The Tea Couple

“Few animals make a living the way I do. I stand outside my balcony, seeing my small world begin and end everyday right in front of my eyes,” Srinath reasoned with his wife Shradha, who constantly grumbled about his inactivity.
The couple had been living on the third floor of the D’Cunha Mansion for 35 years.
Srinath, a 68-year-old retired Army official spent most of his time in his balcony staring blankly at the society compound. His excitement tripled when he saw young children from D’Cunha come down to play.
He’d ask them to play games and offer to keep score. Srinath loved badminton and volley, so in order to get the children play his favourite sport he would also announce a prize for the winning team. The winning participants would be showered with candies, biscuits and Swiss chocolates that his son would send for him from the U.K. This, however, did not go well with Shradha.
Forty years ago, the couple had married amid strong resistance from the family. Shradha was a Marwari from Rajasthan and six-years-older than Srinath, a Tamilian from a family of academicians. Srinath was only eighteen and was pursuing an engineering degree in Bombay when he met Shradha, his classmate and best friend Shrimanker’s sister. She would teasingly call him Sri.
Little did Shradha know that the tea serving business at Shrimanker’s study table where Sri came to study daily would soon evolve into love?
They were young and passionate about their feelings. All they had to do was run because blessings from family were next to impossible.
Forty years later, Sri was still playing the runaway groom while Shradha at 74, saw old age catching up really soon. “You should stop wasting your time and money on those children?” she would say. “You get up at 7 am and directly go to the balcony with a pen and paper, anxiously waiting to keep score, whereas, the kids only come at 5 in the evening. Spend some time with me instead,” Shradha protested.
However, he found solace in earth. The brown of the compound soothed his unoccupied mind. Everyday as he saw Shradha leave to buy vegetables from the market, he would scream from the balcony, “Buy four packets of Parle G biscuits and if possible get few Melody chocolates too.” Shradha was tired and fed up. Her only son Dinesh lived continents away and even Shrimanker, had stopped frequenting her place because he found it difficult to walk up the building stairs.
One day, agitated with her husband’s worrisome behaviour, Shradha, while serving tea to him in the balcony, asked, “When will you die Sri? I’ve had enough of you” He looked at her and smiled, “Whenever you say dear? I have always listened to you.” Adding, “You wanted me to run, I did, you wanted me to marry you, I did, now, if you want me to die, I will.”
Shradha, laughed saying, “It is not that easy…trust me.” Sri who was eating his breakfast, a bowl of upama while rocking on his balcony chair, simply said, “You have a bad memory, Shradu.”
Shradha did not understand, however, feeling guilty of having asked him such a question, she let it all run down as a joke.
That evening Srinath did not stand outside to watch the kids play. The children played half-heartedly, throwing occasional glances at the balcony, expecting Srinath Uncle to shower them with goodies. As it grew darker, their hopes for sweeteners also melted away and the dust laden compound grew silent again.
Srinath had decided to be with his wife that day. The old couple spent hours together on bed reminiscing their early days of married life, their struggle for acceptance by family, Srinath’s sudden decision to join the Army and the last of his successes in the Bangladesh war of 1971. “It all seems like yesterday, I miss those times, I miss the real you. That strong Sri who would give me everything I wanted without second thoughts,” Shradha whispered in his ear. Srinath smiled again saying, “I am still the same man…see I am spending so much time with you now, I won’t deny you anything.” Then, he shared a secret that he had locked within himself for years. “You know… you make amazing tea, it has magic. I still cannot forget that ginger tea you would make for Shrimankar and me when I used to come to collect notes. Your tea and your wishes go hand in hand,” he said sheepishly like a 16-year-old who was revealing his first crush.
Shradha blushed. Probably, he had finally realised how badly she wanted him now. I have finally got my Sri back…she thought. They had spent the whole day just lying beside each other, not knowing how time had flied.
The next day, when Shradha got up, she wasn’t surprised when she did not find him on bed. Seeing him lie asleep on the rocking chair again…she felt disappointed and moved to the kitchen to make him the ginger tea he spoke about the last night.
Unfortunately, his lips never moved to sip it again. She tried waking him up but failed. Her senses went dry when she realised that Sri had only obliged to her request. She brushed on her memory…that she had forgotten and... Your tea and your wishes go hand in hand…is all that she could remember.
It was over a cup of tea that she had told him that she wanted to marry him. It was over tea that she had asked him if he was ready to run away with her and it was over tea that she asked him when he would die. He couldn’t have possibly refused…

