Rajasir's Stories

WORLD OF LITTLE GODS

2008-10-18T23:54:00.000-07:00

WORLD OF LITTLE GODS by Raja sir

Christ started walking along the 79th Park Avenue, lost in his heavenly thoughts. People were passing by, grinning and passing remark, “Nice get up, buddy! Just out of studio!" and so on

.
The priest, Mathew Walter, was keenly following him, trying to remain as close to him as he could in the hustle and bustle of the New York streets."May God nobody hurt him again!"He murmured to himself. The word 'again' was uttered with a sense of pain.

"What is this, my friend?"Christ asked a street vendor, indicating towards a bar of chocolate.

"Get lost, you pauper!"The young vendor, with his headphones on, shouted at him.
"God bless you!"Smiled Christ and moved on.

Matthew Walter approached the vendor and bought two bars of chocolate and continued his pursuit.

Whole day Matthew followed Lord Jesus Christ, but he was unable to have a word with Him, for the moment he caught up with Him, suddenly, he felt as if a force was trying to hold his tongue. The bars of chocolate were still clenched in his sweating hand. It was the month of July and the sweltering heat was unbearable.

He remembered his country church where 8 orphans would be waiting for him. He had come to New York to buy new clothes for the poor children. His wife Elda had reminded him emphatically that he would have to come back before the sun was down. Now, it was 1:00pm.He could not keep his eyes off Jesus.

At one place Jesus stopped and sat down on the steps of a large building. A security personal came out shouting,"Hey! You joker, what are you sitting here for?"

"Can you give me some water, my friend?" smiled Christ at him.

"Get lost! This is not a charity. You will have to buy water here”, the guard pulled His arm to lift him and push him away from the stair steps.

Matthew was watching all this with his watery eyes. He wanted to do near Christ, but an invisible force was resisting him. May be ,Lord himself wanted him to stay away. It was quite strange to him. He could not understand why only he was being kept from approaching Christ while others were mocking at Him and literally pushing Him away from their ways.

The pursuit of Lord Christ went on for hours but, ultimately, the priest lost Him in the crowd. With sad heart, he began to walk towards the market to buy clothes for his dependants. It was nearing 6:00pm, and the last train to his village departed at 8:00pm.

Though he bought the required articles of clothing for the kids, his mind was trying to bring back the figure of Jesus. How surprised his wife would be? Would she believe him?

When Matthew reached home, it was ten minutes to midnight.Inspite of having brought all the things as he had been advised by his wife, his steps felt to be heavier while walking through the church gate. In the small cottage behind the church, he and his wife had made their little heaven. Though childless, the couple found their happiness among the orphans which were brought to the church from various parts of the country.

When he stepped into his room, he faltered for a second because he saw Christ playing with the little kids.

"He is a poor man who has no place to live, so I gave him shelter in our church, “his wife whispered in his ear.

Before he could tell her that how wrong she was that the very church had been built to worship that very Person whom she had called "a poor man”, she continued, “He seems to have some kind of mental illness because he calls himself Jesus".

Matthew was bewildered and he had no words in his mouth. How he could convince her that the Person playing with the children was Lord Jesus Christ. Finally, He rallied courage and addressed to the Lord," Lord, may I ask you a question?'

"Yes, my son,"smiled Jesus.

"Why have you come to my humble abode?"Matthew asked with both hands folded.
"Because no one wants me outside. They are ignorant and innocent people. They laugh at me and push me around. I forgive them. But you have bought chocolates for me. Won’t you give those chocolates to me, Matthew?"

The priest stammered and with shaking hands pulled the chocolates out of his pocket. Jesus took the bars of chocolates and gave to the children.

Next morning, the news spread like jungle fire that an imposter had entered the church and he called himself Jesus. People began to gather in front of the priest's cottage. They were shouting, “Send the imposter out! Hand him over to us!"

Matthew did not know what to do. He took the Jesus to the back door and told him to run away. Jesus smiled and said that this is not the first time I am facing this. He added that he had faced the ire of the people before he was crucified.

Somehow Matthew succeeded to convince the people and told them to go away. When he reentered his room, he found that Jesus was not there.

Next morning, he took the final step and, without giving any reason, left the church. To his wife, he only said, “The church where Jesus is not welcome can not be the place of worship. They can sell his faith, earn through the faith, teach the faith, worship the faith, but when He comes before them, they call Him an imposter”. He began to weep like a child. His wife could not understand what had happened to him.

Raja sir

Tribute to A.E.Housman (by Rajasir

2008-08-05T19:58:00.000-07:00

Lay me anywhere you like

For bottles sans wine don't amuse,

Say, let me sleep in dark night,

Imagery lost: poetry recluse.

Cry you aloud, my ears refuse.

They curs'd, howl'd brought a dark night

For words my own were lost in muse,

Dead poet now is shown the light,

Imagery lost: poetry recluse.

Cry you aloud, my ears refuse.

By Rajasir 4th August 2008

A Fistful of Sky

2008-08-05T02:30:00.001-07:00

I got my fistful of sky

at dawns and dusks.

They got load full of lies

in frowns and musks.

I prisoner of my thoughts

in lighthouse of mine.

They revelers of plots

in playhouse and wines.

My pothole gives wings

to flights of mind.

Your world whole cuts wings

to be confined.

My Jesus whispers to me

from the space of mine.

Your God remains asleep

in palaces nine.

By Rajasir 5th August 2008

Sir Francis Bacon Vs Rajasir

2008-08-01T19:51:00.001-07:00

Sir Francis Bacon Vs Rajasir

By Rajasir

I am a huge fan of Sir Francis Bacon and all my life I have taught his essays to my students and quoted his lines as Guru Mantras, but last night I was shocked to see Sir Francis Bacon sitting in my class room. He was smiling.
"I have come back to have a few words with you," said he. The exchange of thoughts and sentiments went as follows:

Sir Francis Bacon: "Reading makes a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man."

Rajasir: "Reading makes a full man if reading is done with full comprehension and understanding; conference a ready man if one is ready to listen to others; and writing an exact man if one is ready to accept criticism."

Sir Francis Bacon: "It is a secret both in nature and state, that it is safer to change many things than one."

Rajasir: "If one is logical and sound like the earth revolves around the sun, there is no need to change many because one will take care of many things."

Sir Francis Bacon: "He that will not apply new remedies must expect new evils for time is the greatest innovator."

Rajasir: "We are applying new remedies everyday and newer evils are cropping up everyday."

Sir Francis Bacon: "Histories make men wise; poetry, witty; the mathematics, subtle; natural philosophy, deep; moral, grave; logic and rhetoric, able to contend."

Rajasir: "Histories add to knowledge but wisdom can't be transferred; poetry makes one live in a fool's paradise of imagination; the mathematics puzzles students nowadays and if one is subtle he is a slow learner of mathematics; philosophy leads to arguments in this world; moral is a word erased from memory; logic and rhetoric are measured in terms of power and money."

Sir Francis Bacon: "Imagination was given to man to compensate him for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is."

Rajasir: "Imagination makes either poets, writers, or dreamers whose imaginations are adopted by scientists who make new machines. A sense of humor is alien to them."

Sir Francis Bacon: "Nature, to be commanded, must be obeyed."

Rajasir: "Nature is to be controlled and destroyed to make room for whims of a creature called human."

Sir Francis Bacon: "Nothing has such power to broaden the mind as the ability to investigate systematically and truly all that comes under thy observation in life."

Rajasir: " The more you hide the results of the observations, the richer you will be."

Sir Francis Bacon: "It seems to me that those songs that have been any good, I have nothing much to do with the writing of them. The words have just crawled down my sleeve and come out on the page."

Rajasir: " Poetry writing is an art I admire and teach my students but , nowadays, songs are written with an eye on the box office and the number of albums which will be sold."

Sir Francis Bacon: "You never find yourself until you face the truth."

Rajasir: " Sir, all our truths are disguised lies and we are not interested in finding ourselves. It is others who attract us."

Sir Francis Bacon looked at Rajasir and smiled lightly and disappeared into oblivion.

Remove Your Thorns (By Rajasir)

2008-07-15T03:01:00.000-07:00

Remove Your Thorns

By Rajasir

In a small village, in front of a small house, a certain man planted a rose and watered it faithfully and before it blossomed, he examined it.

He saw the bud that would soon blossom, but noticed thorns upon the stem and he thought, "How can any beautiful flower come from a plant burdened with so many sharp thorns? Saddened by this thought, he neglected to water the rose, and just before it was ready to bloom... it died.

So it is with many people. Within every soul there is a rose. The God-like qualities planted in us at birth, grow amid the thorns of our faults. Many of us look at ourselves and see only the thorns, the defects.

We despair, thinking that nothing good can possibly come from us. We neglect to water the good within us, and eventually it dies. We never realize our potential.

Some people do not see the rose within themselves; someone else must show it to them. One of the greatest gifts a person can possess is to be able to reach past the thorns of another, and find the rose within them.

This is one of the characteristic of love... to look at a person, know their true faults and accepting that person into your life... all the while recognizing the nobility in their soul. Help others to realize they can overcome their faults. If we show them the "rose" within themselves, they will conquer their thorns. Only then will they blossom many times over.

By Rajasir 3rd July 2008

Godsend ( A microfiction by Rajasir )

2008-07-10T04:10:00.000-07:00

GODSEND

By Rajasir

(Micro fiction is to be written within 100 words.)

I hated Manoj Prasad, my neighbor. Perhaps, I hated his success.

We had a joint family. My cousin, Ramesh , had a son. He was 11 when he was hit by a car while he was riding his bicycle. The child was rushed to the Central Hospital.

The boy was very serious. His blood group was 'O' negative, a rare group. Blood could not be arranged. Suddenly, a nurse informed that the blood had been arranged.

The boy was saved.

The nurse said a person named Manoj Prasad had donated the blood. I had tears in my eyes.

Rajasir 9th July 2008

Subway Treasure

2008-07-08T20:36:00.000-07:00

Subway Treasure
( A Flash Fiction avoids unnecessary details. )

by Rajasir

Her house was near Charring Cross Road Station. She was afraid of trains, so she never dared to enter the subway. If she had to go somewhere, she would hire a taxi, though the pension she got could hardly afford it. Once when her husband was alive, he had forcibly brought her up to the entrance of the underground tube station, but hearing the roaring and rumbling of trains she refused to enter.

After the death of her husband, at the age of 80, she was left with a little pension and a house of her own. She had to survive on the money she received. Her husband often told her that he had saved a lot of money but she would laugh at the idea.

Fifteen years passed so quickly that she almost forgot about the husband's remarks about the money he had saved. Unfortunately, he died so suddenly that he didn't even have time to inform her about his secret.

That week, Mrs. Smith, who was fast approaching 90, was restless because of a recurring dream. In her dream she saw an angel who told her to go to the Charring Cross Road subway station after 10:00 pm to get the delivery of a box full of gold coins. She tried her best to somehow establish a connection between her husband's words and the angel's command , but she failed. Her old age had weakened her mind.

She thought of sharing her secret with her neighbors but when she remembered how they often stole things from her house, she changed her mind. She kept quiet for three days, and after three nights, rallying a little courage that her old age permitted, decided to go to the subway station.

That night when she left her house, it was quite dark outside. While walking with the help of her walking stick, she often turned back to see if someone was following her. She was afraid that someone might snatch her treasure. Even a stray cat frightened her when it crossed her way.

The first night was very difficult, because the sound of the train and the semblance of the platform frightened her. After the first night it was all right. She would go after 10:00 pm when the platform would be deserted. She would spend the night, sitting on a bench near the entrance. She would watch every passenger very carefully, and if she saw someone carrying a box, she would jump to her feet, but the passengers did not even look at her and went their ways.

She did not lose hope and continued her visits to the subway, only to return empty-handed.

Two policemen on night patrol saw that old woman every night but they didn’t say anything. After two weeks, one of the two came near the old woman and said, “Granny, I have been watching you for two weeks. You come here every night and leave early in the morning. Have you been waiting for someone?”

Mrs. Smith didn’t respond but she murmured something. This made the policeman more curious.

“Did you say something, Granny?” He came closer.

“You will not believe, my son, but I am troubled by a recurring dream,” She told him the whole story.

The policeman laughed loudly,” What a coincidence! I have had a recurring dream too. An angel comes and tells me to go to the house of a Mrs. Smith and dig under a particular tree in her backyard to find a box full of gold coins. Do you believe in these silly things?”

Meanwhile, a train passed by and the whistle shattered the silence. Mrs. Smith was in her seat. The policeman called her but she did not respond. He touched her, but her body fell backward, flat on the bench.

Christ Goes Shopping (By Rajasir)

2008-07-02T01:25:00.000-07:00

Christ Goes Shopping

by Raja sir

One day, God, from His Heavenly Seat, decided to send a representative back to the earth to personally observe humans and their activities, though God knew what they were doing. It was His plan to inform his Prophets that man has gone from bad to worse. He reminded them how and why Adam had to be expelled from the Eden.

