THE CHANGING SEASONS

Supratik, the Chief of Police and Internal Security at Ujjain, walked rapidly up to the riverside, just as the body was being fished out. The officer supervising the operation turned around and saluted his commander immediately. Supratik returned the salute and treaded cautiously towards the slippery slope of the Shipra.

‘It’s a lady, sir, around twenty to twenty-five years of age, must have belonged to an aristocratic family, sir’, the supervising officer started his brief, as he followed Supratik around, closely. The upturned body now lay on the sandy embankment. Black hair matted with wet clay from the water covered her naked shoulders and her back. Two men from the police force were in the process of turning her face up. Her diamond nose-pin glittered in the sun. Her orange red choli and dhoti were wet and dirty from the dirt and muck, but in place. ‘Apparently there are no wounds or marks on the body’, the officer continued.

Moonlight flooded the white terrace of the palace. It spilled through the lattice work on the boundary wall on the terrace, forming intricate patterns. It flowed from the trellis of the Madhvilata vine, which wound its way up the pillars to the small temple of Shiva on the corner of the terrace, where Mahadev was seated in eternal trance. It cascaded down the black hair of the Mahadevi and swept up to her white, lotus petal like toes, who was seated on a marble pedestal, supported by four lotuses. Her regal face bore a mark of anxiety as her friend and confidante Madhavsena was ailing and unwell and indisposed for the past few days. In addition to that, her husband, Maharajadhiraj was away, fighting the Kshatrap Rudrasimha. Word was on its way, that their victory was imminent. However, she could not stop worrying till, she was wrapped securely in her Chandra’s arms. The administration of the kingdom was de facto in the hands of the wise Mahamantri Dasrath Sharma, who was the principal advisor to Maharaj Chandragupta Vikramaditya.

The palace and all its female occupants were under the care and control of the Mahadevi, the queen, Dhruvasvamini, and their well being was topmost on her mind. One of her hand-maidens, bowed and stood before her, waiting for her permission to speak. ‘yes! Speak up, Mitra’, the Mahadevi, Dhruvasvamini said. ‘Mahamantriji, seeks your audience, Mahadevi’, Mitra uttered. Mahadevi Dhruvasvamini, looked upon Dasrath Sharma as a father figure. From the time, she had set foot in this household, five years back. Dasrath Sharma was a very kind and benevolent man, and the Mahadevi, accorded him with a lot of respect. She quickly walked down to the audience room, where, the Mahamantri, stood up and bowed. ‘Mahadevi, I bring some ominous news’ he uttered. ‘I was informed by the chief of the police forces, Supratik, that a body of a royal lady had been fished out from the Shipra river, near the Mahakal temple. Upon further enquiry, the identity of the body has been established and it seems that it is the body of Chitra, the chief maiden of Madhavsena.’ ‘But you must be mistaken, Mahamantriji’ retorted Dhruvasvamini, her face aghast. I spoke to her only yesterday night when I had been to Madhavsena’s quarters.” Mahamantri, kept his head bowed and kep silent. Mahadevi, clapped for Mitra and asked her to bring Chitra to the audience room. But Chitra was nowhere to be found even after multiple searches by the ladies in waiting.

Mahadevi, slowly sank down to a settee. She looked up blankly to the Mahamantri. ‘The body has been sent for autopsy, but apparently there does not seem to be any mark on the body, excepting for a very small cut mark near the neck’, Dasrath ji added. ‘Mahadeviji, I ask you to keep your eyes and ears open, something here is not right.’ ‘How is Madhavsenaji, doing now?’ The aged man enquired…are the Ayurvedacharya’s medicines, reaching the palace on time, regularly, Mahadevi?’ Dhruvasvamini, nodded in assent.

Mahadevi Dhruvasvamini was in a pensive mood, as she sat on her bed. Madhavsena was her friend, from childhood, when she was the princess of a small principality in Saket. Madhavi, as Dhruvadevi, fondly called her friend was like a sister to her, and she was very sick and not responding to medicines by the ayurvedacharya. Her fever was not subsiding and she had stopped taking any food for the past couple of days.

Dhruvadevi, was alone in the half-lit rooma, the aroma of nagchampa incense swathed her chamber. Despite the cool, air from the balcony, she tossed in her bed. She went back to her childhood, and the images that came to her seemed larger than life.

