Post Office

I found the post office standing exactly at the same spot, where I had left it last year. Our relationship has now reduced to this annual rendezvous to post my tax form. Those young girls at my CA’s office implore me every year to link my tax account with ADHAAR to avoid this business of sending physical forms, but I keep procrastinating and eventually forget all about it until it is time for another round of doing taxes. 

Halfway through to post office, I realised that I had no change, which has also become an annual tradition. The image of the postal clerk’s expression after my offering hundred rupee note for a five-rupee stamp arose in my mind. It wasn’t very pleasant. So I began thinking of things which I could buy at the shops next to the post office without attracting disapproval of my wife. One needs exact change at the post office. You can’t say ‘kindly keep the change’ to them. It is not taken very kindly. I have tried, so I know. 

For reasons perhaps known only to the Post Master General, the shutter of the post office was pulled down to three fourth length with a gap not more than three feet for people to slither their way inside. This was a new development. Surprised at my own flexibility I found myself inside the post office, which seemed to be working at full steam with modest queue at each counter leaving me rather baffled about the pulled down shutter which now appeared disturbingly reminiscent of bars operating surreptitiously after legal hours. 

The clerk looked at the envelope and demanded five rupees. Relieved, I offered the five-rupee coin which I had gotten after buying a few pencils and rubbers from the stationary shop (safest things buy in such cases especially if you have school going children). He tapped at the envelope and asked me to write a return address and then pointed me to a protruding wooden plank on which laid a tumbled plastic cup, carved out of a soda bottle, holding a gooey substance threatening to spill itself all over the surface despite its minuscule quantity. I should have bought a glue stick instead of pencils and rubbers, I thought to myself. I looked at that alien looking viscous substance, which I dearly hoped I would not remember while eating my meals, and avoiding further excruciating elaboration on the subject, let me say, I managed to stick the stamp on the envelope. 

Inexplicably, two large black bicycles, generally used by milkmen were kept right in front of the writing board in the middle of a functioning post office. Nobody seemed to object to their presence there and I did not want to be a stickler either. However, though it was easy to reach the glue by stretching across those rather imposing contraptions, one couldn’t achieve writing of a return address using the same method. I looked around for an alternative table, but the establishment offered none. I scribbled the address placing the envelope on my palm. 

A swanky looking sanitiser dispensing machine with a sensor now hung on the wall near the door. A new addition to the premises, thanks to Covid-19. I spread my hands under it and the machine came to life with determination. It shuddered, made spirited beeping sounds and then hissed and spluttered with all its might, but eventually proved incapable of dispensing much except a couple of feeble droplets, woefully inadequate to achieve the objective of sanitisation. But it had tried hard and I appreciated the effort feeling rather sad for this neophyte into the Indian Postal System.

Finally, with another miracle of my bodily pliability, I slithered out into the sunshine. The famed red postal box stood sturdily outside the post office, declaring daily clearance time with its mouth wide open. Out of habit, I checked the address once again before sliding the envelope inside its gaping mouth. 

I stepped back and looked at that building decorated with frayed posters which nobody read, where people slithered in and slithered out and which perplexingly contained two large bicycles around which the epistolary business was being conducted. Despite this rather quaint existence it stood detached, uninterested yet reassuringly enduring. 

Having considered the experience in its entirety I reached an important conclusion- let those efficient girls from CA's office say what they want, I am coming back to this place next year.

The Wife And The Carbon Footprint

‘The Wife’ was to go for a meeting today. Being a loving husband, I offered to drop her by taking a little detour. ‘I would rather go by metro and reduce my carbon footprint’, The Wife was unimpressed. Having duly admired the sentiment, I painted the picture of us travelling together in the winter morning saying sweet nothings to each other etc. which apparently was not working in my favour. Within a minute of starting the journey, I realised the potentially dangerous situation I had put myself in- if The Wife is late by a minute the consequences would be gruesome. Luck being my best friend, the city apparently had decided to break its last traffic jam record. I could feel the temperature inside the car dropping at an alarming rate. Driver of the car in front of us opened his car door followed by his mouth and emptied around a litre of bright red paan juice on mother earth. I winced, but not Wife, she thrust her chin forward and the windowpane on her side began rolling down. ‘He is so dead’, I said to myself. But apparently, there is a God in the heaven, and in situations such a these he/she plans to intervene- the traffic moved and before any verbal communication could be initiated and the driver disappeared manoeuvring his way between the cracks in traffic. I sighed (mentally of course!). The traffic stopped moving again and the stress was unbearable. Suddenly, I heard someone singing a Thumri- ‘नज़रियाँ की मारी, हाय! मरी मोरी गुइयां'. I looked around. It was definitely not Wife, because it was a male voice. The realisation hit me like an iceberg the very next moment, as I noticed that the melody was emerging from my own mouth. I mean, when under tremendous stress, I tend to sing, without being aware of it, you know what I mean right? I looked to my left to witness that indescribable expression on Wife’s face. Moral of the story- Never stop The Wife from reducing her carbon footprint. 