Lord Jesus Christ was nominated by God, for he was the one who had suffered the most through the hands of the humans in His time. No other Prophet whether it be Krishna, Rama, or Buddha had been crucified.

God gave Jesus speed and He opened his eyes in New York. By that time the world had completely changed and the shopping was mostly done on internet. One gentleman took Jesus into his house, thinking that He was a helpless stranger. It was not difficult for Jesus to master the skills of computer in a few seconds because God was sending Him the power and thoughts.

Jesus decided to surf the web for internet shopping. He typed “Husband and Wife” in Google search. The results were in millions. He entered the first site:

www.bankrate.com

How to leave your husband

10 steps to a money smart divorce

Financial tips that will pay off in the long run!

Jesus was shocked and ashamed. He remembered His teachings. He felt like a teacher who had completely failed. Suddenly, he found another site. The lines guaranteed happiness and long lasting pleasure. Jesus thought there were some good people who were thinking about the happiness of others. He clicked and entered the site:

www.happenmag.com

How to date more than on person at a time

Benefits of multi dating

What to tell your dates

When the going gets physical!

Jesus had tears in His eyes and the children present in that room were looking at that strange man who was weeping just by reading a few lines. He was so sad that he did not want to enter the world of the elders.

He typed “Children” in the Google search. The results appeared instantly, thousands in number. Jesus clicked on the first link and entered the site:

www.overlawyered.com

Let kids sue parents

Don’t be slaves to your parents

Fight for your rights

We give special discounts to the children between 15 and 18!

He could not go any further. He got up slowly and went out of the house, without even meeting the host. After a while, He was standing before the God. He had no words in his mouth.

American English Vs Englishes ( A short story by Rajasir)

2008-06-29T03:38:00.000-07:00

American English Vs Englishes

A short story by Rajasir

The first speaker:

I am neither American nor British; I am a fact finder. I am honored to have got a chance to present my paper on the subject of American English and British English. I have gathered most of the information from the historical records.

The English language was first introduced to the Americas by British colonization, beginning in the early 17th century. Similarly, the language spread to numerous other parts of the world as a result of British colonization elsewhere and the spread of the former British Empire, which, by 1921, held sway over a population of about 470-570 million people: approximately a quarter of the world's population at that time.

Over the past 400 years, the form of the language used in the Americas - especially in the United States - and that used in the United Kingdom and the British Islands have diverged in many ways, leading to the dialects now commonly referred to as American English and British English. Differences between the two include pronunciation, grammar, vocabulary (lexis), spelling, and punctuation, idioms, formatting of dates and numbers, and so on, although the differences in written and most spoken grammar structure tend to be much more minor than those of other aspects of the language in terms of mutual intelligibility. A small number of words have completely different meanings between the two dialects or are even unknown or not used in one of the dialects. One particular contribution towards formalizing these differences came from Noah Webster, who wrote the first American dictionary (published 1828) with the intention of showing that people in the United States spoke a different dialect from Britain.

This divergence between American English and British English once caused George Bernard Shaw to say that the United States and United Kingdom are "two countries divided by a common language"; a similar comment is ascribed to Winston Churchill. Likewise, Oscar Wilde wrote, "We have really everything in common with America nowadays, except, of course, the language." (The Centerville Ghost, 1888) Henry Sweet predicted in 1877 that within a century, American English, Australian English and British English would be mutually unintelligible. It may be the case that increased worldwide communication through radio, television, the Internet, and globalization has reduced the tendency to regional variation. This can result either in some variations becoming extinct (for instance, the wireless, superseded by the radio) or in the acceptance of wide variations as "perfectly good English" everywhere. Often at the core of the dialect though, the idiosyncrasies remain.

Nevertheless, it remains the case that although spoken American and British English are generally mutually intelligible, there are enough differences to cause occasional misunderstandings or at times embarrassment - for example, some words that are quite innocent in one dialect may be considered vulgar in the other........

The second speaker:

Hello friends, my views are not much different from the learned speaker who kept his views before you. Being an American, I have to say a few things that the unnecessary formality that I find in British English does not suit me. I find their unnecessarily lengthy words, sentences and paragraphs in their writings very dull and boring. The punctuation should be used to suit the eyes because congested words, near commas, are hard to read. I stick to my rules of American English and other forms of syntax look atrocious to me. I want to read the words and phrases which we speak and read. They are correct.........

The third speaker:

Present dignitaries, ladies and gentlemen, my fellow writers and speakers, and friends. I am from England and I use British English. I am well aware of the fact that there are many varieties of English and all of them are used and accepted by the particular speech communities. I experience a great delight when I see the English language spreading all over the world and borrowing thousands of words from foreign languages every year. I feel proud because English language is like an ocean that has place for innumerable rivers of different languages flowing all over the world. Sometimes I feel uncomfortable to hear different dialects, or read strange syntax but when I see the meaning behind that I praise the new user........

The fourth speaker:

I speak little English. I am from China. I am trying to learn the language that has given so much to the world literature. I have many books to my credit and I am trying to translate them into English so that I could acquaint the rest of the world with the hidden part of the world, especially China........

The fifth speaker:

Venerable guests, the dignitaries, my fellow speakers, and learned audiences; I belong to the land of Gandhi, Tagore, Rama, and Krishna. When we try to do the business of thoughts and sentiments, a currency is required, and I have to use the currency which is not mine, I allude to the English language. Whole world is deeply indebted to this glorious language of Shakespeare and Bacon........

A common man:

Respected guests and my dear friends, I am a common man, neither highly educated nor so deeply acquainted with the points which my fellow speakers have pointed to. English is my second language but I am proud to say that my book, "Language as a Medium" has been nominated for the highest award for literature. It is written in English......

The reviewer, who had been sitting in the last row, slowly left his seat and walked out of the hall.

Raja sir

Our Own Truths ( A short story by Rajasir )

2008-06-26T00:23:00.000-07:00

Our Own Truths

By Raja sir

“Vijay…what are you looking at?” whispered a strange voice.

“Um...Nothing…I am just looking at the rising sun...” said Vijay, almost waking up from his sleep. “The scene is very enchanting. How vain people seem to be in this crowded world! Only a few things remain known, and the rising sun is one of them,” Vijay tried to find the owner of the voice but didn’t see anyone around.

“So many people pass by in one day. How many of them do you remember? You leave your house in the morning and come back every evening. Whole day you meet people. How many you remember and how many you forget? But once back in the house, all that seems to be unnecessary.”

Vijay was trying to follow the voice.

“You come back home and hang your clothes but you can’t hang the shadows which haunt you like compulsory ghosts on your shoulders. What about thoughts? Take a shot of whiskey and they begin to rise like sleeping ghosts shaken out of their sleep. There is no restriction on them.”

Vijay was listening attentively.

“Nowadays, people carry their share of light, air, water, etc. in their pockets. They pull cigarette out of one and the light out of the other and forget about others. Two things they don’t have in their pockets: birth and death. They neither come willingly nor depart willingly. Don’t they feel suffocated? How many limits are they going to add to their pockets?”

“There are limits but they are happy and…” Vijay wanted to say more.

“It is not only happiness. The point I am trying to suggest is that they have fragmented lives and particles of happiness.”

“What do you say to limit of stomach? Ask a hungry and he will tell you that the limits are evident. Some are happy and some not.”

“I accept that the limits are evident but are the existence of human and his form only limited to requirement of food? He has some other things around him…”

“Form is evident and existence is evident too and the relations around are also understandable but if there are limits, there must be reasons. When people walk with their hands in their pockets, they have a reason lest others should not put their hands in their pockets. They believe it.”

“This belief is very personal but they don’t work in whole society. All are related to one another in one way or the other. Individual personality is at its own place but you are a part of a bigger personality, society…”

Vijay was lost in the maze of confusing communication when he suddenly looked at the clock. It was showing 7:00 o’clock. He wanted to light a cigarette but he began to laugh when he remembered the sun in his pocket.

Roger must have come back home. He swiftly moved out of the room and ran towards Roger's house. Roger was reading a newspaper sitting on the veranda. He had noticed the gate being opened. He looked at Vijay, putting the newspaper on the table in front of him.

“Isn’t there any special news?” said Vijay, sitting in the chair near him.

No response.

“I have a piece of news for you,” said Vijay.

“What?”

“Remember, Marshall? You had met him at Maria’s party…”

“Yes, but what happened?”

“He committed suicide last night. People believe in suicide.”

“Very strange! He had no worries in his life.”

He remained silent for quite some time. Roger is very emotional. He thinks about people.

“People have their own beliefs about life and death. They have their own reasons whether to live or die. At least I think so.” Said Vijay.

“Don’t you feel sad?” said Roger.

“No, I don’t feel sad but I feel sorry for Marshall. He was a good man. He should have continued to live,” Vijay seemed to be serious.

“He had a very big business of books and his family life was perfect. He was always happy,” Roger pointed out.

“Yes, but that happiness was from our vantage point. We see the world from our database and draw conclusion,” Vijay, a computer engineer, said very convincingly.

“But why didn’t he say anything?”

“Why should he have? He had his own beliefs and we had ours,” said Vijay.

That day they spent hours on the topic of death. Vijay spoke like a person possessed.

Next week, his body was found hanging by a rope from the ceiling of his room. Had he added to the list of one kind of belief?

By Raja sir

We try to give meaning to our lives with the help of the training we acquire in our society but in the process we never allow other trainings to come near. All life is meaningless can be the conclusion of the greats like Albert Camus but I believe that asking questions like what life is, why we are alive and where we go after our death is meaningless. We must continue to live, for there is nothing else that seems to be more rational to me. Now again, I say so from the database which I have stored, or I should say after the Philosopher that Life is Meaningless.

You Call it Progress?

2008-06-24T21:35:00.000-07:00

You Call it Progress?

By Raja sir

From a distance, when he saw his village, he felt some parts of the golden age, which he had read about in the Holy Books, still glorified his village. It was a very small village, surrounded by bluish-green Mountains, which was similar to any other village on this earth on the basis of shared human values but a little backward in the sense of modern materialistic additions.

His life in Boston was very different. It was a kind of war he had to fight with his conscience for five years. When he completed his thesis, Professor Robert Smith said to him, “The place which offers you happiness and solace is the heaven for you.” Studying for his highest degree in Philosophy, he had gone through many such experiences in the city life which caused a massive transformation in his mind.

That was the day when he had to read out his thesis. There were many dignitaries in the convocation hall. Having completed the formalities, he became very informal, not paying any attention to the protocol.

“I ask you a question. Is this progress?” he came closer to the microphone on the dais.

“Everywhere I see there is a race to hoard more and more materials. Our savage ancestors used to fight for food, land and things which they thought they needed. But now we are fighting the same war with more sophisticated weapons and modern forces with the causes not as essential as the savage ancestors had. We have invented means to eradicate every living creature form from this earth within a few seconds. Is surrounding ourselves with material to create more wars called progress, which we so proudly declare?

Jesus was unjustly crucified because He wanted to make this world a better place. In the name of evil religious practices, children were burnt alive, women were castigated and men were killed if they spoke against the evil-doers. Jesus and all other prophets and sages tried to change these heinous practices. Is it progress to call ourselves Christians and do everything against His teachings?

There used to be divinity, piousness in relations and children were regarded as little Gods. They would be proud of their parents and they were the proud members of society. Now they are like a byproduct of the elders’ pleasure. Is producing children before getting married progress?

There used to be respect for the teachers and elders known or unknown. It is true that age was the criteria for deciding elders and younger but it did bind the families together and home used to be a little heaven but now I see only houses and houses. Is calling the elders and teachers by their names progress?

Music I believe is the force that brings humans closer to each other and the festivities included music in the past as well. In some parts of the world, drinks were used to celebrate the occasions which mostly ended in broils and chaos. Isn’t it enough to realize that we are alive? There are many who may say how we should celebrate and express our joys. Is expressing our happiness through intoxication progress?

We teach that love is the union of two souls and it is divine but very often that love turns to dust only because of some idiosyncratic or materialistic priorities of either or both of the people involved in the union. The modern lovers do fall in love very quickly and when the fever of sexual fulfillment or proximity is over, they very easily say goodbyes to each other. Is leaving our life partners over trivial issues progress?

It is always sensible to take precautions than to repent later. But the modern girls who believe that they are very intelligent fall very quickly into the traps of sexual pleasure and neglect the precautions and later on claim that it is their right and will if they want to get rid of unwanted children. How can you say that the mother who is ready to kill her unborn was a true lover when she is ready to kill the product of their love? Is getting children aborted progress?

Why can’t we realize that human relation is not a business relation and it does not need any document to be signed? The modern educational books in schools and colleges define a family as an institution and the participants merely become members in that case. Is naming every relation as monetary relation progress?

Is not following our own Holy Books and criticizing others’ progress?

Is killing fellow students in schools by class-mates progress?

Is neglecting our own earth and spending billions of dollars on space adventures progress?

Is leaving children with single parents or with step-mothers or step-fathers progress?