Madhavi holding her hand as they are running across yellow mustard fields…Madhavi and Dhruva, worshipping the Rudra on Mahashivratri…Madhavi, eyes red, after Dhruva is delirious in fever after a bee has stung her…Maharaj Samudragupta asking for Dhruva’s hand in marriage to his son, the crown prince Ramagupta, after seeing her practicing archery, when he had stayed for a night in their palace on his way to Magadha…Madhavi accompanying her to her new home in Ujjain, never leaving the young, timid bride’s side as Dhruvadevi accompanied the young and dashing Ramagupta to Ujjain. All the pictures were so vivid. The first few months of marriage were like a dream. Ramagupta was besotted with his new wife. Those months were months of romantic balladry. The cruises down Shipra, on moonlit nights, the evenings filled with musical soirees by eminent musicians, the gems from Ceylon, for her, new jewelleries for the new queen each day, hunting trips to the nearby Pradesh. Life was moving in a whirl for Dhruva until one day, when life left her grounded again. Through the fine mesh curtains of her bedroom, in the warm yellow clay lamp lights, in the same aroma of Nag Champa, Madhavi’s lean naked body was wrapped inside Maharaj Ramagupta’s embrace, as their lips hungrily seeked each other’s. Dhruva’s tears flowed down her face for the entire night.

The next morning, she was a different person altogether. Life had given her the first lesson about the changing seasons of life.

Memories of that fateful day sharply invaded her string of thoughts. Ramagupta, Dhruvasvamini accompanied by the king’s younger brother Chandragupta had set out for mrigaya, a hunting trip. They had strayed into a deep jungle near Ujjain, when they ran into a small army of Rudrasimha, the Kshatrap king. The realised that they had strayed into enemy territories. The Kshatraps were Sakas whose power and authority were in the wane and they had suffered many a defeat in the hands of Samudragupta. They were more in number and circled the small band of hunters. The Kshatrap king Rudrasimha was smitten by the beauty of Dhruvadevi and offered to grant the entire Gupta hunting party a safe passage, only if they left Dhruvadevi behind. Dhruva’s eyes glowed like amber in the dark, as she remembered Ramagupta, her husband, the custodian of her pride and security, give in to Rudrasimha’s demand without even batting an eyelid. The only person who protested was Chandragupta, her brother-in-law, but his voice was not heard by Ramagupta. That night, when Dhruva was being decked by the Kshatrap women to be taken to Rudrasimha’s tent, Dhruva’s tent was invaded by Chandragupta and a few of his closest aides. The held the Kshatrap women prisoner and asked Dhruvadevi to sit quietly in her tent in the dark. Meanwhile, Chandragupta, dressed up in Dhruva’s attire, left for Rudrasimha’s tent and killed him there. The Kshatraps were without a leader and put up a sordid defence, which Chandragupta won with ease.

Back home, in Ujjain, Dhruvadevi still remembered her disgust and the sickening feeling when Ramagupta tried to get intimate with her without even the slightest of remorse. ‘I am your husband and your body is mine, either by your will or by my force’ Ramagupta retaliated when she tried to push him back. That was when she asked to see her father-in-law, Maharaja Samudragupta.

The memories were like a cascade now…one after the other, they came to the sleepless eyes of the Mahadevi. ‘I do not consider your son, Ramagupta, as my lawful husband anymore, Maharajadhiraj’ Dhruvadevi spoke out to Maharaj Samudragupta, in his court. There was pin-drop silence, as the nobles waited for the fateful declaration of death sentence from the Maharaj’s lips. However, to everyone’s surprise, and to Ramagupta’s consternation, Maharaj Samudragupta, granted Dhruvadevi a chance to argue her case as to how and why the marriage should be nullified. In an unquavering voice, Dhruva, pointed out, that according to the dictums laid out by the Mahamati Chanakya, a wife could nullify a marriage on five counts, for five reasons, one amongst them being, if her husband deserted her. Since her husband had left her in the hands of the enemy, their marriage had dissolved that very day, as Ramagupta had given her up. She further declared, that she did not wish to continue with her marital vows and desired freedom from this bondage, which did not have her soul sanction anymore.

Samudragupta, being the man that he was, listened to both sides of the argument, not only granted annulment of the marriage to her, but also asked for her forgiveness, on behalf of his coward son and requested Dhruva to stay on in Ujjain, not as Ramagupta’s wife, but as a princess of Ujjain, as Samudragupta’s daughter.