Epilogue

A month after Srinath’s death, Shradha Rajan rocked in the same chair, sipping a cup of tea. A pen and paper, a packet of biscuits and melody chocolates lay beside the tea kettle. Now, she keeps score...

DON'T BUILD INDIA ON SPECULATIONS

Every time we Indians create history, the world shifts their eye-view towards us. Sometimes, even before we make history we win adulation. For instance, A.R. Rahman's recent win at the Golden Globe's for the background score in Danny Boyle's film Slumdog Millionaire has only led to rumors on "Rahman to be first-Indian to win an Oscar." I call this "speculative history…" a history that is written even before it occurs. It is interesting to learn how we Indians live on speculations. We predict our tomorrow and if our predictions don't hit the right key, we also evade it as soon as possible. A week back, my cousin laughed at me while I was watching the Jaago Re campaign online. (Jaago Re campaign is an attempt to get the youth apply for election cards so that they can vote in the forthcoming elections.) I asked why and he confidently said…our vote won't make a difference. Well…there goes another speculation. Honestly, I have learnt few lessons the hard way and one of the greatest I have learnt is to keep no room for speculation because it is just another approach to being lax. A speculation is like a coil…the harder you press (more the speculation) the greater will be the force with which it will recoil. Media reports revealed how the 26/11 terror attacks could have been avoided if not for the lax attitude of the government towards coastal security…again government speculation of such Intelligence reports being fake proved fatal. As the country is on the brim of another Republic Day celebration, it is our duty as youth to push for greater accountability in governance. If we ourselves live speculative lives how can we look forward? The Republic Day is the celebration of the birthday of India's Bible, "Our Constitution." The Constitution comprises the rights we enjoy, our fundamental duties and obligations as citizens of the Nation. If we don't abide by it and consider its guidelines as a constitutional joke, we are in a way committing a sin against the National Order. If you go to think about it, just like the Catholic Bible our Constitution helps make better and civilized citizens…but unfortunately we never take it seriously.
Interestingly, a recent media report highlights an effort by Fight Back— a Mumbai based movement in this direction. The movement which has registered 50-schools in India will get students read the fundamental rights enshrined in our Constitution during the Republic Day celebrations. Its important for us to go-ahead and take the plunge…so while we love networking on Facebook, Hi5, Orkut, it would do no harm to at least read about campaigns like Jaago Re and Fight-back. Even if our effort makes a small difference…we can proudly say we tried. So log on to www.jaagore.com or www.fight-back.net and see how you can help.The Republic Day is not just another National holiday it is about making a difference. Don't ponder and speculate and you will find the answer to everything including world peace…. Happy Republic and World Peace Day!!! Jai Ho… as Rahman put it in his award winning composition.