Is suppressing the venerable old literature and praising the vulgar and useless rubbish progress?
I would like to end with this short poem by Louis Simpson:
The Inner Part

When they had won the war
And for the first time in history
Americans were the most important people—
When the leading citizens no longer lived in their shirtsleeves
And their wives did not scratch in public
Just when they’d stopped saying “Gosh”—
When their daughters seemed as sensitive
As the tip of a fly rod,
And their sons were as smooth as a V-8 engine—
Priests, examining the entrails of birds,
Found the heart misplaced, and seeds
As black as death, emitting a strange odor.

…………………”

The gathering was stunned. Suddenly, a loud applause broke out and audiences gave him a standing ovation. He pulled his degree out, tore it into pieces, and smiled towards the people for the last time and walked out of the hall.

Before entering his village, he took a deep breath and then began to whistle. He felt as if a big load had been taken off his mind.

The Divinity knew that a sage was born.

By Raja sir

Learn English My Way By : Rajasir

2008-06-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

Learn English My Way

By Raja sir

Raman Nath had come to England many years before India gained independence from England. I can say that the soul of this English language had entered his body and it did not come out until this episode occurred in his life.

Mrs. Raman Nath was generally annoyed with the way he used his language.
“Would you like to have a cup of tea?” would be answered very casually by something like this, “The physical aspects of my existence disregard the generous offer extended to me but the mental ingenuity vicariously compels me to acquiesce to it.”

The servant Champak Lal was also highly afflicted with this contagion of Mr. Raman Nath.

“Sir, the illumination resources in this living space are not performing as required of them.”

“It becomes necessary to send for the human who has the expertise of curing this functional disability of these illumination resources, so your departure from this house to look for that particular individual is inevitable,” would be the reply from Mr. Raman Nath.

One day, when he was about to write something, he found that there was no ink left in his fountain pen. The summon to Champak Lal was imminent. He started in this way, “The instrument which is designed to record the currents or pulses emanating from the seat of my consciousness is devoid of the colored liquid that is used to give visible form to the aforementioned currents or pulses.”

Champak Lal brought the ink pot very obediently.

That day ended the Anglicism of Mr. Raman Nath when he had to pay a very heavy price for his, call it, Ramanism.

His wife needed certain pills for a certain disease to restore normal breathing. There were no pills at home and she had told her husband to send them immediately, buying on his way to his office. Unfortunately, he forgot to send them immediately.

After about four hours, Champak Lal entered his office. He was panting and sweating.
“Sir, the better half of my master, due to non-availability of the small rounded white objects, which are swollen to restore the normal cycle of inhaling and exhaling of the air through which oxygen is absorbed by the internal metabolism of her body, is almost on the verge of her final departure from the world in which we exist………”

“Bloody fool……go……save…her…”

You can imagine what would have happened next.

Raja sir

She Lives Among Stars By: Rajasir

2008-06-21T05:41:00.000-07:00

She Lives Among Stars

By Raja sir

“Where is my mother, pa?”

“She lives up there,” he would point his finger towards the stars twinkling in the dark sky.

This was how my father used to answer my question about my mother. I was told that my mother had died right after my birth. I was brought up by my father. He is everything to me.

When I started going to school, he would dress me, cook food and take me to school. I would see him waiting outside my school when I came out. This continued for many years. My father has a small shop of stationery items. After school time, I would sit with him and play with the things found in the shop. Pens, pencils, sharpeners, comics, colors and many other things were there to keep me at one place for a few hours.

Once I had asked my paternal uncle about my mother and the only answer I got was, “She was a very kind lady.”

I would spend hours watching the album which had the pictures of my father and mother. She was a very beautiful woman. I was nowhere in those picture of their wedding, parties and other occasions.

When I was about 15 years old, one of my uncles from my mother’s side took me to his house for a few days during my summer vacations. In his house, through certain disjointed conversations I came to know that my father was a heavy drinker. One point that I overheard was that he used to drink because my mother had not produced a son. I know that a woman is not given the complete status of a member of her husband’s house until she gives birth to a male child. I was shocked to know that because I had never seen my father in intoxicated state. I could, in fact, never even imagine that he used to drink.

When I came back home, I was in a different mood. My father sensed it. He tried to make me happy by offering me some money to go to a movie but I was lost in my thoughts. That night I spent restlessly.

The next two days passed in complete silence and I remember there was no dialogue between us. I remember the day, it was Sunday and the shop was closed. My father was not feeling well and he remained in bed. In the evening, he called me.

“Do you want to know about your mother?”

My silence was my affirmation.

“She lives in me,” he said very seriously, with a deep sigh.

I was still silent.

“I used to be a heavy drinker. I would fight with your mother almost everyday. Once I was very sick and the doctors told me that one of my kidneys had failed. To buy a kidney meant a lot of money and we could not afford it…”

“Then what happened, pa?”

“At that time your mother was pregnant and you were almost ready to come into this world. The time of delivery was near and she had to be hospitalized. When the time approached, suddenly a nurse noticed that your mother had fainted. She had a piece of paper in her hand. The doctors told me that she had consumed poison,” he said with clearly audible sobs.

They saved you but they could not save her. The doctors gave me the piece of paper. It was crumpled. It said, “Please take my kidney right after my death and save my husband with that kidney.”

I am a young man now and I have already forgiven my father but now I know that she lives among stars.

Raja sir

Dilemma of an English Teacher by Rajasir

2008-06-11T20:34:00.000-07:00

Dilemma Faced by an English Teacher

By Raja sir

Mr. Brown Smith was excited because he was going to teach Indian students for the first time. He had been teaching English grammar to British students in London for more than 30 years. He was happy also because it was a change from the monotony of the British life style.

He began with sentence making. He gave a few words to the students and then gave examples.

The first word was ‘polish’ and the sentence was ‘We must polish the polish furniture’.

Quick came the reply, “Who will be so stupid to polish the polish furniture?”
Mr. Brown was shocked.He had never even imagined to get such a response. Anyway, he somehow convinced the students and proceeded.

The word was ‘produce’ and the sentence was ‘The farm was used to produce produce’.

The reaction was instant,” We produce crops ……”

Mr. Brown’s 30 years of experience was at stake.

The next word was ‘refuse’ and the sentence was ‘The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse’.

One student whispered to another, “He is really mad.”

The class was in trouble and the students were losing faith.

Mr. Brown gave another word ‘desert’ and the sentence was’ The soldier decided to desert in the desert.’

“He thinks that he is a British so he can teach anything, as if we were stupid.”

The students began to talk loudly and Mr. Brown Smith was wiping sweat with his handkerchief.

“Listen student, we will choose the best boy in the class. Now is the time to present the present.”

“He has the habit of sending the back up of the words,” said one.

Mr. Brown looked in the direction of the boy and said, “What is your father?”

“Sir, he is an insurance agent.”

“Has he gone to attend a case, today?” said Mr. Brown.

“Yes, he has to see the case of a handicap person,” said the boy.

“In England the insurance was invalid for the invalid in the past.”

Laughter broke out in the classroom.

“Listen, the next word is ‘wound’ and the sentence is ‘The bandage was wound around the wound.’

The students were out of control now and the teacher was in a dilemma whether to continue or call it a day.

“Sir, they are going out but don’t worry, I am close to the door to close it,” he smiled and winked.

Mr. Brown Smith was speechless. By now he had realized that his journey was not going to be easy.

Raja sir

East and West by Rajasir

2008-06-10T07:15:00.000-07:00

East and West
By Raja sir

It was a dark night in the month of June. For the people of the village, Rampur, life was really difficult. It was very common to have load shedding even when it drizzled or lightening flashed through the sky. The whistling wind was adding to the scare of the dark night. The villagers were huddled together in their small dark houses and infants were crying in their highest pitch of voice.

You might be thinking that I am going to write a thriller or a murder mystery. No, my friends, I am simply narrating the life style of the people for whom every dark night was not less frightening than a scary movie which they did not want to watch. In a sense, life was merely a struggle for existence. The worst role was played by, otherwise adorned by poets and writers, Mother Nature.

My story begins from a small house in that village. It was the house of a widow, Radhia, commonly called Radhia Kaki by the villagers. Her husband had been stung by a cobra when their son Vijay was two years old. The poor widow was left with only a dilapidated house and a small piece of land the produce of which was not enough for even the mother and her son.

In that dark night Radhia Kaki looked out of the window and felt as if the cluster of dark clouds would fall down and shatter their old house. Seeing the fierce form of the nature she called her grand daughter and embraced her tightly. The old memories flooded her mind.

She remembered when Vijay was about three, he was going to an open school which was conducted under a tree by a retired teacher. She wanted to send him to a good school. She worked hard day and night and with the money she saved she bought a cow. Mornings would be spent in grazing the cow. She would sell the milk to the local milk trader who transported the collected milk to the nearby town. In the afternoon Radhia Kaki would collect the cow dung from the neighboring fields and sit down in her yard to prepare dung cakes which she sold to the villagers who cooked meals on fire produced by dung cakes. In return she got rice, pulse and sometimes salt.

Having fed Vijay in the morning, she would take him to a school where she had to pay fees which was very difficult for her to arrange. She often went to bed empty stomach so that the saved ration and money could be spent on Vijay.

The struggle continued for years and finally she felt as if God had heard her pleas. Vijay passed the final exam of the Intermediate level. He got a job in an office in the town. Now Radhia Kaki felt a bit relieved because she had every reason to believe that her son would earn enough to provide for her in her old age.

The signs of some prosperity began to appear in the house. Vijay had bought a bicycle and a radio. The villagers would come to Vijay’s house in the evening to listen to news and songs. A new kind of joy had, as if, covered the house and the nearby houses.

When Vijay was about 22, his mother forced him to marry a girl of her choice. Meena was the daughter of a tailor from Radhia Kaki’s paternal village. Vijay could not disobey her mother’s commands.

Vijay was fortunate, or we can say that his wife’s luck brought him a fellowship to study in USA. The whole village was in a jubilant mood because Vijay was the first person from that village to go abroad for higher studies. Ticket and other expenses were born by the college but many other arrangements had to be done. Though his mother was not ready, Vijay took loan from a bank and deposited the papers of his land and house as a guarantee. That day Radhia Kaki was very sad and she felt that raising money on land and house was an inauspicious sign.

As the destiny would have it, Vijay reached Boston. While he was travelling by a taxi from the airport to his college hostel, his eyes were showing sure signs of surprise and delight, for he had reached a dreamland and he was sure that the villagers back home would never believe if he told them that such a place existed on earth.

First day at college was a kind of exposure to the miracle world. He met students from many countries. Whole day was spent in introductions and formalities. The hostel canteen provided food to the students. The quality of the food made him ashamed of the fact that such food was not available even on the special occasions in his village.

It was , perhaps, sudden exposure to so much delight, or it was the running away from the past but Vijay was completely lost in his new world. On very first day he felt that among the new students there was a girl named Amelia who seemed to be more attracted to him. Vijay was a married man and he could read the eyes of any girl better than his mates.

The beauty of the girl shadowed the thoughts of his village, wife, old mother and his responsibilities. Within a week Vijay had made many friends. He enjoyed their company. After a week, Amelia was her best friend and as usual the friendship led to further advances. D.H.Lawrence’s saying, “There can not be a friendship between a young man and a young woman because there ought to be sex” proved to be right in his case. Almost every night he would go to one or the other night club and she was her constant companion everywhere. If they did not go out, the night would be spent drinking and love making. In the morning when she wanted to go, he would often begin to sing in his melodious voice, the wordings of which would be alien to Amelia.

Going out with friends, drinking and visiting night clubs and dancing with the young college girls was a part of his routine. Gradually, he drifted into the alley of drugs but he was not a confirmed addict. He often took drugs not to be left behind in the modern high class parties. In the first few weeks of his arrival he was in habit of writing letters to his mother and wife but in the glitter of this new world everything got lost. His poor mother had no phone; otherwise he could have used one of his friend’s phone to call her.

Vijay had left his wife Meena pregnant. He got the news that she had given birth to a baby daughter. In her letters she would always pray for his success and happy life. She would go on fast to keep him healthy and able. So much of sacrifice by a devoted wife on one hand and so much of neglect by an ignorant husband on the other hand could only be an indicator of some kind of omen in future.

Then came final holidays after one year. Vijay came back to his village but it was more of a formality than a desire to meet his mother, wife and daughter. The wife who was happily waiting for his arrival was snubbed at the very first incident. When Vijay entered the house, she bent forward to touch his feet, a duty of a devoted wife, but instead of showing some kind of sympathy, or sharing some good words with her, he shouted, “You are still illiterate. You act like a savage!”

The poor wife hid her tears and ran into house. In the same way he treated his mother. Sometimes he cursed food and sometimes the cleanliness of the house. His daughter he had not even looked at let alone holding her in his arms.

After his holidays, he gave some money to his mother in such a manner as a rich man shows while giving alms to a beggar. The poor mother could do nothing better than shedding a few vain tears.