The curtains of her memory rose to the day, when she became fatherless, after the passing away of Maharaj Samudragupta. Ramagupta was to ascend the throne, and fearing for her security, dignity and life, Dhruvadevi, requested, Chandragupta to accompany her to Saket, her paternal home. As plans were afoot for the royal escape, Ramagupta came to her room one night and claimed her by force. She is brutalised by him. The next day as she lies in pain, her entire body aching, she contemplates ending her own life after suffering such indignity. Madhavi comes to her chamber and sits down beside her after a very long time, applying balm on her bruises. In the past year Madhavsena had gained a lot of importance in the royal household, owing to her proximity to Ramagupta. Dhruva looks up startled when a drop of warm water falls on her face. Madhavsena was crying, just like old times, at her pain. The two friends, hug each other and cry their heart out. Their hearts which had drifted, comes back together to forge an even stronger bond.

The curtains raise again, as Chandragupta stands with his head bowed in front of Dhruvadevi. ‘I consider this my personal shame, Devi! I shall surely avenge this insult’. Chandragupta is stooping down on his knees, crying. As Dhruva holds his hand, Chandragupta asks her, if she would accept him as her husband. The glow of that memory, blinded all the dark spots that her life had harboured till then.

Shift to next scene, crown prince Ramagupta is found dead in his room a few days after the death of Samudragupta. There are no bruises or wounds on his body, excepting for a small cut mark near his neck. It is quite obvious to all that it is the doing of Chandragupta, but nobody seems to be too unhappy about the unfolding of events. Chandragupta ascends the throne and assumes the title of Vikramaditya. He marries Dhruvasvamini or Dhruvadevi and she assumes the title of Mahadevi. Dhruva finds the man that she has been looking for all her life in Chandra.

Dhruva is soon going to be the mother to an heir to the throne. She is cherished by Chandra. Madhavsena has been taking care of her. It’s her bedroom again, the same smell of Nagchampa incense, the same glow of clay lamps, the same Madhavsena, this time trying to entice her Chandra.

Dhruva is jolted out of her reverie, as morning lights touch her eyes. She takes a bath in cold water and changes into a white cotton blouse and dhoti. With  Champak flowers and incense, she climbs up the white marble stairs to her Mahadev. Dhruva bows down before her Lord and asks for forgiveness. ‘I am a weak hearted soul, my Lord. My trust in my love is not strong enough. I am not strong enough to forgive. I should have able to renounce the sin, instead I chose to abandon the sinner. Please forgive my sins.’

Dhruva knew that, Madhavsena would die that very day. The last dose of the mild cobra venom slowly administered to her to give her maximum pain had been administered the day before. Chitra was unfortunate indeed. She had stumbled upon a conversation that she was having with Ayurvedacharya, about the ‘how’ and ‘when’ of doses that were to be administered to Madhavsena. Hence, Chitra acquired a quicker death. The venom had been placed on the small cut on her neck. ‘Ramagupta’, the thought of him, brought the blaze back into her eyes again. He had struggled to free himself, when she personally administered the venom to the cut in his neck. Four men had to hold him back, while she worked on him. A smile returned to her face, as she chanted the Surya Pranam to the Sun rising in the sky. News had arrived that, her Chandra was on his way back home after a victory. She wanted to be ready for her husband, she wanted to be available for her child. She wanted to live her life with love and passion, just like any other woman. If this was a sin, she was ready to ask for forgiveness, for each of the sins that she had committed. But this was her life and she would never allow anybody else to run her emotions or her life. She felt a sense of peace that she had never experienced before.

THE PHOENIX

A slate-coloured sheet was rolling across the sky. A low rumble was moving around the entire sky from all sides like a surround sound system. Fine mist like rain covered my hair, as I peered over the terrace to see whether Adi was visible at the bend in the lane. The smell of the drops on the hot terrace were encroaching on my senses and distracting me. The season’s first showers were now soaking me unabashed. The horizon was blurred and gloomy, and I kept peering over the parapet.

Two hazy entwined figures formed a water colour greyish black painting at the end of the lane. I hoped and hoped that one of them was Adi, my son. I glided to the front door and stood outside the open door, waiting for Adi. He came through the gates, limping, holding on to another boy’s shoulder who was about a couple of years older than Adi.

Adi was in pain. His left ankle was swollen and there were cut marks on his knees. ‘His leg went into the hole by the field, Madam ji’, the boy beside Adi murmured. I remembered a number of construction workers, drilling holes beside the road, to put up a glow sign. They must have left their job unfinished. The boy beside Adi looked vaguely familiar. ‘This is Nathu’ Adi volunteered. ‘He lives with Birju bhaiya’. I faintly remembered having seen the boy at our apartment complex caretaker’s place. ‘How are you related to Birju?’ I asked Nathu, in midst of tending to Adi. He kept quiet and started scratching the floor with his toes.