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The Mumbai Local

The lunch meeting was at the other end of the Mumbai city. I had calculated, based on my experience of living in Mumbai, which is now obsolete by a decade, that morning rush at local train would have ebbed by 10.30. So rather than taking a taxi through narrow lanes of Mumbai, I decided to cover the distance by a fast local train. I realised my mistake when the first train arrived from Thane, bursting at seams with people. I suppose, just like it’s extending borders, the rush hours of the city are also ever extending. It was too late then to change my mind, as taxi would have taken a couple of hours to reach The Fort. Local Train was my fastest option. I made up my mind and waited for the next train to arrive. 

As I began observing my fellow travellers, I realised that instead of stragglers and senior citizens visiting their relatives, as I had expected to be on the platform, the crowd consisted of people who are generally part of the morning rush hours. Some of them were standing anxiously at the platform, some walking till the edge, and peering at the railway tracks which disappeared into a small dot at the far distance. College students bantered and laughed, regular travel partners chatted and gossiped, while the majority of people had their eyes riveted to their smartphone screens. 

Suddenly the railway announcement in English, Marathi and Hindi, informing us that the next train was arriving soon, heightened the sense of excitement among the passengers. In a few seconds, someone had spotted the train. The crowd, as if on cue, moved away from the edge of the platform and flexed itself as a singular muscle - taut, anxious and ready for action. The dot of a train kept becoming bigger and very soon its houndlike snout entered the platform with a blaring horn. People standing at the doors, were waving their limbs like banners and pennants of an invading army. They shouted and whistled adding to the existing thrill. The compartment doors and windows which showed nothing but passengers stuffed inside it, began whizzing past my eyes. The train was slowing down and even before it came to a proper halt, the surging crowd behind hauled me towards the already packed train. With crowd pressing on all sides I was being squeezed into the train through invisible gaps and crevices in the wall of human bodies in front of me. The pressure came waves after waves and soon I found myself inside the train - propped on all sides against other perspiring human bodies. I stood there with my nostrils assaulted by collective smell of perspiration and deodorants. The oxygen level, I am sure was much lower than desirable. The crowd kept pressing on, trying to stuff as many as its parts inside. Eventually, the train began moving, but the mass inside, kept pulsating to settle itself down. After a few seconds I realised that the pushing movement changed its direction. The passengers who were to get down at the next station began pushing from within and started worming their way towards the exit. Apparently, there was a code of conduct followed by all travellers to facilitate passage in and out of a compartment. I being a novice was proving to be a nuisance. I felt the crowd telepathically decided to take action and pushed me in a corner so that the hurdle in the invisible path was removed. I was glad to be pushed aside. This allowed me a few moments to breath in the strange mixture of air suspended around the crowd. 

The train was now out of the covered railway station and onto the open tracks. There was a little more natural light, affording me to observe my surroundings. Men around me were pregnant with their backpacks worn back to front and standing in a way that makes one fully understand what the phrase ‘cheek by jowl’ really means. There was no sense of private space, you have to be part the of the sum total, by almost fusing yourself in, if you wanted to ensure your passage through this port in to the commercial districts of Mumbai. 

The compartments are built to last, to sustain the human onslaught every day. The seats, the little partitions, the overhead bars lined with handles to hold on, were all made up of sturdy stainless steel. Everyday human contact seems to have served as a good polishing process making the steel shine brightly. For some reason this robust strength instilled an inexplicable and perhaps unfounded sense of security.

It was difficult to see faces of my fellow passengers at such close quarters. I could, however see numerous hands raised up to hold on to the handles. They were in a way a representative sample of middle and lower classes of Mumbai in all it shades. There were thick and callused hands of workers, slender and soft hands of clerks, managers and techies- some muscular gymgoers, some manicured while a large number, limp and tired but still holding on to the dear life. There were greying hands of older men soon to be retiring from this madness, while some fresh and supple hands of college goers being recruited in to the process. Threads of various colours, fraying and washed out, adorned their wrists, perhaps as a bit of divine protection. Some had bands supporting a cause or worn just because it is fashionable. A surprisingly large numbers wore tattoos. A thick and most likely a married hand had name of a woman inked on the back of it, perhaps his wife. A thin hand had ‘Viraj’ written at the base of his thumb and index finger in scrawny letters, perhaps name of it’s self-possessed owner. There were scorpions, crosses, compasses, holy names, and other series of symbology, inked on the hands and forearms, trying to shelter a unique identity in the voracious mob-entity called a city. One hand caught my attention. It was the only hand with a wrist-watch. I tried to look harder, and search more, but that was indeed the lone hand with a wrist watch. People have mobile phones, they don’t need watches any more. An old technology has been edged out by a new one. 