Meena had passed Matriculation exam and she started looking for some kind of job in town. She did succeed in getting one. The money was enough for the mother in law, Meena and her little daughter Supriya.

In America, Vijay married Amelia and started living in a rented apartment. She had a part time job and sometimes Vijay also got assignments to teach children in a public school. Vijay felt as if whole world was at his command. He compared his qualified wife Amelia with his wife in village. He was unknown to the fact that actually he had committed a crime by marrying another woman, without divorcing the first wife. He did not want to be bothered by the formalities so he never mentioned his village and his wife to Amelia or any of his friends.

Six years passed very quickly and things seemed to be alright with Vijay and Amelia. In past six years he never visited his village.

One night Amelia came home late. She was drunk. He wanted to help her with her overcoat but she refused to be helped and began to shout, “Why don’t you look for work? How long is it going to last? You spend your days in front of TV and keep drinking beers whole day?”

“I do work when I get one,” he pleaded.

“I am fed up with this kind of life,” she threw her purse on the nearby sofa and entered her bedroom.

Vijay knew that it was beginning of breaking. After a few days she used to come home with a person named Solomon, an executive of a big company.

It was quite easy for them to break their marriage because the marriage had not been registered and they had taken their vows in a church in a village where Amelia’s mother lived.

Vijay was not ready for this sudden change of fortune. The drugs which he used to take to be a part of the high society now became his only remedy to escape from the reality. He had lost contact with his wife and daughter in his village. His heart cried for his little girl. But the load of shame was not allowing him to go back and make amendments for the wrongs he had done to them.

One year passed. Vijay could be often seen in the alleys of Boston, trying to beg money of the passers by to fulfill his requirement of drugs. Soon his condition was so deteriorated that a volunteer organization took him to a free hospital. The case was hopeless. Somehow they kept him alive for a few days. One day Vijay wrote a letter to his wife in his village that soon he would be back with them.

In the village, his wife Meena was flying with the wings of expectations. She would sing with her daughter and go from house to house to announce the arrival of her husband. Suddenly the village was once again jubilant with new expectations because Vijay had written that he would come to live in his village and never go abroad again.

What happened next? You are curious, aren’t you? Vijay came back but in a box of six by two. Now I can’t continue……………

Raja sir

Woman for Pleasure by Rajasir

2008-06-06T18:54:00.001-07:00

Once again Bahadur had brought the same woman home. She was beautiful, big eyes and pointed nose. In last three months the same woman had come seven times. Sunita was scared of her. She was in a black suit but to Sunita she appeared to be no less than a witch. Even if she wore white dress, she would be a witch who was gradually devouring her house. Sunita could not say anything. She had to bear the persecution without any kind of protest. She was paying the price of being poor.

"Eh...what are you looking at? Go inside and bring two cups of tea," Bahadur shouted at Sunita.

Sunita composed herself quickly and moved towards the kitchen. Sunita sometimes thought why she had married when her husband brought woman from outside almost every night. Once inside the kitchen, she could not control her sobs. She pressed her mouth with a napkin lest he should hear her crying. She knew that once he knew that she had been crying, she would be beaten like a dog is beaten by its cruel master. She was a kind of living dead in that house of Ram Bahadur.

She remembered the day when she was unable to control her sobs and how severely she was beaten. Was she paying the price of being a woman without dowry? Only after ten days of their marriage, her husband, Bahadur, had brought a woman and he had spent the night with that woman while she was sleeping in the veranda.

Her father had felt relieved when Bahadur had offered to marry her without any dowry. But at that time Sunita hardly knew that she would have to pay a price which would be more than any dowry.

There was only one bed room in the small house, and in that room Bahadur and that woman entered and locked the door from inside. She had neither seen nor heard it before. Who could she share her grief with? Should she go to her mother? She knew that people would start talking if she went to her mother. She had nowhere to go except for the kitchen where she could weep as long as she wanted.

That woman stayed for three hours and when she was gone Bahadur entered the kitchen," Have you cooked something to eat?"

Sunita did not respond. He came near and pulling her chin up said," Eh...what happened? You are jealous. She was temporary, you know. You are permanent. I have not sent you out of the house. Come on, get up, cook something..." he said in his drunken state as if nothing had happened and there was nothing serious.

Sunita wiped her tears with her shawl. She suddenly embraced Bahadur and asked in a whisper, "You will never leave me?"

"What are you saying? Don't you believe me?" said he, caressing her hair.

"If you really love me, please promise me that you will never bring that woman again," she begged and looked at him with her pleading eyes.

"All right, my dear, I will never bring her," his voice was trembling.

Sunita knew that in the morning when he would be sober everything would be fine. It was only when he was drunk he frightened her.

"Really? You will never bring her?"

"Not only that woman, I will never bring any other woman."

Following seven days seemed to be a divine blessing to Sunita. Bahadur would come home early and that too without drinks. She felt a kind of bliss.

On eighth day when he entered the house with the same woman, Sunita could not control herself. She wanted to block their way but her resolve crumbled when Bahadur shouted at her and told her to bring a bottle of water and two glasses.

After about two hours that woman came out but in stead of going out she entered the kitchen. She began to shout at Sunita,"What type of a woman you are! You see your husband bring whores into your house and you don't say anything! If I were you, I would either throw the second woman out, or leave my husband immediately!"

Sunita was dumbfounded because the woman whom she had wanted to throw out was telling her to do the same. She began to weep and embraced that woman.

"I sell my body because it is my profession but to protect your house is your duty," said the second woman.

At that very moment Sunita realized that one should hate the sin and not the sinner. She knelt down in front of that woman and began to cry loudly. Bahadur was snoring in his room. Sunita had resolved to change her world......

Rajasir

How to be a good story writer?

2008-06-06T06:49:00.000-07:00

Recognized

Values are given words and words are shared with the readers who try to get nearer to the values conveyed by the writer. Though I have taught Literature for more than two decades, I had never given importance to the fact how much others can benefit from my experience. Then came a prophet, Mr. Walter L Jones, and everything changed for me.

A huge majority of the writers are often trapped by an illusion that structure is their ultimate goal while writing a story. Structure is a kind of God to them. Undoubtedly, structure is an inevitably important part of your story but it might as well destroy story if excessive attention is paid to it.

There is no dearth of hit movies and novels in the markets flooded with new releases. They seem to be fulfilling all the requirements of story but I feel that they seem to be contrived, uninspired and lifeless and one can feel that the writer has moved with a plan.

These kinds of writers are merely mechanics who assemble the different parts. Some linguists call them Story Mechanics. They plan the structure, syntax, length and so on and according to the prescriptive requirements contrive a story. It looks like a fancy paint job. Many of the Great Masters like D.H.Lawrence, Thomas Hardy, Stevenson, Dickens, Rudyard Kipling had perhaps never heard about the blueprints, plan, sentence arrangement because they were guided by the values they had in mind. They were the writers who could be called Story Weavers. Such writers begin with subjects or concepts they are passionate about and the structure draws its form from the material. Their characters are people before they become characters. In their stories events take place first and then they become a plot. They keep values before theme and a genre is secondary to a world they develop.

I will call these writers Storytellers or Story Weavers. Their stories have the power to captivate the mind and the fullness of human emotion. The spontaneity guides them through their story to make it involving, engrossing and mind arresting. They take you along in their world of values and emotions.

Shall we start now?

To my students I tell not to think about structure for the time being. Forget about characters, plot, theme, genre, etc. First of all try to draw an inspiration and then develop it. Next comes exposition and finally the act of storytelling.

Your inspiration can emanate from many sources: it can be an overheard conversation, a story written by somebody else, a newspaper article, a journey, a place, a real life character, an event, or an encounter, etc.

First of all a suitable environment is needed. Some writers prefer a secluded place and some write while listening to music. It is your personal choice and to suit your mood you should find or create the environment. The compromise with it may not be what you want. Tools may be chosen according to the availability or your preference. Keep one thing in mind that any creative art ought to be , by necessity, performed in seclusion, for many geniuses will come in between to comment upon the incomplete work and as a result depress the writer.

Developing the story is the second stage.

Now you try to populate the story with the people you want to keep in. Don't ever think about the end product. write a few lines about all the characters and what they are going to do in your story or what is going to happen to them in your story. Forget about style, diction, length, etc. because they will take care of themselves as you move along.

Generally, a good exposition can tell people what the story is about. It is the writer's choice whether he wants to give hints about the characters or expose them with the progression of his story. In some cases you will have to be careful about the exposition because the target group of readers may not be as well equipped in their reception as you might think. EXPOSITION if handled properly can add to the strength of the main story.

Storytelling should begin as casually as opening a packet of cigarettes or waving a hand to a passing friend. Start writing as if everything is happening in front of your eyes. Sometimes, it happens that a writer is spellbound by the grandeur of a sentence that he or she has written but immediately after that the pen stops moving because the power of the preceding sentence frightens the writer and he is trapped in the comparisons whether he or she should try to maintain the standard of the preceding sentence or write naturally. Don't ever fall into such traps because they will take you deeper into the structural maze and your story will be comprehensible only to you or a few cursed souls who might try to find out what you are trying to say. One or two amazing complex sentences can prove to be an icing on the cake but if you try to make the whole cake like that it might be nothing more than a big lump of sugar.

The final point is to reread and rewrite what you have written. In some cases editing by a better qualified person may be helpful but if you are sure that your words are deliberately arranged by you to convey a particular meaning or sense, then don't go for it. Spellings, spacing and other formalities can be performed by any editing software or by a learned person. In some cases your distorted grammar is the requirement of the story. My main objective in writing this paper is to convey a clear message to the writers or the aspiring writers to start writing with a deaf ear to reviewers or critics because I have concluded that "A critic or a reviewer is a creature who tells a writer what you have written." Though he or she as a critic or a reviewer might be miles away from the reality. Don't laugh! I also tell the writers what they have written.

Raja sir

Author Notes
This paper I had written for the students and I thought it might help a few. The points presented here are from my own experience and your opinions might be different.Thank you for reading. Rajasir

When Mirror Frightens You

2008-05-24T02:15:00.000-07:00

When Mirror Frightens You

By Raja sir

I will always be there,

I will always be there.

If heart-broken you are left alone,

Submerged in tears to sigh and moan,

Then you slowly come to me.

I will always be there,

I will always be there.

Now you are an ocean of glamour,

Many a lotus will grow in the manor,

When youth gradually disappears,

And the mirror gives you fears,

Then you slowly come to me.

I will always be there,

I will always be there

Raja sir

Blackie (a short story by Rajasir)

2008-05-23T03:25:00.000-07:00

Blackie

By Raja sir

I had met him in the staff bus. It was my first day in the office. At about 5:15 pm I had come to the bus stop, with the mixed feeling of fear and hesitation. I sat quietly with my new colleagues. There were more men than women in the bus.

No sooner had the bus started than a voice emanated from the back seat. It was so soft and musical that the very first line of the song forced me to turn around.

“Hari…not this song, sing the old one,” said someone.

His name I had come to know on the very first day but when I saw him next day, I was compelled to think about the strange experiments which nature performs on the living beings. He was very dark and ugly, if I may say so. I say so because comparatively the other male members in the office were handsome. He had a big healthy body of a wrestler, with snub nose and sockets of eyes. It seemed as if the creator had left the work incomplete on his face because there was no harmony in his features. Within a few days, my female friends in the office began to call him ‘Blackie’ when he was not around.

After some days I got habitual to that face and his ugliness did not seem to be as repulsive as it was on our first meeting. He had a very sweet voice and if he were not present in the bus for one day, we would miss his sweet songs.

The brighter side of that black face came into light on the day when Mr. Sharma, our section officer, wanted to stop a young girl, Neeta, after the office hours on the pretext that he had some papers for her to type. Everybody knew that Mr. Sharma often tried to take unnecessary advantage of the new girls who came to his office. To leave Neeta alone with that creature was not giving good signals. He was handsome enough and in the seclusion of that room he was capable of seducing any girl. On the other hand, Neeta was not in a position to disobey Mr. Sharma, for she was the only earning member in her family and she had to take care of her two younger brothers and a sick mother.

Suddenly, a forceful voice was heard, “If Neeta stays after the office hours, we will stay in the office too until she is through with the typing. How can we leave a young girl alone in the office?” It was Hari, the Blackie.

I tried to protest because I was getting late.

“The bus will stay here, and we will all go together,” said Blackie.

“I will drop her,” interrupted Mr. Sharma.

“If the work is so urgent, we can also help Neeta”.

The Blackie was in a kind of silent anger. Finally, Mr. Sharma had to surrender.

His voice had attracted me from the very first day but now I was her fan. His honesty and graciousness had highly impressed me. Before I could be friendly with him, Mohan began to sit in the seat next to mine. When I began to compare, Mohan attracted me more than Hari. Mohan was a handsome young man of about 25. He was better educated than Hari. He was senior to Hari. Poor Hari was left in this comparison.