On coming back into the drawing room with antiseptic and bandage, I found Nathu near the terrace, looking up with wonder at the steady stream of water falling on his outstretched hands. The innocence of teenage touched me. He seemed so similar to Adi. I returned with a plate of sweets and urged Nathu to take them. His shy grateful smile as he hesitantly took the plate, did not fail to move me. A lump rose in my throat.

Adi was limping his way back to normalcy and Nathu was becoming a constant figure in our home. He rang the bell shyly during the afternoons and peeked into Adi’s room almost daily. He hardly spoke, and listened with full attentiveness as Adi narrated Harry Potter stories to him or stories of his visit to France and Italy the previous year. I often found the two heads together as they played games on the laptop. We slowly and steadily started getting relaxed in each other’s company. Nathu, however, maintained his elective mutism, and rarely spoke out. Throughout my career as a teacher and a child psychologist, I had researched and treated a phenomenon known as elective mutism, an emotional disturbance, occurring in children mainly. Many of them speak a little, with whom they are most comfortable with.

My Husband Dilip was an officer with the merchant navy and majorly lived away at his ship. He was docked in Shanghai and had called up to enquire about Adi and me. ‘I would advise you against allowing Adi to get emotionally attached to Nathu’ he said. ‘He has tasted the thrill that comes with committing a crime, once. He will be prone to repeating it.’ ‘Keep Adi away from that boy’ Dilip warned me again. 

I called over, Birju, my caretaker one particular day, after his job hours. He looked as if he had made an effort to look as clean as possible. His hair was parted and brushed and though, most of the buttons on his shirt were missing, he had buttoned up the rest of them. ‘Boliye Madamji’ He asked tensely, as I asked him to sit. ‘Has Nathu been up to his pranks? Why do you allow him to come to your apartment so frequently, Madamji? He is not a normal boy at all. You should not allow him to mingle with Adi bhaiya’

I gathered from Birju that Nathu was his neighbour’s boy, back from his village. When he was thirteen, he had attempted to rape a girl of eight/nine years in the village, after pulling her to the shrubs beside the road, when the girl was returning home from school. He had punched the girl and beaten her black and blue. He was remanded in police custody and later shifted to correctional facility for adolescent boys. After four summers of trying to cope with his further misdeeds, the administrative body had informed Birju, who was Nathu’s local guardian and contact person to come and get him as they were ready to release him. So Birju, it seemed, as a good Samaritan, had taken Nathu in, till his father came over from the village to take him back. Presently, Nathu ran small errands for the occupants of the apartments.

Nathu kept coming back repeatedly. It was now almost a daily norm and Adi started looking forward to Nathu’s visits. I decided to go ahead with a few informal sessions of psychtherapy with Nathu. One day, I gave him a few puzzles to solve. He was quick to solve the puzzle. Next day I engaged him with an activity book. He seemed genuinely interested. I asked him about his education. ‘Till standard Seventh’ Nathu replied. Why did you stop going to school after that? Nathu withdrew again. For the next couple of days, Nathu did not come to visit us. I was worried and asked Birju after him. ‘He is not keeping well, Madamji’ Birju replied.

Nathu came the very next day. He seemed tired and withdrawn. ‘I drew something for you’ he retorted suddenly. It was the drawing of two men lying on the road. Bones stuck out where the legs should have been. A bird was sitting on the bone of one of the men and pulling out a piece of meat from the body cavity. Blood was split all over the road. It was a horrible and frightening picture. It was shocking in its incredible attention to detail.

‘That is what I am going to do to my stepfather and Birju one day. For the next few days, Nathu obsessively kept drawing many pictures. I encouraged him to express himself through them. One day he brought a drawing of a young boy naked, lying spread-eagled on a bed. It was becoming increasing clear that the young boy had been sexually assaulted by his stepfather back home, and perhaps by Birju as well.

At the back of my mind, a concern was growing. Had I unleashed a monster from his self-imposed prison? One day he drew a picture of a little girl about seven to eight years old. ‘That is Munni, my sister” he added. ‘Once I had made her a doll from rags. My stepfather snatched it away from her and set it to fire’. The corners of his eyes glistened with emotion for the first time in so many days. As he stood up from the floor, something slipped and fell from his pocket. ‘what’s that?’ I asked. ‘It’s a knife’, Nathu said gently.’ I made it myself from a piece of a rusted iron window rod’. There was a hint of pride in his voice. He took hold of my arm and ran the edge of the knife through my inner arm. ‘See how sharp it is!’ ‘I am going to split his guts on the road one day.’

