somebody helped the farmer into the vehicle. And the ambulance left for the village.
Cremation was held at the paddy field behind his house.
Several showed up to the funeral.  Few hours later, when the thick white smoke caved in, many of them left and a very few close relatives stayed back. Janaki was inconsolable. She was almost gone mad. She vehemently refused the proposal of some of her relatives to shift her to a city hospital. Farmer said nothing.
Some more people left by evening and those who still remained were send back to their houses by the farmer courteously asking then to take care of their loved ones. Late in the evening,  when the moon coyly appeared above the clouds at a distance, farmer took Janaki to the funeral pyre of their only son. They sat down there for long and cried their heart out. Their loud sobs pierce the serene ambience of night. Melancholic chirping of a night bird from a distance disrupts the nocturnal silence.
Few minutes later, when someone called the bereaved souls from behind, they stood up with profound heart.
“What are you doing here...who told you to come here...” anxious neighbour affectionately reprimanded them.  He came with some porridge which they politely refused.  Condolence words by the neighbour didn’t bring any relief to their burning souls.  That night they did not sleep a wink, tormented by repentance, cursing them strenuously.  
When the crescent moon paled over the western horizon and the crimson red and yellow clouds painted the east, it meant for sure that the day was breaking quickly.  Few more relatives and neighbours came with condolences. Farmer was still sitting on the veranda alone, setting his head on his hand, with a huge sense of repentance over bearded him.


                                     ll
           Day progressed, streets had become busy.
“A post for you” stretching his neck from outside the gate, yelled the local post man. A neighbour took the letter from him and handed over it to the farmer.
With a bemused expression he thought ,  I‘ve never had a letter from anyone in my life except those printed post cards from the bank reminding the repayment date of their loans. Then who is this...
 Letter brought many surprises to his eyes.  When he carefully opened it and read the name of the sender, his whole body shuddered. He felt as if the blood was draining from his head. To avoid a collapse, he sat there on a stone by the side of the porch. He looked aghast.
It took him several minutes to regain tranquillity.
Posted by his son three days ago, he started reading the letter once he regained his sense, struggling vehemently to hold it in his severely trembling hands. 

‘My dearest father...,


                                 For every deepest sorrow I’ve caused you and mother, I know no apology will suffice.  But father, you are such a kind hearted person; I’am sure, will forgive me for all my faults. As I write this, I find myself overwhelmed with guilt, pain and uncertainty. I’am writing this letter with tears falling from my eyes. I will post it today and then... then, I will bid farewell to this world where I lived for sixteen years as your son, yes, as a farmer’s son. Now I realize that my life is not worth the living as your son. Through these years you have been my hero, my strong wall, my...my everything. But now I strongly feel that I cannot live up to your expectations.

Father...I know very well that I’ve never been good at my studies.   It’s not that I’ve never tried, but it has always been extremely difficult for me to catch up with other students. Do you know father, my promotions in lower classes were rewards for my gentle behaviour and also your good deeds. My teachers told me this, way back.  

When I get home late those days with mud and dirt on my uniform, you scolded me, thinking that I’am coming from the play ground. No father...in fact, I never had any friends. Not even one. But I have instead been working hard in my mother’s forbidden barren land to perfect it to a mango orchard. Yes father, the day since I realised that I can’t become an officer as per your aspiration, I have been working on our orchard.  After all, I’am a farmer’s son. Father, do you know, my hard work paid off as all the saplings I planted there have now grown up. After three or four years it will give you pretty good yield, Iam sure. I can say now that at least once I clinched success in my whole life, isn’t father?  But it was getting very bad for me a life without your support father... ... For me it’s you and you only that matters and nothing else. Father, I’ve struggled with that for last several years and now.......now it has become painfully honest to me that, I cannot bear it for any length of time.  True...I cannot. And it was on that day you expelled me from the house, I realised that fully. But how can I leave you and my poor mother? That day I went straight from our house to the city hospital and met a senior doctor. I expressed to him my willingness to donate any of my organs for money.  That day I got to know someone rich, who was in need of a kidney. Then we reached an agreement whereby he agreed to deposit three lakh rupees in your account. That amount, Iam sure, would suffice all your outstanding debts and good treatment for my mother. That was the least I could do in return to all your love and affection you showered when I was a kid but longed when I reached an age of knowing. Yes father, for years I hungered for a hug or a kiss or at least an affectionate gaze from you. I’ll never know how my life might have changed with that. It wouldn’t be too much to desire that as a son... isn’t father?    .
Finally father, I was never upset at you for anything you did nor do I have any feelings because I know u did that all for me. Unfortunately I didn’t get an opportunity to show that scar in my belly or that bigger one in my heart. Now that I've decided to erase those scars everlastingly, let the death be the one to hold me in an embrace so that all my agonies would fade away.
I feel guilty for leaving you and my beloved mother at this time. But I’ve no option father. Iam sure, you will have a tough time to console her. She is such a poor woman, I’am sure the almighty will take care of her.
Bye father... my eyes are filled with tears making it even harder for me to write. Once again I love you. I miss you father.

                           Yours ...ill-fated son...

For several minutes he squatted down on the stone , bent forward, covered his face with both hands with elbows on his knees. With tears still dripping down from his eyes, he stood up, once again glared at the letter and then slowly folded it and thrust it back into his pocket.
He hurriedly  walked through the narrow winding path to the barren land, wrapped in his old shawl and with his face muscles stretched to the limit that, it seems would burst at any moment. His eyes were turned red like that of burning coal. His long sturdy steps took him to the forbidden land in no time. There he could see before him, for the first time after several years, an orchard full of mango trees. Few of them, he thought, had grown to the height of his son.  A cool breeze made their leaves wave. He felt, to his utter dismay, that they were cursing him.
Suddenly he heard someone calling him from behind. He turned back like a mad man, raised his weary head and beheld in front of him, his son, calm and smiling, draped in dirt and mud all over his body. He was welcoming him to his healthy mango orchard with open hands.

"Oh..Father, come...see, how healthy our mango trees are..see..! Few more years and imagine how good a yield you would be getting"

Farmer found his son trudging towards him. When he reached so close, with a hoarse whisper the boy asked, 
"Now...at least now, you can accept me as a farmer ...isn’t father?”
 He smiled and then suddenly disappeared.
Farmer looked around, then heard somebody calling him again from behind.
“Father...." The voice was pleading.
"Can you embrace me please with all the love and affection just for once....father. I will fall at your feet and ask for forgiveness.... Please father....just for once, can't you...”

The farmer felt unbearably miserable. He sat there on the ground and then, unable to bear the sudden trembling all over his body, he bowed to the ground, sobbed brokenly and rumbled something inarticulate. A painful squeal  burst from his throat as tears dripped from his eyes..
He turned to one side and tried to get up on one knee. His heart was broken. Just for a moment he seemed to regain his senses and looked around and howled in a broken voice which came out as a hush wail from his throat.
“I’am coming ....my son...Don’t worry...I will embrace you and nothing will tear us apart, I promise"
Farmer stretched his body as if to stand up but then fell down flat on the ground again.

"I can’t leave you alone my son.... Shall I apply some medicine over your wound...? ...But then, why are you standing afar my son? I need your support. Can’t you see your father is old. Come...Come near me...let me embrace you...!”
His voice gradually faded into a thin moan. A pale smile frozen on his mud daubed lips as if he was in some sort of nice ecstasy. A drop of tear escaped his eye, sparkled in the frail sun light, and then fell down watered the parched land. 
Thick black clouds at a distance blots out the sun from sight as few big black ants scuttled over his body as if they were in a hurry.....