After the death of my mother, our father had remarried. The step mother was not dissimilar to the stepmother of Hansel and Gretel. I was deprived of parental care in my childhood. I yearned for love. Mohan gave me the love, in another form, which I had been looking for. He was like a cool shower in the desert of my long unquenched life. I wanted to be soaked in every possible way.

In the office there were many rumors that Hari had a blemished past and the staff mostly avoided him. But I found that Hari and Mohan were close friends. I don’t know why but I never liked Hari and Mohan together. I would often scold Mohan and tell him to be away from the Blackie, Hari.

From Mohan I learnt everything about Hari. Hari’s parents had died in a road accident. He had spent his child hood in his uncle’s house. Like any other young man there was a girl in his life. The girl could not continue the relationship, as if Desdemona had got fed up with the black color of Othello. She married a rich handsome husband, thus proving Shakespeare wrong.

My relation with Mohan was, I think, very strong and I had a hope that it would lead to our marriage. I had been taught by the elders that a girl must preserve her virginity for the first night with her husband but I had disobeyed the commands. I had showered everything on Mohan.

Time as if flew by and one day I realized that Mohan had never even hinted about getting married. However, I passed it like a fancy.

One morning I felt dizzy. I began to vomit. The doctor’s report would have delighted any married woman but to me it was as if molten lead had been poured into my ears. I was pregnant. I was furious and confused. I resolved to finalize marriage with Mohan.

Trying to hide my shame, which was actually not visible on my face, I entered the office. At first I thought that Mohan was late in coming but when at lunch time the peon told me that Mohan had been transferred to Maldives, I could hardly stand on my feet. The room appeared to be circling around me. If Hari had not supported me from the back, I would have dropped on to the cemented floor.

When I came to, I found that I was in a hospital. The black face of Hari was in my direction. He was sitting on a stool beside the bed.

That evening I told him my story. I could hardly control my tears. He was trying to console me in every possible way. I had already thought of committing suicide because in our society an unmarried mother was considered to be a curse.

Suddenly, I heard a whisper in my left ear, “Would you marry me if I were white?”

“You are whiter than any other white known to me,” I said coyly and embraced Hari tightly.

Next morning, I heard a knock on my door and I said,” Who is it?”

“Your Blackie…”

Raja sir

Is this Love? (a short story by Rajasir)

2008-05-23T03:01:00.000-07:00

Is this Love?

(A short story by Rajasir)

The small village was still asleep. The chilly dark African nights had innumerable mysteries in their womb. Near the northern part of the village, there was an open space which was used by the local children as their playground. Rebecca was in the habit of visiting that ground every night to sit there for hours and vacantly stare at the stars. She could hardly remember the night when she had slept more than three hours. Mostly the nights were disturbed by the gunfire sound, either produced by the Yoruba militants’ guns, or by the retaliating armed forces of the President Mosaka.

Since she had come to realize her own existence in the world, she had found herself surrounded by miseries. The mother was killed in an ambush near their village, the elder brother had joined the armed forces, and the younger brother was an active member of a guerilla group, the father she had never seen in sober condition, always drunk. The locally brewed palm wine was as if the prime objective of the local men. This they talked about, traded, brewed, sold to the people in the city, and even went drunk to sleep thinking of it.

Today, she is very lonely, for her father is not in their thatched hut. He had gone to the city for just one day but it is the fifth day today. He had promised her that he would bring a nice dress for her. She had seen an American movie once when she had visited the city with her father. She was surprised to see the color of the women in the movie. In her hut she had a broken triangular piece of mirror which she had befriended because she could talk to it and ask it why her color was so dark. Suddenly, she hears the sounds approaching the ground. Rebecca hides herself behind a tree surrounding the ground. She was almost sixteen and the women in the village often reminded her of her growing age. At first she used to ignore them but now she understands what they meant.

“She should be somewhere around,” said a voice.

“Are you sure, she is here?” said another voice.

“Yes, she comes here every night,” he insisted.

Rebecca got a dark vision of the boy with the gun. She recognized him. He was Robin, a handsome boy from the village to the south of their own.

They were classmates when she used to go to the missionary school in the church. He was very nice to her. He often bought her sweets, pencils and story books. She did not know where he got money from. One day he suddenly disappeared in the jungle and never came back. After three years, he was before her, looking for her in the darkness. Has he come to meet her? She did want to come out of hiding to greet him but the gun in his hand frightened her.

“Go, find her anyhow. I must meet her!” he was shouting at his comrade.

“I can’t see anything in the darkness,” protested his companion.

“We must go back tonight, otherwise the commander will be angry,” said the first.

“Why don’t you go to her house?” said his comrade.

“The army goons are all over the village and I don’t want to take any risk,” said the known voice.

Rebecca’s heart was palpitating, and she felt sweat trickling down her throat. Her voice wanted to escape the confines of her throat but she composed herself.

Hardly had she realized her situation when the gunfire broke out. The ground was flooded with the lights of the army vehicles. She heard two cries and the rattle of the gunfire. After about three minutes, everything was silenced.

Next morning, the villagers were thronging to see the dead bodies of the boys killed in the darkness of the night. The dead bodies were lying on the ground and flies were feasting on the thick blood over the bullet wounds. At some distance, Rebecca was standing, staring constantly at the dead body of her friend. Her eyes were moist. Then she rushed towards her hut and pulled the broken mirror out of the sack. She looked in the mirror, and her wet eyes were asking, “Is this love?”

Raja sir.

(Short Story) THE MOST PAINFUL SENTENCE

2008-05-19T23:52:00.000-07:00

The Most Painful Sentence by Rajasir

The introduction to literary language was a severe blow to my pride which had found its firm abode in my existence.Having passed M.sc. with flying colours,I completed M.Tech in the following two years.However,I found that something was missing in that world of mine which was totally dependent on the radio which I had and the books which I used to read.I belonged to a well to do family,so looking for job was not essential.Though majority of the boys,loaded with their degrees searched greener pastures in Europe or USA,I decided to stay back and continue my studies.

The Himalayan hills had a kind of magic in them,and I could never free myself from that attachment since my birth.Some of my friends had already taken up teaching as their profession but I decided to go for MA in English Literature.

Taking the admission as a private student was not as difficult as it was to decide from where to start,for there were so many books-history of English Literature,Linguistics,Critiral theories,Poetry,dramas,novels,short stories and what not.I was not as bad at English as one might think,but the task ahead seemed to be not without extreme hardwork.

Reading was my hobby but I mostly read cheap magazines,love stories and down to earth books.The course books having been purchased,dictionaries and glossary of literary terms arranged,one morning I decided,or rather resolved to inaugurate my new venture.Thinking that I was the master of science and technology,I should start from the masters of English literature,leaving short stories and novels for the following days.But,to my dismay,I could not comprehend,I am not trying to hide anything,what Bacon,Pope,Lawrence,Johnson Swift and the rest of the essayists wanted to say.First of all, it was very difficult to keep track of the sentences which seemed to be a jumble of strange words in a very large number between the head and the tail.

Quite confused,depressed,and not less ashamed,I switched over to the English novelists.To my amazement,the very first sentence as if knocked me down.It took me about two hours to draw my conclusion that by "My seat of consciousness,thought,volition and feeling was deprived of vigour and vitality."the narrator meant to say,"My mind was tired".I gave up any further advances.I pondered over my predicament for about two days.On third morning,my mind lit up like a thousand watt bulb.I remembered our neighbour Mr.Champak Lal,who used to teach English literature but had retired recently from the college job.I had helped his son,Rohit,when he was preparing for his I.sc.papers.The father had to be obliged to me.It was the right time and situation to ask for his favour.

Next morning,I visited his house and found that he was in bed suffering from cold.I tried to turn but he motioned me to a chair beside his bed.I related my problem,without hiding anything.He was amused,but he agreed to guide me in every possible way.He had taught the subject to college students for more than thirty years,and was an authority in that area.One strange characteristic of his was that he was very frank with his students but very reserved with his family members.

While teaching me,he often insisted on using correct and formal language.He was against the modern American words which appear as if the legs of a frog have been cut off and it has been left to croak.Champaklal's humurous side could not remain unnoticed.The sentence like "I want to get my eyes checked" would easily be changed into "My conscience inspires me to have my visual amenities diagnosed",or in daily conversation,saying "It would delight me to extend my assistance to you" instead of simply saying"I would be happy to help you" was not at all unusual in Champaklal's language.

He was a very straight-forward man,and he hated lies and liars.No amount of sorrow could make his eyes moist;he could be seen smiling all the time.One of his unique habit was to quote the lines from the great masters of English Literature.I can not forget the day when my parents hinted me about getting married,though I had no such plans.I told Mr.Champaklal about this.His instant reply was,"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife".I had the idea already in my mind that he would quote this famous sentence from Jane Austen's novel 'Pride and Prejudice'.

In one year,I had come to be able to guess what Mr.Champaklal's line would be after I had said something.Frankly speaking,the period spent with Mr.Lal was the most delightful for me.Leaving the world of Gallilio,Newton,Einstien,etc.behind I had entered the world of William Shakespeare,Francis Bacon,D.H.Lawrence,Ben Johnson,Alexander Pope,etc.It was altogether a new life for me.

That day I felt quite thrilled when Mr.Lal beautified a love letter for me.I had written the letter,a small chit, to my beloved Gita but it had been left in between the pages of the book which I forgot to take when I left Mr.Lal's house.

The letter was:

Dearest Gita,

Today I will wait for you at the bus stop at 5pm,and I am sure that you will come to meet me.

I love you.

Ever yours

Bikram.

The modified and beautified version given to me by Mr.Lal read:

...........How much my heart yearns to have a fortunate meeting with you at 5pm at the bus stop today!The power of our love assures me that my request will not draw blank.
...............

My exam was nearing and I was deeply lost in my studies,however,in the evenings I would regularly visit Mr.Champaklal.He was a ready help with ready solutions to my all linguistic and literary impediments.

One evening when I reached his house,I found that he was sick.He had a severe stomach pain.I sat near his bed for about one hour.Finally, I persuaded him to see a doctor.I went to my house and returned with my father's car.I brought Mr.Champaklal to a doctor.The doctor examined him thoroughly and an x-ray was also taken.

Next morning I visited the doctor to collect the report.I was dumbfounded to hear what that doctor said.Mr.Champaklal had a terminal liver cancer,in last stage.It had passed the stage of the surgical cure.Mr.Champaklal had only two months to live.I could never dare to tell Mr.Champaklal about that,but I knew that he hated lies.

I struggled with my conscience for many hours,and finally wrote The Most Painful Sentence:

"The doctor's report reveals that the patient has a malady in which there has been a malignant growth in the large lobed glandular organ in the abdomen,which has crossed all the boundaries and has become incurable,but the diagnosis reveals that the time period between the present and the moment when the patient is going to breathe his last,and to leave for his heavenly abode,is about two months."I noticed that the sheet of paper was almost wet with my tears.

In the evening,when I handed the paper with my shaking hand,I could not rally courage to look in his smiling eyes.He went through the contents quickly and began to laugh loudly.He,finally,said,"That's like my student of the English Literature!"I could not wait to hear what he had to say,and,hiding my tears,ran out of the room.

- Rajasir.

American novelist Walter L Jones
Author of the famous book "On the Road to Unity"

The Most Painful Sentence has got Six Stars in reviews.

American novelist Walter L. Jones wrote:

Value lives in the mind, words flow to the page shared value is more than words it is self, nothing held back, the greater of two gifts, share and self, example, forward we move and write, our job is not so much to teach but to share so that others may taste a bit of our joy.. Walter L Jones.

OCTOBER CHILL-THE PORTRAIT

2008-05-17T02:22:00.000-07:00

OCTOBER CHILL-THE PORTRAIT

It was an unexpected fortune. She had bumped into me in the supermarket where I had gone to buy food for the occasion. Everything happened so quickly that there was no time for the formalities as to asking about family, background, and the other things. Rosalina had such a beautiful pair of eyes that the writer inside me without any inhibition came out and I said,” Your beelike eyes have the power to explore the honey cells of love in the lotus of my heart”.

She was not ready for this shower of complement. Anyway, the attempt didn’t go in vain, and she was my date for the day. Ten year after the death of my wife Cynthia, I had decided to join the mainstream life. My wife had passed away, untimely, in a car accident, the scars of which remained with me for almost a decade.

Rosalina and I went around and visited many places. She said she was new in the town. More than that I didn’t dare to ask, for whenever I looked into her deep blue eyes, I found that my mouth was the grave of my tongue. A pleasant odor pervaded the car, and I was almost intoxicated with the treasure of beauty accompanying me in my home town.

In the evening, she expressed a desire to see her mother who lived about 130 miles away from my town. I was happy that I would get to know her mother as well.
At about 6:00 pm, having bought flowers for her mother, we began our journey along the mountainous road which was almost deserted that October day. The October chill could be felt all around.

Hardly had we drove for ten miles into the jungle when I found that the car was wobbling. Out of curiosity, I stopped the car. I got absolutely depressed when I found that the right rear tire had punctured. Unfortunately, I was not carrying a spare with me. It was almost dark and no help was at hand.