When I came back home from the market one day, I found Nathu drawing a picture with full concentration in Adi’s room. Adi had gone for his Science tuitions and was to be back shortly. ‘I have something for you Nathu’ I said as I stood in the kitchen and rummaged in my bag of groceries for the water colour set and paint brushes that I had bought for Nathu. I suddenly sensed a presence behind my back. I glanced back to find Nathu, behind me, between me and the door. ‘Nathu, what do you want’ I asked. He responded. ‘I hate you.’ He was succumbing to gutter level. The lights went out as I shouted out sharply, I heard him move towards me. I could smell his hot breath. A sick stench of fear hung in the air as I felt his hands on my shoulders and on my breasts. We struggled in the dark for a few minutes, before I hit him on his jaw squarely. It gave me space to reach out to the light switch. Nathu was sprawled on the floor and he was crying.

When you decide against someone, everything thereafter, tends to confirm that prejudice. I concurred with my logical self. Nathu was too dangerous for me to handle and I forbade him from entering my apartment, ever again.

The rain is relentless. I hear it thrumming on the metal roof and running down the broken pipe into the mud, and I moisten my cracked lips with my tongue. I wonder if they’ll bring me food and water. I wonder if they’re coming at all…I tried to open my eyes, which seemed heavy. There was not a single movement or sound excepting the incessant pitter patter of rain. A pointed light showed up from perhaps a crack in the boarded-up windows. I remembered with a shudder, the heavy breathing of a stranger, in the darkness in my bedroom, before I blacked out after a dull thud to the back of my head. I kept shouting out. ‘Help’, all the while knowing that nobody would hear me as this was far away from human settlements nearby. I was very hungry and my body ached all over. I did not know, where Adi was. Was my husband informed at his ship? Was he on his way? I had no clue about what was happening.  

There, suddenly was a creaking sound on the roof as if someone was walking on the roof stealthily. Why would these men walk on the roof when they had the keys to the door? I strained my ears and fought with myself to keep me awake. There was a lingering drowsiness which was difficult to fight. The sound of the creaking, exceeded that of the beating of the rain drops on the metal roof. Now, I was all ears. I was shivering both from a chill that I felt was seeping into me from the cold floor, as well as a cold that was emanating from within. My hands and legs were tied with a rope that was cutting into my skin as I tried to wrench open my hands. I was mulling over the course of my next action, when there was a scuffling sound at the window that was barred black with boards, perhaps. ‘Madamji!’ were my ears playing with me? Again, someone called out to me in a hushed undertone. ‘Madamji…are you there?’ It sounded like Nathu. But how could Nathu be here? I was hallucinating perhaps! Nonetheless, I replied. ‘I am here’. The scuffling sound at the window grew louder and in what seemed a lifetime, light entered through the window, and Nathu’s face was barely visible through the window rods.

As I was recuperating, the police were carrying out investigations. Birju, the catetaker, Maya, my maid were all hands in glove. It seemed that Maya had spiked my food with a date-rape drug. But the highlight of it all was my husband Dilip’s association with the whole plot. He had actually masterminded the entire operation from his ship on the sea, and if Nathu had not overheard Birju talking over the phone to Dilip, and had acted promptly, I would have been raped and murdered that very night. All because of one and half crore Rupees worth of a life Insurance Policy, that Dilip had opened in my name.

I admitted Nathu to a neighbourhood school and he stayed with Adi and me. We were secure in each other's company. He still ran errands for the occupants of the apartment and did odd jobs, but he was also focusing on his studies with Adi's help. Nathu was spreading his wings, slowly but surely. He drew for me a picture of a captive bird spreading its wings. I was not apprehensive of Nathu’s next phase of life’s journey anymore. He was a phoenix and we would surely rise from his ashes.

AMBROSIA

There was a couple sitting at the café when I walked in. As the light was low, I didn’t know who they were until the woman turned around, and I saw it was my wife.

…Hi! Arin, she waved at me

…come over and join us!

…meet Dr. Bramhadutt, the assistant director of our lab.

A gust of whining icy wind was forced out as I shut the door behind me. As I walked over to their table, and stood beside Mila, my wife, I was checking out, the latest addition to about a dozen members of the Indian community here in this remote town of Tromso, in Norway.