A WORLD OF RECONCILIATIONS

When I am angry, disgruntled and struggling to make a point and “a restrictive word count, speech time or listening capacities” snub my views, I feel my efforts to opine are all worthless. As a journalist, I sense the tremendous responsibility I hold when a shocker hits headlines, all eyes turn to you…all of a sudden people begin to make sense of the news you supply, which otherwise they’d simply prefer to pay no heed to.
November 26, 2008 is one such day, well-etched in my memory. It was a chaotic, unpalatable and hurtful night of misfortunes. Three top cops martyred, over 175 butchered by “frozen in the head lunatics,” failure of intelligence, commandos battling to calm a city that was suddenly suffering from dysfunctional normality and unwanted political drama. All this in three nights…yes, it probably appears to be a script from some Hollywood ‘A’ rated action movie….but you’re sadly mistaken. This is reality; this is the “great Indian dream”, a nightmare that keeps interrupting our peaceful life…for which solutions cannot be found through hypnosis. “Relive this painful dream and thank your stars if you come out alive,” is all we get in reconciliation. “Ah!! I am safe, nothing happened to me this time,” we sigh, when terror strikes. Is that all that is left of us…are we just waiting to be slaughtered by a bunch of lunatics…who in the name of religion, keep crushing us time and again. “Oh!” we again sigh, “thank God, its not one of us…they were not Hindus, not Christians,” so another reconciliation. Good, our religious hypocrisy always gets the better of us.
Politicos also indulge in similar mud-slinging. The opposition pin points failure of the government, the ruling party tries to be apathetic and speaks about compensations to families and there is some bantering, blame game and wasteful media coverage (word space and air time) offered in platter to them. So, while our commandos struggle to secure hostages and nab terrorists holed up in the locales, our politician fly down from their well-protected hubs to grab some media attention and speak about all they should not. So, attention is diverted, the police tries to bodyguard our dear friends who we once voted for, instead of securing the terror stricken place. Though, I must admit, the one anti-north ridden politician made me proud this time… he refused to come out of his haven, he did not ramble…however there were smses being passed…only goes to show how much we missed him during this time of crisis. Where was he? Probably his attention seeking tactics slipped when he saw Indian soldiers battling through thick and thin…on land he claimed owned by the marathi manoos…I have a strong feeling that he is ashamed. But, well…it is just a feeling. Some people never choose to learn. But if his silence has worked in our stride…then I am glad.
So, now, as I wish to write no more and feel exhausted, dispirited and cheated by the “spirit of Mumbai” jingle, that keeps jingling from foolish mouths…this angry self, says adieu, we need to get back to work, I have another day to look forward to, another news report to cover and may be some better news to bring to you. Uh!!! Is this is another reconciliation? Probably, yes.

Change!!!! we have...

The implausible is said to have taken place last week. Once victims of slavery and racism today hold the seat of power. The secret is simple—Yes we can and the well-worded belief — the Change we need, the two main slogans of Barack Obama's campaign. Obama's victory however was no mean task. The U.S may have been progressive when it came to technology; money but feminism and racism are still core issues that strike at the heart of America. However, the change that the U.S is celebrating is less about power and more about having its first "black" President. It's surprising though that India is celebrating this change, in fact, one of my dear friends was telling me about the need for an Obama in India. Hey wait a second…Obama hasn't even started executing his duties. In India we witnessed change decades ago. In a country where Hindu-Muslim riots are forever persistent, and where Muslims are a minority (blacks are a minority in America) we had our first Muslim President Dr Zakir Husain in 1967. India is the same country where the British Raj and reformers struggled for women emancipation, but hey…we had our first women Prime Minister Mrs Indira Gandhi in 1966 (A women President in America is still to see the light of day). Well, if you are still not convinced, India also had its first Dalit President, Dr A.P.J Kalam in 2002 (Dalits were once considered untouchables). So as a passing food for thought to my dear friend who wanted an Obama in India and to all my readers…I think we have always had more to celebrate than America.
Change we made in every decade after ever since we got Independence…unfortunately we chose to ignore.