After a few stations, I managed to get inside where people sat on metal benches facing each other while other passengers stood between the benches. I was drenching in perspiration by then and an overhead fan provided me some respite. It was easy to see faces of the people in this part of the compartment. Most people who had managed to get a seat were busy with their phones and even those who were standing were trying to fiddle with them despite lack of space. Some were engaged in conversation, but mostly everyone was silent. I looked at their faces carefully. Did I see any stress, any trace of complain? Surprisingly I couldn’t. They all seemed to be quite ‘alright’ about this daily ordeal, which was proving to be a rather challenging experience for me. I do not know whether I was being oversensitive or they had resigned to this. 

Station after station people got in and got out. Finally I was about to reach the erstwhile Boribandar station which has been renamed over and over again. From Boribandar to Victoria Terminus, then to Chhatrapati Shivaji Terminus and finally Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj Terminus. 

The train was reaching the station. The crowd was ready, as usual, both inside and outside the train. Fighting the onslaught of people trying to board the train I managed to land on the platform. Thankful to have completed the journey I drew my first breath. I realised it had oxygen in it. 

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Early Morning Flight

Early morning flight to Bengaluru. As usual the Uber driver landed at the wrong apartment building and confidently informed me that he was right in front of my home. It took some time to convince him of the anomaly and get him to the desired place. After 5 minutes onto the road his phone glowed and words 'Tinu Waif' appeared on the screen. Mr. Driver admonished his 'Waif' in no uncertain terms informing her that he is driving with a customer. I felt a touch sad for the lady. After disconnecting the call he turned on the radio. We drove along the empty road with Mohammed Rafi belting out his 'Dardbhare Nagme' in the background. Initially, he (Rafi, not the driver) informed his beloved of his intention of not setting foot in her neighbourhood from this day onward. Perhaps, that did not yield a desired effect so the next song talked about his funeral plan for himself, describing his shroud, the flower arrangement, members of the funeral procession and stopped short of giving measurement of his grave. I hoped that I reach the airport before matters become further morbid. My prayers were answered.

Nothing noteworthy happened during the check-in and security check except a middle aged American shouting 'but we are first class' apparently frustrated by the long que.

In the wash room, a man had managed to place his foot under the wash basin tap and was merrily washing it while standing on one leg. Having wiped the foot thoroughly, he inspected if this little pedicure had a desired result and having satisfied himself he moved on to repeat it on the other foot. A shocked and amused crowd had gathered around him to witness this novel use of the airport washroom.

I got a middle seat with two middle aged men sitting on both sides while all the 'agreeable' looking travelers took the other seats. The gentleman on the right had possibly downed a couple of kilograms of mint and had taken it upon himself to act as the room freshener for the Air India flight. Reeling under the effect, I fell asleep and woke up only when the breakfast was announced.

A man who had an uncanny resemblance with our grocery shop attendant and a woman with a permanent frown on her face were handing out food packets with marked lack of enthusiasm. The room freshener man was thrown a vegetarian food packet. With the meekness akin to a schoolchild asking permission from his teacher to go to the toilet, he asked for a non-veg packet. To which the lady stared at him coldly for full thirty seconds and asked him to repeat his question. He somehow managed to utter 'non.....' . 'Only vegetarian breakfast is available' she snapped at him. I took the cue and accepted what was hurled at me. The food included a brown substance which had a distant resemblance to 'Kala Chana', stretchable rotis, and some butchered fruits. I washed them down with lukewarm tea.

I spent rest of the flight thinking of the sumptuous breakfast I would have after landing.

Very soon the familiar sights of neatly arrayed orchards, hills bearing humongous boulders were visible from the window. A smile appeared on my face.

We landed. I was greeted by a sunny day and a cool breeze as I stepped out of the aircraft.

Ah Bangalore!

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Green Peas

Today at the vegetable shop I heard someone speak in Marathi. I turned around to determine the source. A middle aged couple was seriously discussing  the quality of green chilies and deliberating if it was wise to buy them or not. Though the conversation appeared to be of a rather serious academic nature, I decided to butt in and satisfy my usual urge to speak to strangers. ‘Oh you speak Marathi! How nice to hear the language in Delhi’, I started with one of my tried and tested hooks, putting on my best smile. The couple did not mind the interjection and smiled back. ‘Oh yes, it indeed is good to hear Marathi in Delhi', the man appeared happy to speak to me, 'do you stay in Dwarka?’ . ‘Yes, I do. It has been almost six years now. I came here from Mumbai’. I was trying to keep the wheels of conversation whirring. ‘Oh really? We are from Indore’ the man also volunteered some information. ‘How nice’, I was glad with my ability to interact with unknown people, ‘there are a lot of Marathi speakers from Indore and Gwalior in Dwarka’ I continued. ‘Oh yes’ the man agreed, ‘a lot of people from Madhya Pradesh’. 