The man who was standing across the table, stood out, because of his height. He barely reached Mila’s shoulders, had a rounded paunch, but the feature that stayed with me, were his eyes, which were so rich and brown that swiss chocolateers would be vying for them.

…Dr. Bramhadutt, this is my husband, Arindam Sinha…Mila declared, as the stranger stretched his hand towards mine.

…Arin is a geologist at the offshore oil and natural gas rig at the Barents Sea, near Tromso Harbour, Mila added.

…you must be a proud husband, Dr. Sinha…your wife Sharmila is an asset of our Molecular Biology Department at the University of Tromso…she is assisting me in a very vital project, Dr. Brahmadutt smiled and quipped.

For the past two and a half years, Sharmila my wife and I were staying at Tromso, Norway. We were married for the past three years, and just after our marriage we had relocated to Tromso. I was here in my capacity as a geologist as part of a collaboration project between Norway and India. Sharmila was a post-doc fellow at the department of Radio-Molecular Biology, and she was working on a project in Gerontology, the branch of science dealing with longevity.

The town of Tromso, was located on the island of Tromsoya, about three hundred and fifty kilometres north of the Arctic Circle. Tromso to me was like a dream setting. Despite being at the heart of seemingly harsh weather conditions, it nevertheless offered a plateful of its own unique beauty. The warming effects of the Gulf Stream allowed for a much milder climate than elsewhere within the same latitude. Despite its very high latitude, the place was splendidly green in its short summer months. The avenue that ran alongside the Tromso Cathedral, down to where the main wharf was, was lined with Polar Willows and Birch trees. The yellowing birch leaves formed a crunchy carpet below the straight-lined white barked birch trees. The wind passing through them, made a whistling noise at times, a companion to the lonely traveler, on the deserted road. The road crossed a park, loaded with colors of children, in their afternoon bests as it winded down to the main wharf area, which was beside the boarding area for the helicopter, which carried me on a weekly basis to the oil rig.

Every Friday evening, I trudged back on this road to the town center, to my home. And every Monday morning, I made my way back through the same road, lined with pretty, cosy wooden cottages, to where I boarded the helicopter.

From Mila’s descriptions, I gathered that Dr. Brahmadutt must have rented one of those cottages near the farmer’s market.

Back home, the next Friday, I returned home to Mila, busy poring over some papers, with her laptop open next to her on the bed…get your cuppa coffee, Arin, it is still hot…

She looked flushed and flustered…some docs are missing from the bunch, sweetie, I need to find them…she looked up toward me with bloodshot eyes.

…Hey Mila, you don’t look too good…are you running a temperature, dear?...

I asked Mila, as I touched her forehead with my upturned palm. Her forehead was warmer than normal and she was perspiring. She did not seem to understand me and stared back with a blank look, while murmuring to herself that she needed to find those papers immediately.

I brought over two cups of coffees from the coffee maker, set them on the table, on the balcony and gently removed her documents from her hand…come Mila, it has been ages that we have sat down to a cup of coffee, together… But I need to find the papers, first, Arin…she kept muttering...You will be better equipped after a cup of hot coffee with me, and a paracetamol, later…I urged her. There was still a lot of sunlight left around nine in the evening in June, in Tromso. The weather was balmy. The wild flowers were blooming in our backyard, and its aroma was heady. The swishing of the leaves in the woods behind our cottage was lending a sense of tranquility, of being at home, of belonging. I was savoring the taste of peace, with Mila’s hand in my grip, when, Mila suddenly uttered…It was the cat!..

What?...I exclaimed!

…It was the tabby at Dr. Brahmadutt’s cottage, the other day…she showed me the scratch marks on her left wrist.

…did you visit him?...I asked her, mildly surprised, as Mila was not a person with exceptional social skills. And to visit somebody, who was barely known to her was a rarity indeed.

…Yeah! Dr. Brahmadutt had left behind a few analytics in his P.C. which was required the next day…he invited me over to his home in the evening and offered me coffee and cakes…I was taking out printouts and that is when the tabby jumped at me, unprovoked…

…Dr. Brahmadutt was totally apologetic and abashed and administered to me the first dose of anti-rabies regimen…so nothing to worry about on that ground…the next dose is scheduled for next Wednesday, in a row of another four, she added.

…He is a bachelor, Arin…quite lonely…He, his tabby, and his books, heaps of them…she mused…oh, and a very interesting collection of miniature dolls from all across the globe…she livened up when she shared this piece of information.