Strangers in the night

Aren’t we are all strangers. In reality, friends surface out of strangers, and life begins when two strangers meet and fall in love. Even when a baby comes out of the mother’s womb, the world around is alien to him/her. Surprisingly, it is rare that people acknowledge the fact that relationships emerge from the unknown? Familiarity happens only out of the unfamiliar. Though one can easily tell apart a stranger from a friend, we forget that our friend was once a stranger.
This brings me back to a small incident that took place in my life… how a stranger came along… and changed everything for me. This story has nothing to do with the introduction, and in a way contradicts it because this stranger still remains a stranger. I have been waiting to share this anecdote and this seems to be the right occasion.
You don’t meet good people too often, and when you meet them, you do not realise how nice they could have been and then when they leave, you just can’t forget them. But we all need to move on…so did I.
As a young girl, I spent a better part of my life in the Oman. I came to Mumbai only when I was 16. My grandparents then lived in a small village in the Kundapura district of Mangalore. It was seldom that I visited them. But that summer of 2005 was different. I decided to spend the whole summer with them, because they were all alone. Unfortunately, it was the last and the best of my holidays that I spent. I lost my grand dad the following year. My grand pa who I fondly called “dada” owned a huge farmland at Kundapur. I wouldn’t deny that it was spine-tingling to live alone in their small cottage. Living life in the city and in the village is poles apart. You have fewer people around you… very few, and everyday seems to go at snail’s pace. In the village, there is always a lull feeling, the slightest sound slap your eardrums…the birds perching, the snakes hissing, the flies buzzing, the cows mooing, the trees brushing against the wind, all these sounds come alive.
The village in Kundapura was no exception it was densely forested, and dada’s cottage overlooked a huge plot of land. The plot of land had a big lawn, cowshed and an oversized well. Everything was so vast; it is impossible to not find your own space here. This episode that I will now relate took place few days before I left for Mumbai. The day had been simple like any other, and the evening had been mundane at grand pa’s home.
I vividly remember the heavy rains on that particular day; the entire village was void of electricity due to the heavy downpour during the week. There was very little, that one could do on such dull evenings, and I was feeling exceedingly bored, though the rains seemed to recede with nightfall.
Later in the night, my grandparents and I moved to the lawn for a quiet after-dinner chat. While grandma sat on the porch and cut opened a big jackfruit for us, Dada and I took a stroll in the lawn. We had to manage with the lanterns. For some reason, I adored the idea of a relaxing walk on a gloomy night, on damp earth with a lantern in one hand and the smell of wet mud reaching for my nostrils. It was a special night. Everything was special… may be because grand pa and me had never been so open in our conversation before. For the first time, he spoke to me about his challenges, hardships, about his love (my grandma) and the most intriguing of them all ‘spirits’.
“Spirits, exist, all around you”, he said. “They may love you…hate you, it is why they want to meet you, but they look for the right time and the right place.” I was dumb found, Dada surely nerved me. I was so scared with the thought of spirits that I hurried towards Grand ma and began eating the jackfruit she had cleaned, only to dilute the fear that crept within me.
It was getting quite late, and we were still anticipating the supply of electricity. We were tired of sleeping in the dark, unlit and unventilated cottage for days. But sleep was getting the better of me; my drowsy eyes had already begun to droop, I almost prepared to make headway for the cottage, when suddenly we heard the clattering of our gate as if someone had entered the farmhouse. But who… Who would come here at 10:30? My heart began to jolt, were it the spirits, I contemplated. Did the spirits come to meet us?