After sometime of consultation with Rosalina, I decided to walk back to the town to bring help. She agreed to stay in the car.

Luckily, a passing truck gave me a lift, and within an hour I was back with a spare tire. I was shocked when I saw that she was not there. I looked around for quite sometime and yelled in the jungle, but the girl, as if, had disappeared.

It took me half an hour to replace the tire. When I was about to enter the car, I heard a shriek. It was quite dark by now. I pulled the flashlight from the glove compartment and , switching on the torch, began to walk toward the direction whence the shriek had emanated.

A narrow track brought me to an opening where I found a small cottage standing alone in the darkness. It seemed to be a deserted cottage, but a faint light from one of the window attracted me. My feet followed the track, and I was in front of the outer door.

My knock was responded to by an old woman. She opened the door and began to go inwards. I was confused because she hadn’t even looked at me.

“So, you heard the shriek too?” she turned and looked me straight in the eyes.
I was neither ready for the question nor for the blue stare of her eyes.
“Sit down, I will bring coffee for you,” she began to go towards the kitchen.

Suddenly, my eyes caught a picture on the wall. Rosalina was smiling from the hanging picture. For a moment, I felt ecstatic, and I stopped the old woman, “Is she your daughter Rosalina?”

She paused and turned,” Yes, she passed away ten years ago.”

Before she could enter the kitchen, I was already out, running along the track. I was sweating profusely even in the October chill.

Rajasir.

PARVATI (PART ONE)

2008-04-30T13:35:00.000-07:00

PARVATI(PART ONE)-a true fictionalised story of a prostitute

Not far from the Church gate station in Bombay, at the corner where the boundary ended and an iron-fence along the railway track started, a row of tarpaulin-roofed makeshift huts of the vagrants started and stretched up to well over a kilometer. In front of them was a two-way road, nearly always teeming with honking and blowing vehicles. Rarely was there any other time besides 1.00 to 3.00 a.m. when the road would be empty.

Along the main road, there ran a stone-paved pavement on both sides of the road. Instead of proving a help to the pedestrians, the pavement would give a good place to street vendors and beggars. The pedestrians had to jostle against one another in the peak hours. The buses, overloaded with sweating and remonstrative passengers, would pass by the pavement, emitting clouds of block smoke, leaving soot on the faces of the people living on the pavement. They were the so-called pavement-dwellers, quite habitual to smoke and dust, accustomed to rain and heat, ever quiet in response to the reproaches by the angry passers by, unbent while getting canes and slaps from the policemen who collected weekly rent from those ill-fated souls, at the clemencies of weather. Earlier, local musclemen used to take Rs.10 per week from an individual who wanted to have a place to sleep on the pavement, but the local policemen, perhaps, tired of waiting for promotion, or restless because of no other source of income in consequence of the govt.’s stern actions against corruption, had decided to exploit the people who had pavement as their only home.

On this very footpath, there lived a young girl, about eighteen, with her old humpback father. Parvati and her father Jaman Prasad, though mostly called Jamaiya, had accepted the fact that the pavement was their home. In the name of clothes, she had only one worn out sari, that too without a blouse, which, in spite of her best efforts to cover her body, revealed the portions of her breasts, with tiny black nipples protruding under that tightly wrapped sari. Though having biscuit complexion, Parvati’s facial features and curves of the waist attracted the people who passed by that pavement hut. The office-goers, waiting for taxis or buses, could not resist themselves from stealing a tantalizing glimpse of her luring body.

Her father often told her about her mother and his home in Neer Garh village near Pune. His lines, “I had a small house. Your mother was a very beautiful woman. I used to work at construction sites. I was a mason. The earthquake destroyed everything. Your mother was killed. I could not live there. You were two years old at that time. We came to Bombay. I bought this cart (hand cart like a tumbrel). I work hard but not enough money to give you a good life. You are my darling, my Parvati. I will find a bride-groom for you. You will go to your husband’s house. Your old father will die, here on this footpath. Never come here after your marriage….I…will…” had been heard hundreds of times by Parvati in the evenings when he would be drunk after the day’s hard work. She would give her shy smile to her father, sitting inside that oil lamp lit hut. Their belongings- an old tin box, a stove, two old blankets, a faded sheet, two dinner plates and an old soiled picture of her mother simply presented their meek disapproval of what Jamaiya used to say about Parvati’s marriage and a better life.

She knew that the day’s hard labor, which resulted in seven or eight rupees, could never bring her all that her father often promised.

She had a few friends, mostly those children who shared the same footpath. They were the boys who shouted at one another and their salutation also included one or two abuses. Some of them worked for the local muscle men, and the rest did whatever came their way- transporting locally brewed liquor, posing as pimps to the prostitutes in the area, stealing from the departmental stores, gambling, and what not. Nighttime streetlights and police-arrests were quite common. Black-marketing of cinema tickets was as if an acquired virtue for them. They were never deterred by the police-arrests. Going to jail and coming back to their huts was like visiting some places for pleasure and homecoming. Everything seemed normal after a few days’ absence.

Parvati would often think whether lives of those people would change. Sometimes, she would fix her stare on the women, girls and neatly dressed ladies who would walk with their heads held high, with an air of superiority, chatting in their tingling restrained voices, unlike the voices of the down-trodden people on the pavement. She would imagine herself to be one among them, going to office, in a light green sari, with a shoulder-bag, etc. Suddenly, her reverie would be broken by a sharp horn from one of the passing cars.

“What do they do in those offices?”asked Parvati one day.

Her neighbor Janakibai replied indifferently,”Who knows? May be Mohan can tell you. He has passed big exam.” High-school test was what they referred to as big exam.

How much Parvati wished that she could peep into the lives of those dwelling in tall rich buildings. She wanted to see how the rich parents cared for their daughters, what they did at school, how they started their marriage life, what things they ate, what they talked about, what made them so rich, why they always looked neat and clean, how their daughters did their make up and how they succeeded to get rich boy friends, and so forth. She could give the whole world for this privilege of direct vision into the lifestyle of the middle-class and rich people.

For Parvati a festival meant a special dish of goat-meat. When the children of the wealthy people walked by, with their jeans and clean shirts on, carrying packets of sweets, crackers, flowers, etc., on the occasion of Deepawali ( the festival of lights ), she would muse over her fate, nursing a sense of vain expectation that one day she would also be one of them. Day was not difficult to pass, but as the darkness descended, She experienced uneasiness, for her father would come back home, with a bottle of locally brewed liquor. He would drink till late into night and talk loudly with himself. Parvati would be long asleep before he , finally, collapsed, having licked even the last drop.

The rich drink to mark off an occasion, or to support, or rather strengthen their notions, but her father, like millions of poor , drank to get a momentary relief from his misery, which stayed away while pulling the cart but came back as the work stopped and evening drew near.

Once or twice a week, Parvati worked as a laborer at a construction site. The money, thirty rupees a week, she mostly spent on eating different things sold by the street vendors. Sometimes, with her neighbor, Jamunabai, she afforded the luxury of going to the tea shop at the corner of the street to eat cakes and sandwiches with tea served in cups. But more from the habit than to cool the tea, Parvati would pour the tea in the saucer and drink it with loud sips.

When she was well over eighteen, Jamunabai suggested to Parvati to buy an old blouse from the market where stolen goods were sold. She spent twenty rupees and bought the blouse of light green color, the color of her dreams. In her hut, she tried the blouse on. However she tried, the big rounded breasts could not be forced into the cup-shaped space in the blouse provided for accommodating the two heights in a woman’s body. Somehow she squeezed then inside and hooked the blouse; still, some brown parts of the rounds could be seen from the curve of the neck and the gaps between two hooks in the front portion of the blouse.

The effect was instant. The green tinge had added to her beauty. To make everything look proper, she had neatly combed her hair and tied them in a knot, with the hairclip she had kept for a long time in her tin box. Some of the local boys began to flock around her. They realized that she had grown up to be in what they called business. Innocent Parvati never doubted the sincerity of the friendly invitations to movies, to teashops, or for a taxi ride. She would never go against the will of her father who often told her to stay away from those boys.

One evening, at about 8 O’clock, while Parvati was waiting for her father to return with his cart and the provisions for the night, a taxi stopped by the side of the curb. To her surprise, Jamaiya stepped out.

“Parvati! Parvati! Come, look the master has invited us to dinner,” he shouted and pulled her hand. Parvati could smell the spirit in his breath. She sensed something fishy, but she kept quiet and got on the taxi, without any demur. Jamaiya kept a piece of tin-sheet in front of the opening of the hut, and it served as the door. He entered the taxi and locked the door. After a few moments, the taxi stopped in front of a building. Jamaiya paid the driver and led Parvati to an apartment on the third floor. The door was ajar, and without any hesitation, he pushed the door in and told Parvati to go inside. She knew Kanaiyalal, a local pimp, sitting on a sofa, in front of which there were two glasses with a bottle of English whiskey and some cashew nuts in a plate. He offered some to Parvati and she, before taking some, looked in the direction of her father. He nodded and smiled. Kanaiyalal motioned Parvati to sit near him on the sofa. He gave five hundred rupees to Jamaiya.

“Go into the bathroom and take a bath,” Kanaiyalal said to Parvati. But she did not move. He got up and pulled her by her hand. It was a nice tiled bathroom with a shower. He handed Parvati a new sari to wear and told to come out soon. Parvati, as if hypnotized, could not go against his commands.

She didn’t even know why she had been told to take a bath. She was too simple to understand the meaning of being a young woman. She was rather confused why Kanaiyalal had given money to her father. While standing under the shower and looking at her fully developed body in the wall mirror in the bathroom, she began to imagine how she would look in that new sari which was gifted to her. She applied soap vigorously all over her voluptuous body. She felt a tingling sensation when the cake of soap reached under her waist. For a moment, she believed that her father’s promise of getting her married to a handsome bridegroom was going to be fulfilled.

When she stepped out of the bathroom, wearing the red sari, she looked an absolutely different Parvati. She entered the room where she had left her father with Kanaiyalal. But, she was shocked, for a while, not to find her father there.

“Where is my father?” she was very nervous.

“What work does he have here now? Come, sit by me. You are mine now. Sit with me,”Kanaiyalal spoke softly and directed her to the sofa.

“This is your house?” said Parvati hesitantly, looking at the wallpaper.

“Yes, my dear,” laughed he, putting his right arm on her shoulder. Parvati was too innocent to mind that. He offered her a drink which she accepted rather timidly.

“It’s bitter!” coughed Parvati, just having taken a sip of the whiskey.

“Drink it up quickly! It will taste better after a while,” said Kanaiyalal, supporting her glass from the bottom and pushing it to her mouth.

The whiskey having entered her bloodstream, Parvati felt wonderful. Her eyes had developed a kind of glitter, and they looked dreamy. He looked handsome to her. His touch seemed to be very comforting. He made her drink again and gave her some snacks to eat.

After a while, she found herself in a large bed in the adjoining room. It was like a dream, in that soft velvety cushioned bed. Kanaiyalal was all over her body. He was kissing her very passionately. He began to remove her clothes very delicately. His lips enclosed her nipple of the right breast. She felt ecstasy unknown to her and she shrieked with pleasure. Parvati made no attempt to stop Kanaiyalal. The poor girl never realized that she had been sold to that beast for a few hundred rupees, and in the morning she would have to go back to the realistic world of the pavement.

…………….to be continued……….

Raja Sir.

PARVATI ( PART TWO )

2008-04-30T01:30:00.000-07:00

PARVATI (PART TWO)

Next morning, when she was walking towards her shabby tent-house beside the pavement, she could notice the stares of the neighboring boys. Some of them whistled and passed vulgar remarks. By now she was clever enough to know why they were staring at her. She had also become one of those Dhandewali (whore). She had heard about the girls selling their bodies and earning money. Now she had also become one of them.

Jamaiya was still asleep when she came inside. She stared at his face for a while, and suddenly got furious. She spat on his face with a loud vulgar shout,” You bastard! You made your daughter a whore! You pimp! “Parvati did not notice that the boys of the area had gathered outside her hut. She came out and gave them a hard stare, and they begin to disappear one by one.

After that day, Parvati began to cash on her body. She had suddenly changed and she openly contacted the loc al pimps who arranged customers for her. She would go out with her customers at night and come back to her hut early in the morning. Within a few months she had saved enough money to buy a small apartment, with the help of a local pimp.

Meanwhile, Jamaiya’s health began to deteriorate, for he had started drinking excessively with the money which was so easily available to him. He had to be hospitalized. In spite of the good medical care, he did not survive long. One night he vomited blood and fell unconscious. He never came to senses again. The father’s death was only an incident for Parvati. After the cremation of the dead body, she entered her room and began to drink from the bottle which her father had left. Within no time she was drunk, and she began to throw his belongings out of the window. The vagrants in the street happily collected those things and ran away.