…You must check out his miniature doll collection, Arin…it is truly incredible…

I was worried for her health, as her temperature was not subsiding even after she had taken a paracetamol tablet. She barely touched dinner that night, but by the next morning, she seemed fitter. After breakfast, we decided to drive down to the farmer’s market to stock up on our weekly veggies and poultry. Between the cackle of poultry and conversation of farmers peddling their fare, we discovered a farmer’s wife, selling fresh homemade lemon meringue cheesecake, beneath a big colorful umbrella.

…This surely needs to tasted, Mila grinned…her sweet tooth was an issue of an occasional friendly banter between us. I was only too happy to see Mila, in her elements and settled down on the wooden bench with her. We looked around the market, as we waited to be served. It was a pleasant summer day and the warmth of the people around, in a place, where we barely get to see another person, lifted my spirits. As I was biting into my cheesecake, there was a tap on my shoulder. I turned around to the beaming rotund face of Prof. Brahmadutt.

…look, Mila, who’s here…Mila turned around and asked Dr. Brahmadutt to join us. He sat down beside Mila and in between short conversations of the political status back home, he kept peering uncomfortably into Mila’s face minutely.

…you see Dr. Sinha, he addressed me…I believe that, there will be doers and there will be the talkers, and I would like to associate myself with the former group…he laughed aloud.

…that makes two of us…I said!

…I am so embarrassed about what happened at my house, last Wednesday…you see…Dona is so fiercely possessive about me…

…Dona? I asked quizzically

…my cat, Dona…he answered…I smiled back…that was just an accident, not intended…I reassured him.

…Is Sharmila, better now?...He peered into Mila’s face again, too close for comfort.

This man was sort of encroaching into my space, I was not feeling comfortable in his company, though I was not sure, exactly why.

…Soon it will be time for a riot of colors in the sky, the northern lights…nature’s magic…Prof. Brahmadutt…A spectacle, worth waiting for, a lifetime…I offered.

…yes, yes! Waiting eagerly for that…he smiled remotely.

…You should join the bi-annual meet of the Indian Community, in Tromso, next month…we are a closely bonded community here…I tried to be nice again. But Prof Brahmadutt was openly staring at Mila. I was feeling annoyed and impatient now.

…Oh no, thank you for the invitation, Dr. Sinha, but I covet my loneliness…he smiled a smile, which did not touch his eyes. It was almost sinister. I was queasy now and cut Mila’s meal short by curtly saying…we need to be going back home now, Prof…see you later…

…that man sure is a weirdo…I told Mila…maintain a safe distance from him…I warned her…

…maybe so, but he is a name to reckon with in the field of gerontology and to top it all, he is my guide, in my post-doc thesis…I can barely avoid him…

On my next visit home, the next weekend, Mila was again down with fever, this time she could barely sit up. I made some soup for her which she scarcely touched. She was delirious and kept muttering about shadows and statues. I called the hospital emergency service and shifted her to the hospital. Over the weekend, her fever subsided, and since there were no findings, she was discharged with a few medications.

Mila was sleeping like a baby on the couch, she seemed thin and shriveled up. I felt a sense of unconditional love for her, as I sat by her and gazed at her face. I had taken a week off from work, and tried to be by Mila’s side all the time.

Dr. Brahmadutt came calling the next day and said that Mila needed to be administered the third dose of the anti-rabies injection, which he had brought over with him, which he injected into Sharmila’s arms. After he left, a query arose in my mind. In Norway, over the counter drugs or medications were not available. The very next day, I paid a visit to the Prof’s lab.

…Oh Hi, there, Dr. Sinha, how is Sharmila doing now? … he seemed concerned.

…I am curious about one thing, Prof. Brahmadutt, how did you procure the anti-rabies, injection without a medical doctor’s prescription?..

…Oh, that?!... he seemed amused…I keep a stock of that, because of Dona…as I said, she is fiercely possessive about me, and this is not the first time that she has lashed out at my visitors…

…Then perhaps you should keep her in leash, or not invite people over to your place…His casual approach and air of nonchalance irritated me further.

…I have come to apply for a week’s leave on Sharmila’s behalf…I said.

…Please don’t worry about that…he assured me.

Mila was not keeping well and she had stopped taking any food. She seemed so small, almost like a little girl now, all shriveled up. Whenever she was awake, her big eyes followed me. I applied for another week’s leave, but my leave was cancelled as some unnatural seismic activity was detected near the oil rig.