Dada however, walked outside the lawn towards the gate to see who had come at such an unearthly hour. Surprisingly, he came back with a young man, who claimed to have lost himself in the village. He looked like he was in his early 20s, I could barely see him in the dimness of the lantern. But this couldn’t hide his polished features. He looked worn out and exhausted, and was wet from tip to toe, as if he had just got out of a pool. On asking he told me that he had fallen into a fishpond in the dark and was worried because he didn’t know how to get back home. Initially, I found it difficult to believe him, but the sincerity in his eyes forced me to. He spoke konkani as well as English quite fluently and looked like he belonged to the city. My grandma hinted me to get a glass of water from the kitchen, to quench his thirst. I still remember that raw smile on his face, when I handed over the glass to him. With Dada around, no stranger would ever feel uncomfortable. Grand Pa had this inherent joviality and he always loved keeping people happy around him. The lights had not come yet… and the mosquitoes were painfully sucking fresh blood. Grand pa nonetheless, went to fetch firewood from the small hut beside the cottage to light some fire to make the young man feel warm. Grandma and I stayed up with the stranger in the wet-chilly lawn.
“What is your name?” my grand mom asked him.
“Uh…uh...hmm…Aaron…Aaron Rodrigues”, he said hesitantly.
“Nice name, where are you from?” she asked suspiciously.
“Mangalore”, he answered “Actually I came here to visit my sick uncle… unfortunately I got lost… and my trips gone completely futile.”
“Why?”
“Because… I may not see him again, I had one opportunity and I used it for something else?”
We were slightly taken aback with his incoherent answers, but decided not to inquire much. But, I was completely drowsed in inkling, I wanted to no more…a lot more about him.
Soon, dada came in with logs of wood, and I helped him to light it at the centre of the lawn.
The lawn looked bright with the flames crisscrossing like intense jarring waves, and Aaron looked good…his eyes were fine and wanted to say a lot of things, I hoped I could only understand. His forehead had a lot written between those lines.
It is never easy to begin a conversation with someone you don’t know; it isn’t easy either to strike a rapport with a person you’ve never met but for some outlandish reason I wanted to speak to this young man. I felt as if I knew him before…and wanted to know more of him. ‘Was he feeling the same.’
No, I don’t think so. He was too exhausted to think.
“So young man, what do you do?” my dada interrogated.
“Hmm… I study, doing my last year in commerce.”
I wondered why his answers were so brief, he either did not want to speak or maybe he just felt the questions were too personal to answer.
The heat of the fire however made him feel quiet better and he was slowly gaining his calm. Soon, Grand ma served him dinner followed by a hot cup of coffee.
I liked him…may be, I still didn’t know. How can you like someone you knew for just about an hour? Wasn’t it just next to impossible?
It was 11:30 by then and the electricity didn’t show any sign of dawn. Dada was slightly apprehensive with the prospect of allowing a stranger into the house (although he liked him), he therefore asked us to get a cot out for him. So, while grand ma and I went to sleep in our room, grandpa stayed back with him.
Grand ma fell asleep quickly, but at 1:40 am I was still awake, trying to sleep in the stuffy room. It wasn’t raining, but it was cold… very cold. He was outside but his thoughts were disturbing me. Everything about him was so intriguing…appealing. What was happening to me? I hadn’t felt like that for anybody before…actually for nobody. But now for him…why was it so out of the ordinary?
Suddenly…I heard a faint knocking on our main door, wavering me from my stream of thoughts. Dizzily, I got up to open my door, not realising whom I was going to confront.
“Uh…Umm. Sorry to wake you up… I am really thirsty and need a glass of water.”
It was him, the stranger. He came out of the blue and spoke to me, finally. Another glass of water…. meant another dose of his captivating smile that had already managed to sweep me off the floor. In a bout of happiness and excitement I ran to the kitchen, filled a glass of water and handed it to him. He smiled…I smiled back.
“So you live here”, he asked, handing over the empty glass of water.
“No, I’m from Mumbai, just finished my XII. I’ve come here to visit my grandparents.”
“Hmm…got your results”, he asked.
“No, they will be up by next week.” I said nervously.
“Thanks for the water… I actually did not expect anyone to open the door, and neither did I want to wake your grand dad. He is fast asleep.”
“Uh…its ok, I wasn’t getting sleep anyways.” I said.
“Once again, sorry for the trouble.”
“Its ok”
Upset with my depressing and boring tête-à-tête, I shut the door as he moved towards the lawn… but before I could reach for my sheets, I heard another knock.
What did he want now?
With an unexplainable eagerness I tiptoed towards the door again and opened it gently.
“Actually…I wasn’t feeling sleepy either, so I just thought if you could give me company outside, I mean… in the lawn, it’s slightly creepy and chilly out there. Hmmm… not forcing you though,” he asked.
Was I surprised? Yes of course.
Was I dreaming? No I wasn’t.
Though, rebuffing such a request was pretty difficult for me. Yet, I did not even want to be caught dead giving company to a stranger at 2 in the morning in my grandpa’s lawn.