Parvati was a famous name among the pimps in the Bombay Central area. Sometimes she had to entertain one of the local police officers to get the favor and to avoid the harassment she faced when the raiding police parties troubled her. She was happy as she was. Life was easy, with all the money to spend on good food, clothes and ornaments.

One night, after about two years, she had a strange customer, a rich man’s son, about 26 years of age. He had paid her Rs.6oo for one night. His name was Vijay Kumar. Unlike other customers, who would immediately undress her and fulfill their sexual demands, Vijay Kumar spent the whole night chatting with her. The questions were the same which she had heard hundreds of times from her other customers: why did you enter this business? Don’t you have any family? And so on. The customers would ask such questions but having enjoyed her body, they never stopped to listen to the woes of the poor girl. But, this boy was different.

Vijay was from Pune. The boy was studying in Bombay, so he had told Parvati. After the first night, he began to visit her every Friday night. This continued for about six months, but during all this period he had never tried to get what he used to pay for. He informed Parvati that his father had passed away and his uncles had taken over the business of his father. Vijay seemed to be gloomy all the time. His mother had died when he was only ten years old.

“Parvati, now I don’t want to go back to Pune. Will you marry me ?” asked he, so casually that Parvati was thrown off balance. She had no words in her mouth. Since she had become a prostitute , she had stopped thinking about a married life and family.

“Answer me. Will you? I love you. I don’t know what you are , or how many men you have slept with, all I know is that I love you and I want to be with you for the rest of my life”, he said all this in one breath. His tone suggested extreme sincerity.

Next morning, Parvati called a broker and sold her apartment for Rs.60,000 , with the provision that the possession would be given after one month after the payment, for Parvati and Vijay needed time to look for another place to live, away from that part of Bombay. Within a week they were declared husband and wife by a priest in a small temple in the remote part of Bombay, near Borivali.

With the money which she had saved and the money received from the sale of her own apartment, they bought a small house in a village in Northern Bombay, away from the people who recognized her as a prostitute. Vijay had his driving license, and he got a taxi on daily basis from a local dealer. The owner of the taxi was a generous man, and knowing that Vijay was a qualified person, he didn’t hesitate in handing him the keys of a taxi, of course without any deposit or guarantee. He charged Vijay less than the other drivers. Vijay had to pay him Rs.100 per day to the owner.

Life was easy for the newly married couple. Vijay loved Parvati very much. He would teach her how to read and write. Parvati could expect nothing more. She had all that she had once dreamt of. That Parvati from the pavement near the Church gate station had a loving husband and a small house of her own to boot. After one year, she gave birth to a boy child. Their happiness knew no bounds. Parvati was thrilled. She wanted to give him all those things which she had seen in the hands of the rich children, while she would be sitting on the pavement. Vijay had never given any chance of complain in their married life. In this way, three years passed happily.

One night, Vijay complained of a headache. Parvati gave him aspirin. It was quite normal. They suspected nothing. But, the destiny had some other plans for poor Parvati. One day, at about noon time, she was informed by a taxi driver friend of Vijay that Vijay was in a hospital. Taking her son along, she rushed to the hospital.

Vijay was in the intensive care unit. The doctors told her to bring certain medicines which they had prescribed. Parvati spent about Rs.4, 000 on his treatment. He came home after two weeks. The words of the doctor were haunting Parvati,” He has a brain-tumor! He has a brain-tumor!” They had told her that the operation would cost about sixty thousand rupees. The medicines and the accommodation in the hospital would be about twenty five thousand.

Parvati never told Vijay even a word about his illness. One month later, Vijay was hospitalized. Parvati had arranged money by pawning the house. She sold all her ornaments, but she was still short of about twenty thousand rupees. There was no way she could raise the remaining amount of money to treat Vijay. Operation was to take place on Sunday. There were five days in her hand. There was no other way but to go to her old acquaintances, the pimps. She left her son with a neighbor for five days and once again entered that mire from where she had come out so happily. The customers were not hard to find. She worked day and night. Right from Rs.100 to Rs.2000 per night, she entertained almost all the customers, sometimes ten in a day. She wanted to save Vijay at any cost. For all her attempts, she could not save him. He died two days after the operation. After his death, she realized that she would have to go back whence she had come.

There was no time for mourning, for had she tried to dress like a widow, carrying the memories of her loving husband, feeding the child and her own survival would have been impossible. She had already sold most of the household goods. Now she had only one aim-to give a better life to her son. She would never let it happen to her son. She determined to collect as much money as she could by selling herself to the so-called civilized men of the society, who kissed, licked and sucked every part of her body. She was fully back in her business, and the apartment, but this time she had taken the apartment on rent.

She had sent her son to a boarding school, away from that filthy place of her own. Once in a week, she would visit him. Hardly had she recovered from the loss of her husband when a new reality was in front of her. One morning, while bathing, she noticed a small pimple on her left thigh. She didn’t mind it much. After a week, three more pimples appeared on the same thigh. There was a rash around her vagina. While passing urine, she felt a burning sensation. She visited a local doctor, and he gave her some tablets.

She had to be very careful lest any sign of the disease should appear on her face. The day it happened would be the last for her business. Finally, it did happen one day. A small pimple appeared on her nose. She noticed some dry patches under her lower lip. She applied some cream, but in a few days the dry patches turned red. The customers did not notice much in the darkness of the room. They used to be either drunk or too dazed by her beauty to notice that she had a dreaded disease.

One day a pimp noticed that and he demanded bigger share. He threatened to disclose her secret to the customers. Now, she began to get less and less amount of money for the services she provided to the lusty, blinded customers. The pimps would snatch away the major portion of her earnings.

However, it did not remain a secret for long. No customers would come to her. They began to shun her. In a few months, she was thrown out of her apartment. She had no place to go to. Finally, she decided to go back to her original home- the pavement near the Church gate station. The child was with her now.

One year later, on that pavement, a woman, a leper, was trying to avoid the flies that were trying to settle on her face to suck the liquid oozing out of her wounds. There was no nose on her face. She looked frightening. The child was playing nearby. A few passers by took pity and threw a few coins in front of her. Parvati was trying to smile but the grotesque face was too disgusting to produce any smile. Wasn’t it like a dream? The ultimate destiny of a lovely woman was too cruel to be described as the God’s act. The lines were ringing in her ears, “ I will find a handsome bridegroom for my Parvati, my goddess.”

Raja Sir.

MIRAGE ( A TRUE LOVE STORY )

2008-04-29T23:40:00.000-07:00

MIRAGE

However he tried,his background,his family,religion and good breeding haunted him day and night.Vinod Pandey,a promising young lawyer and a most eligible bachelor,in J.B.Nagar area in Bombay,had never wanted what the destiny had offered him to be.
He had come to Bombay when he was eighteen years old,an extraordinay student with a Bachelor's degree in Law and legislation from Allahbad university.Though his parents had sent him to his uncle's,who was a reputed advocate in central Bombay,Vinod had other plans in his young mind.He had striven had to persuade his parents to send him to Bombay.

When he came out from Bombay Central station, a gust of sea breeze caressed his long curly hair.He took a deep breath,and haild an autorickshaw to stop.It was his friend Hamid's house he decided to go to.Hamid used to live in college hostel in Allahbad in their college days.Vinod and Hamid had developed a very intimate friendship between them.Inspite of Hamid's stay of two years in Allahbad,Vinod had never dared to invite Hamid to Vinod's house,for he knew what consequences would have been there had he ever done so,for Hamid was a Muslim and he a Hindu boy.Vinod's devout Hindu father,Mr.Badri Prasad Pandey,would never tolerate to see a muslim boy in his house.Many a time Vinod had been reprimanded by his father for not mending his ways.He a so called modern boy,would never take his father seriously.But all this had been ten years before.

Reaching Bombay,he had succeeded to get a job through Hamid's father,and they had compelled Vinod to stay with them until they arranged a separate room for him.Vinod began to work with M/s P.K.Legal Consultants in Bombay.The start of rupees nine hundred was more than he had expected.He began to study LLM course,and in the following three years he successfully passed the exams.

After about a month's stay with Hamid's family,Hamid's father,through his influence upon the local tough boys,managed to get a room on rent for Vinod.It was a family of four,Mr.Juman,his wife Rasheeda,and their two young daughters Neha and Rehana.Vinod was given the room adjacent to the main door.The door to his room faced the narrow street across which there was a small tea shop,with two long wooden benches in front.Although the young local boys gathered there in the evenings,pretending to have come for tea,while chatting in a group in high-pitched voices,accompanied by frequent slaps on one another's backs,their furtive eyes never escaped Vinod's judgement that they wanted to get a fortunate glimpse of either Neha,or Rehana,who would often come to the window for nothing.

After the hectic routine in the office, Vinod would patiently cover the distance of about two kilometers from Churchgate to Bombay Central.His feet would move in a rhythmic manner,never faltering of slowing to make him look at what went around.At about 5:30 pm,Neha would bring a cup of tea for him and he would thank her,without ever daring to meet her stare.He used to pay them for his fooding.In any other circumstances,after LLM with a handsome salary,he would have definitely shifted to a better place,his personal apartment.But that offering of thanks to Neha in the evenings empowered him to stop thinking about changing the place.

It had been three years with Mr.Juman's family.Hamid would visit him on Saturday and Sundays.Once Vinod had been to Allahbad to be confronted by his angry father,who by that time, had been informed by his cousin from Bombay that Vinod was staying with a Muslim family.Vinod spent three days with parents and younger brother,and came back to Bombay.

There was a turmoil in his mind,what wrong he had committed if he had decided to stay with a Muslim family.His rebellious mind was set to take a very fatal step.

For a long time he had restrained himself.He saw his life partner in twenty years old Neha.

It was the day of 'Id',holy festival of Muslims, and the whole family was in joyous spirit.Vinod had also tried to extend his good wishes to the family,in the form of a packet of sweets.By this time the local tough boys had become his friends.To share their feelings, he would also put on a new suit on that auspicious day.Though anti-muslim feelings,and the poison which his colleagues oozed out disturbed him,he remained silent.Vinod wanted to be the person who could make atleast between two different people.

After three years,he took a very bold step.He opened his heart in front of Neha.He was sure to get a positive response,and it happened so.He submitted an application in the court of law,and after one month,Vinod and Neha were declared husband and wife by the marriage registrar,in the presence of two witnesses,his friends from his office.

Vinod had never realised how much wrath and hatred he had reaped in dowry.His friends suggested to him not to go to Neha's house.she was frightened,for she knew if they went together to her house,he would be killed.so the marriage was kept hidden.They reached home separately.Though they were married,noone doubted ,for Neha lived with her parents and he shifted to a guest house.

After about six months,he succeeded to hire a two room apartment.He could see a silent protest in Neha's eyes when he left their house.It was very hard for him to control himself,and every evening ,he would visit Mr.Juman.Those moments of joy were inexplicable for him.Vinod got enormous success as the time passed.

He wanted to be with his wife but he knew that a Hindu-muslim riot would erupt if he did so.After her graduation,she began to work as a teacher.She completed her M.A.and decided to do P.hd.She would visit Vinod on Fridays on the pretext that she needed his help in her studies.Her younger sister would accompany her.

Vinod had spent eight years in Bombay,and he and Neha had been married for years.Now he could not control himself.He had never ignored the precautions while making love to her.

Vinod always insisted that they should disclose their marriage and have babies,but the destiny had other plans.

Had he adopted Islam,it would have been easy,but he believed that that was not the solution.In uncertainities,time moved at its pace.

One night there was a loud noise outside.It was about 9:00pm.A boy called Rehman was there.His shirt was torn and he was bleeding from his forehead.He informed that a dead cow's head was found in the Hindu neighbourhood near the locality where Neha and the family lived.The local Hindus had entered the Muslim area and killings and rioting was started.The houses were set on fire.Vinod was dumbfounded.And after a few minutes,he was in front of the smouldering house of Mr.Juman.Mr.Juman's dead body had been taken away in an ambulance.He was only a spectator,tears rolling down his cheeks.

After that he never saw Neha.For one year, he went there everyday and his eyes searched for any clue as to whereabouts of Neha.

Vinod went back to Allahbad.

Neha and her mother had been transported to Delhi.One year later,she was compelled to marry a man named Rasheed,who had a fine job in Bombay.While boarding the train,she was uncertain whether she was going to Bombay as Mrs.Rasheed,or Mrs.Pandey.Life was a mirage to her.

-RajaSir.

THE BUDDHA IN ME (PART ONE)

2008-04-28T19:45:00.000-07:00

The Buddha in Me (Part One)

The tick-tock of the wall clock, in the study, as if not ready to fall behind, kept a harmonious rhythm with John’s heart-beat, during his walk to and fro. John Christopher did seem to be in a dilemma, as reflected on the contracted skin of his forehead. The ultimate step, emanating from the lingering duality, whether he could leave his wife and son, was being delayed, perhaps, due to the realization that he loved them more than anything else in the world.