I had to be present at the rig for three more days, before the unnatural seismic activity ceased to be. I kept calling Mila, but every time I called her, her voice seemed more and more feeble. On Wednesday, all my calls went unanswered, I started getting ominous vibes. I was air lifted on Thursday early morning, and as I rushed back home, the last stretch seemed unending. Mila was not at home.

…where was she, in such a physical condition?... I was sick with worry.

I rushed to her lab. Neither Mila, nor Dr. Brahmadutt were present at the lab. I obtained the Prof’s address and took a cab to his place.

It was afternoon when I arrived at his cottage. The front door was slightly ajar.'

…welcome to my den, Dr. Sinha…A voice sounded in front of me, as my eyes tried to adjust to the relative darkness of his living room.

…a pleasure to have you here, with us…

…have you met, Mila, yesterday, or today?... I asked him…I was panting, out of breath, scared to death.

…oh, Sharmila! she is right here…

I followed him to an even more dimly lit room. Show cases lined each wall of that room. The cabinets had multiple alcoves fitted into them. In each of the alcoves, there were miniature statues of humans from all over the world. Each of them was so convincing, so realistic and so detailed and precise, that I gasped.

…There is your Mila, Dr. Sinha…the Prof. pointed out at one of the alcoves. A miniature, Mila, about a foot in height, her body still, but her eyes moving and silently crying out for help was standing in one of the alcoves.

…Just the right temperature for preservation, Dr. Sinha…Here is your Mila…yours for life…Immortal!...I heard, the Prof. saying before darkness engulfed me.  

Author: Jayeeta Sen Roy

Mission Mangal

After years of being conditioned in a cynical and pessimistic society,  focusing primarily on what India as a nation is lacking in...I couldn’t  help but recognise and acknowledge that hint of pride swelling in me as I watched the movie ‘Mission Mangal’ loosely based on the real-life events leading on to the Mangalyaan Mission.

The Mangalyaan Mission of ISRO or the Mars Orbiter Mission or the ‘MOM’ as we have come to know it popularly, is a space probe, orbiting Mars since 24th September 2014.

This was India’s first inter-planetary mission and it made India the first Asian Nation to reach the Mars Orbit and the first nation to accomplish that feat in its very first attempt. The only other space agencies who have beaten ISRO in the race to Mars are the ROSCOSMOS, NASA and the ESA. The cherry on the cake is the fact that ISRO remarkably completed the entire Mangalyaan mission at one eleventh the cost of NASA’s MAVEN to Mars...at a cost of just 4.5 billion rupees — or about $74 million. Compare this to NASA’s own MAVEN Mars Orbiter, which had a total mission cost of around $672 million.

Even at the possibility of sounding naive, I have to admit that at the theatre today, I experienced a sense of pride at what we have achieved as a nation. Perhaps this is where we are lacking primarily...we have forgotten to attach pride to our national attainments. We are lacking in self esteem.

Today, it is regarded as foolishness and imbecility to harbour a feeling of exaltation and delight in an occurrence that should rightfully give rise to national pride.

We as citizens of India, need to attach that sense of pride to our achievements in order to feel confident. One achievement may be preceded by multiple mistakes, but let us forget the mistakes for a while and focus on the feats.

There will always be sceptics and cynics and again there will always be believers and the optimists.

It is perfectly alright to question, but is it fine to be nihilistic?

It is for us to choose!

Adding one last fact:
ISRO was founded on the 15th of August 1969, exactly one month after, NASA put the first man on the moon. And here we are today, breathing down their neck. Can you beat that??!

73rd Independence Day

At the peril of sounding trite, I nevertheless would like to share the feeling of pride with each of my fellow Indians at the juncture that we have arrived today after a long and tedious 72 years of journey. There certainly was a scope of achieving so much more than what we have today...there is so much to crib about, valuable efforts and talents wasted, corruption gnawing at the roots of our system,  aggravating intolerance towards each other, religious fanaticism joining hands with unscrupulous, iniquitous politicians, crime against women reaching newer heights with every passing year...agreed...But again, there is, our low cost Mars mission, the Mangalyaan Mission, the eradication of polio amongst a whopping 1.3 billon people and bringing over 200 million people out of illiteracy are certainly aspects that gladdens my heart. We are moving ahead, even if in tiny baby steps...we have miles to go...yet, with that first step that we had taken...we had already broken the barbed wires in our psyche, that had restricted us. And to me...that is what the essence of freedom and Independence is.

Jai Hind