Astoundingly, without any hesitation I agreed to stay up with him until he wanted to sleep.
Somewhere down the line, I knew that this wasn’t me, but I was just going with the flow. For the first time I hadn’t thought practically. Why? I couldn’t reckon.
It is always better to leave some questions unanswered, because not everything is under the control of mortal beings. Life just gives you one chance.
We did not speak much, yet I now realise we said a lot to each other.
Our conversation had been limited to the stars, the skies, the village and all the possible animals within it, but what I very well remember is his confession. After an hour of baseless talking, I decided to go back to sleep. I wanted to leave for my room, heavy-eyed, irritated with the monotonous chat because I seriously lacked the capacity to hear more. I walked back, excusing myself, when he came closer and caught my hand.
Would you believe it…he caught my hand?
First, I felt intimidated by him, and actually pulled back. But what followed was his ultimate confession. It was just like an all night-dreamt fantasy that finally came true.
“Do you know something? I came here for you… specially for you,” he continued. “We may not get the opportunity to meet again, but I hope you will remember me. Your memories, though of few hours, will stay with me forever. Trust me, ever since I saw you near the roadside bakery shop, I wanted to meet you. I finally got the chance, but it is too late now. I don’t know what you feel for me…but I just hope that you won’t ever hate me. I will have to go now, thanks for your kind hospitality. Please convey it to your grandparents too. You have a lovely family. And you will remain my angel forever. Bye.”
Saying this, he walked towards our main gate and then outside the farmhouse. He did not look back even once nor did I stop him. I was slight taken aback to actually comprehend the whole situation. He said he had seen me before near the bakery.
Surprisingly, I had been to the bakery for the first time that morning, did he actually want to meet me since then.
Did he then lie…about his previous identity? Perhaps Yes. But, why? Just to meet me.
At that point of time, I hated him, I hated him for lying… without even realising if he was lying, I hated him for leaving me like that, though he claimed that I was special to him, possibly I hated him for everything… but it was only for that instant.
I got up late that morning, and found myself sleeping on the cot that we had removed for the stranger in the lawn. My grandparents were stunned to find me there, but said nothing then. However, during breakfast Dada quiet expectedly asked me how I landed in the lawn and where the stranger had suddenly disappeared.
I knew it was not fair on my part to conceal such a weird yet wonderful episode, but at the same time I even speculated if they would believe me. But I buckled up the much-needed courage and related the entire account. After narrating the complete incident, my grandparents were relieved that he had left so quietly. In fact, they felt it was not safe for me to stay with them and suggested that I immediately leave for my uncle’s house until I left for Mumbai, as he lived close by. They firmly believed that he could harass me once again and since they were old enough they would not be able to guard me. I did not argue, and relented. Grand pa rang up my uncle to come and pick me up as soon as possible.
My uncle however, turned up late that evening, extremely distressed and traumatised. On enquiring, he told us that his cousin’s son had come to meet him from the city, as his cousin was unwell. The boy unfortunately died after drowning in a pond. The villagers had found his body only last evening and the onus of delivering the body to his family had fallen on him. He told us that he had just done away with all the formalities when he realised that he had come to take me home. He then removed a snap of that young boy from his shirt pocket to show my grand dad.
Shocks can come in all forms, but what we saw after this was the most bewildering of them all.
The snap was of Aaron, the lost traveller who had visited us the previous night…. the stranger who claimed that he loved me…the first boy who I had fallen for…the spirit who passionately wanted to see me.
It was true, he hadn’t lied to me, he did fall into the pond in the dark, but he never managed to come out alive. He must have seen me in the day, and plausibly wanted to meet me, just like I wanted to, when I first saw him. The story is strange, as peculiar as the stranger. Dada was right, “Spirits, do exist, all around us. They may love or even hate us, and they do look for the right time and the right place to meet us.”
Aaron Rodrigues was but one.
That night was…special, special because we had a visitor, a strange visitor.
A Stranger in the Night.