John had read many times that Lord Buddha had renounced all the worldly pleasures. This belief had made him strong enough to come out of the situation in which the family ties endeavored to confine him.”The Enlightenment! The Enlightenment!” The Buddha in him was about to burst forth. Moreover, what else remained there to be seen in life? Hadn’t he had his share of life, with all that money, the girls, rich materialistic achievements?

It was about eight years before he had been to Nepal, the land of peace and beauty, teeming with splendors of Mother Nature. How delightful experience it had been to be away , for the first time , from all those familiar surroundings in New York and the American place of life, which in a country like Nepal had made him feel as if he had entered an entirely new world. For somebody else it would have been a trip to unthinkable backward place, but John felt that materialistic prosperity brings spiritual bankruptcy along. The attraction towards that scenic kingdom was irresistible.

The year was 1972, when he reached Lumbini, the birth place of Lord Buddha. It was a long exhausting bus journey from Kathmandu. John had no idea what he was going to do in Lumbini. It was like drifting into a remote past. The first night in a small but cozy lodge in Lumbini was a nightmare, full of hallucinations.Nevertheless, he seemed to be quite at peace with himself the next morning when the first rays of light brought the chanting of the Buddhist mantras along.

Born in a very wealthy family, John Christopher had spent his childhood with all the advantages of a luxurious life, under the care of his loving father, a tycoon in the American automobile industry. Motherless at the age of ten, John had the recollection of those painful agonizing days when his mother was on her deathbed, but, in spite of the best medical attention, she could not be saved, and was not able to see her son grow beyond the age of ten years.

After his mother’s death, his father decided to send him to a boarding school in Washington. During the holidays, his father would visit him and they would go for outings. Though his father never let John feel that he was a neglected child, John, gradually, drifted away from his father on emotional level. When he was fifteen, his father gifted him a geared bike, and after his graduation, he was presented his first sports car. It was altogether a new world for young John. He turned out to be a typical American boy, who loved fast cars, giggly girls and drinks.

…………….to be continued……………. Raja Sir.

THE BUDDHA IN ME (PART TWO)

2008-04-27T20:30:00.000-07:00

THE BUDDHA IN ME (PART TWO)

Having come back to New York, he insisted on having a separate apartment, away from his father’s luxurious villa. But he decided to enter his father’s business. John’s father had many showrooms all over the country. It provided John many opportunities of travelling around. The father was not less pleased to have his son beside. The Jaguars, Ferraries, Datsuns, Toyotas, etc. had always enchanted John.

In the third year, John met a girl named Florence, a tall blonde, with dreamy blue eyes. She was a waitress in a nearby restaurant at Park Avenue. John often visited the place whenever he used to be in his New York office. It was a comfortable small restaurant near ABN bank. Born of an Italian mother and an American father, Florence was beautiful enough to turn many heads when she walked along the street.

Introduction to offering of a drink led to a date one evening, to be followed by many repetitions, to ultimately culminate in the bed, in John’s apartment, which stood witness to the promises made between John and Florence, on the seventh occasion of the dating. His father, though having cherished a desire to see a pure American girl as his daughter-in-law, and not a common half American girl, perhaps subdued by the fact that the boy had spent most of his childhood without his mother, concealed his dislike and arranged a grand party on the occasion of their marriage. John was twenty three and Florence nineteen at the time of their marriage.

The happy married life lasted for two years, and in the second year, Florence gave birth to a boy. For John it was a very proud feeling to be a father. When their son, Jimmy, was about one year old, John convinced his father to establish a manufacturing unit of their own to produce automobile parts. So the plan was approved and a factory was set up in Detroit. Now, owing to the expansion of the business, John was obliged to spend fair amount of time away from home.

One morning, at the breakfast table, Florence said, “ I think, your son needs you at this stage. He is almost one year old.”

“I am well aware of all that, my sweetie,” smiled John, munching the last piece of the toast.

“As you wish, Dad,” said Florence and moved onto the adjacent room.
“I will be late tonight”.

“Nothing surprising, dear,” Florence gave a faint smile.

Her smile rather irritated him, for he was well aware of her sarcastic ways of putting forward her annoyance and anger, typical Italian.

"Bye, darling,"said he, and kissing her on her lips, quickly strode out of the room.

The woman inside Florence very patiently resisted the emotion of shouting at once. During last six months, John had spent many days out of station. She did try to convince and console herself about the loyalty of her husband, but the grudge against the unseen hypothetical female rival, which is often there in the mind of a wife whose husband spends nights away from his own nest, troubled her time and again.

Loneliness and a kind of neglect she did feel at home, for John was so busy that he hardly had time to revive the glorious moments of lovers of the past. This led to a unwanted habit of drinking. And sometimes, she would start drinking as early as 10 o’clock. The solitude, brought to her in John’s absence was killing her. With the progression of time, her new pastime, drinks, transformed into a habit, and she didn’t even realize that she had become an alcoholic. Jimmy, her son, used to be under the care of his baby-sitter, most of the time.

It was about a year and a half after the new unit had been started. One night, drunk and angry, she shouted at John. John, however he tried to convince her, could not make her realize that the new business demanded his presence at many places. He was compelled to visit different towns to promote the products of their company.

John decided to cancel all his business assignments for one week so that he could be with his wife and son. But no sooner had he resumed his work than the abuses began to be hurled at him by Florence in the evenings. This often happened when he returned from an out of station trip. But for the patience in John, their marriage would have ended in the fifth year. Up to the best of his endurance, he strived to keep himself dispassionate and , very patiently, he sustained the insulting remarks of his wife.

One night, the quarrel exceeded all limits and crossed the boundary of all the civility. He was in the living room, with a newspaper in his hand. Florence was in the bathroom. He had just come back from a long journey to Nevada. Suddenly, the bathroom door opened and belligerent voice of his wife was heard.

“Got fed up with all those whores you have been seeping with?” She was stone drunk.

“I have come back from a business trip,” he remonstrated.

“Business! You call it a business, leaving your wife and son behind for weeks and months, without ever thinking that we are humans too!”she screamed, with her vibrant body trembling behind the pink nightgown she had on.

“That’s enough, Florence!” shouted John, trying to control the pitch of his tone.

“Why do you come back? Go! Get out!” she was not herself, and before John could realize what was going to happen, she hurled the glass tumbler, which she had in her hand, at John. He had no chance to avoid that throw, and it struck him on his forehead. The glass dropped onto the floor and shattered. The hit was quite powerful enough to make a wide gaping cut on his forehead. Before long his shirt was drenched in his own blood.

Florence stood there, almost speechless, with her eyes wide open with amazement. She tried to take a step toward John, but, without looking at her, he began to pace toward the outer door leading to the passage. Once outside the house, he got in his car and accelerated it, leaving behind a loud screech and dark marks of the burnt rubber on the cemented porch. He was unable to consign his misery to anybody except his father. How much he yearned to revive that comely ambience of the family life which had prevailed everywhere in his house before he had started the manufacturing unit.

Next morning, when he opened his eyes in his father’s bedroom, in his father’s house, he had a bandage around his head. He could feel the swollen portion on his forehead, under the medicated cotton pad. Florence had rung up several times but the maid, as instructed by John, didn’t tell Florence anything about John. He stayed in his father’s house for two days, and on the third morning, he was aboard an airbus flying to Kathmandu. He had realized that he needed a few days away from home and office. He had simply walked into the office of a travel agency and asked for a month long tour to any Asian country, beginning that week. He wanted peace and the surroundings which could, for a few days, keep him alien to the New York life.

……….to be continued………. Rajasir.

THE BUDDHA IN ME (PART THREE)

2008-04-26T20:25:00.000-07:00

THE BUDDHA IN ME (PART THREE)
The nearest tour was to Nepal. This is how he started his journey to the land of Gautama Buddha, the divine sage. Through the in-flight magazines, he gathered a little information about the mountainous country, Nepal.

John got lost in the relics of the past. In the evenings, he would sit with some Buddhist monks at a monastery and learn about the life of Lord Buddha. Everything around fascinated him It was altogether a divine experience to him. Whatever he learned from the monks made him susceptible as to the Catholic past of his life. Nothing but search for truth seemed to be there in Buddha’s life-no mention of punishment, hell, fires, etc. His Americanism seemed to be endeavoring to be resilient, as if ashamed to demonstrate the real John.

He spent well over a month in Lumbini, trying to get every bit of insight into Gautama Buddha’s life. He never worried about his wife and his son, for he knew that his father would tell her that John had gone on a business trip to Nepal.

Now, after eight years, he was recollecting all those events. Having come back to America, he found that he was a transformed man. All through those eight years, though being involved in business and the family life, trying to be patient with his wife, he had kept himself like a recluse who answered when he was spoken to.

Florence had been nice to him, and her doubts had been resolved through enquiries about her husband’s extra marital affairs came to nothing. He had come out as a divine figure to him. Her changed demeanor had convinced John that she was passing through a hellish period of repentance, full of guilt. However nice and good looking she tried to be , she failed to attract John to revive their physical relation.

On the other hand, John, after his return, began to concentrate less on his business. The manager had informed Senior Christopher that John was being dangerously gracious to their buyers. It was not in favor of their business. All the same, John would lock himself in his study and submerge himself in the study of the thick books which he had collected indiscriminately, at an amazing speed, after his return from Nepal.

He was like a drowning man clutching at every spar. John, as if, desired to reveal the Buddha in his existence. For hours at end, he would be squatting in a lotus position, with his eyes closed and palms turned upward on his knees. Though Florence had calmly accepted the change, she was more frightened than confused because she had presentiments which did not seem to be in favor of their family life.

John was practicing renunciation, and he wanted to alienate himself from the material world. Hadn’t Lord Buddha gone through this stage in his life? Hadn’t He done penance? Otherwise, how He could have got the supreme knowledge. Sometimes, John would stand in front of the mirror and make various promises to himself. He would repeat the oath to continue his penance for the enlightenment. Hadn’t Emperor Asoka renounced his Empire and become a monk?

Now, the moment of the decision had come. He had been struggling with his conscience for so many days. He did want to follow the great masters, the great sages, the great teachers, the Gurus, who had spent the greater parts of their lives being wanderers in search of truth.

As John stepped out of the study, he heard his son’s voice. He was playing with Florence. So what? Even Prince Siddhartha (Gautama Buddha) had left his wife and son behind. “I have to do it! I have to do it!”Whispered John.

Suddenly, he heard Seeger’s voice on the recorder in his wife’s bedroom-“We shall overcome……we shall ….. “His wife and son were also singing.

“What is to be overcome?” thought John. He entered his study once again and sprawled on the sofa.

“What do I want to achieve? What do I want to learn – love, truthfulness, peace, brotherhood, faith, patience, nonviolence, loyalty, or what?” said John to himself.

“Am I right in doing so? Leaving my family? All the great masters have said the same thing but made them great? It was the new knowledge disclosed by them to the majority of the ignorant people at that time. But now, even a school boy knows about all these things which were named divine revelations of the past. He seemed to be quite confused. He got to his feet and moved toward the book-shelves. He picked up “The Bhagvad Gita” and began to concentrate on the verses in front of his eyes. It was ,by this time, a habit of his to begin to read Gita when he felt confused.
Suddenly, a verse attracted his attention:

(Chapter v: verse 24)
“He, who finds happiness within, his joy within, and likewise his light within, is the Yogi who becomes divine and attains to the beatitude of God (Brahma nirvana).

John read the line several times, and suddenly his face began to beam. He laughed aloud. “I have got it! I have got it!” He was jumping and shouting all over the house. The ecstasy of the moments was more than that felt by John during the happy time. It was like Archimedes shouting, “Eureka! Eureka!” after his discovery.

Florence and Jimmy stood in the hall, with their eyes wide open, but a tinge of joy and amusement could be seen on their faces. John came to Florence and embraced her tightly. He bent down and kissed his son on both of his cheeks. The house, as if, had come alive after all those years of silence. He picked up the telephone and dialed his personal secretary. Without waiting to accept her greetings, John said,” Hello, Jeanie, we will be discussing the new project tomorrow. We have to finalize it tomorrow only because the day after tomorrow, I am leaving for Nepal, of course with family. It will be a month long trip”. And before he could get any reply, he put the receiver down.

Raja Sir.

(A POEM-BALLAD) WHORE MOTHER

2008-04-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

WHORE MOTHER
-Rajasir.
A child she bore but was unseen,
Rolling tears were never seen.
Poor Marry left it near a gate,
Father mother to be its fate.
Dawsons had the hearts divine,
She cried,"The child is mine.
Father spent fortune to educate,
Child was half score and eight.
Marry 34 in brothel left to keen,
Makeup made her look still green.
Young John with friend came to gate,
Alas!With Marry he went to mate.
Oedipus saw she in the boy green,
All her world was just to keen.
The happy boy was blind in lust,
Knew he nothing the fate accurst.
Boy blinded again came to the gate,
Hanging Marry was his only fate.
Dead she was and again never seen,
Young Oedipus was left to keen.

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2008-04-20T06:06:00.000-07:00

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