The lady, who was silent so far appeared to be sizing me up and finally decided to ask what was perhaps paramount on her mind. ‘What is your surname?’ she asked me in a matter of fact tone. I was slightly taken aback. Among Marathi speakers and perhaps even among rest of Indian language groups, asking surname is equivalent to asking ‘what is your caste?’ This question is always on people’s mind when they meet someone new. It is ostensibly a very important question for some, but people work towards it in a cautious, calculated manner so that the other person does not really know that their caste background is being examined. To enquire about it so openly and as a first sentence of discussion with a stranger was a bit baffling. ‘Vaite, Shailesh Vaite’, I must have sounded like James Bond, but since I did not see any laughter forthcoming, I concluded that they did not watch any of the 007 movies.

The interesting thing about my surname is that it is a very unique surname. There are no more than hundred people in India who have this surname and because of this you can’t determine our caste. Secondly it is a rather odd name to pronounce. Nobody gets it in the first attempt. They would either take it as Vaidya or Vaitee which are quite popular surnames in Maharashtra. As a young boy, I would go through the pains of explaining my correct name and even spelling it for the benefit of the other person. But with age, my enthusiasm on this front has dwindled drastically and as long as there are no legal implications, I don’t make much effort to correct the person. The lady, like most others had misunderstood my name. ‘Oh Vaidya?’ said she with a smile which had an overtone of relief. ‘Vaidya’ is common name among higher castes in Maharashtra. I also noticed that she seemed more relaxed now as she was able to classify me as someone of her 'own kind'. I did not think it convenient to spend next five minutes in explaining the correct name while hefting two bags full of vegetables (green peas were 20 rupees a kilo, and hence I had loaded myself with them, carrots and broccoli were also super cheap, so they occupied a substantial amount of space in my bag). Secondly, I was rather put off by this strange turn to the conversation and hence I knew it would not go much further. ‘We are XXXXXX’, the man shared their own surname looking equally relieved and ensuring that I also classify them as one of my kind. ‘Oh right’, said I with a perfunctory smile, ‘glad to meet you’. Suddenly, my ‘making small conversation skills’, which I take great pride in, seemed to evaporate in thin air and I was struggling to decide what to say next. ‘Good season for vegetables eh?’ I started moving away while they still appeared eager to talk, ‘have a good evening’. They both looked puzzled at this abrupt loss of interest on my part. I moved away from them rather awkwardly. 

For the rest of the evening, I kept thinking if they would have behaved in a similar awkward manner the way I did, if I had a surname which would have overtly sounded ‘lower caste’. Anyhow, the lesson of the evening was, green peas taste really sweet in the month of January and you should buy them aplenty. They last for more than a month in the freezer. 

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Not so young after all!

India celebrates National Youth Day on 12^th of January every year. To be honest, I have very little to do with the National Youth Day besides lamenting the fact that my youthful days are behind me. Many would say, age is all in the mind. But when the official website of the ‘Ministry of Youth affairs and Sports’, declares in most uncertain words ‘Youth i.e. those falling within the age group of 15-29 years’, one regretfully accepts the fact that one has left those shores long ago, at least officially.

Since my childhood was plagued by psychopathic teachers and a family which ceaselessly tormented me about my studies, youth was the happiest time of my life. If given a chance, I would eagerly like to relive those glorious years and perhaps try harder at assembling a more disreputable past than the one I currently have, which is largely been described as tepid and spiceless.

Every successive generation is luckier than the last one in terms of freedom and the resources available at their disposal. I do not have any romantic notion that our younger days were simpler and hence happier. I still remember, I had to take my girlfriend’s call, on the only landline phone in the house which was kept in the living room with my father reading the newspaper sitting on the sofa and my mother cutting vegetables while watching television. Both were oblivious of the fact that I had a girlfriend, because I was not supposed to have one! We did not have mobile phones till we reached latter half of our youth (we had to pay for incoming calls too! Remember?) nor did our parents think it was okay for us to have girlfriends/boyfriends while we were still in college. ‘First you finish your studies, build a good career, stand on your own feet; there is whole life for love-shove’ was clear directive from the family. I find the present generations of youth much luckier in that sense when I see them typing away on their mobile phones and peacefully chatting with friends locked away in their bedrooms. In most cases, their parents seem to have resigned to the fact that there would be some clear dynamic taking place with the opposite sex (same sex- not yet!)

It would not be appropriate for me to claim that I know much about the current batch of ‘youth’ because it has been our mutual policy of steering clear of each other’s path. The sadist practice of the younger lot of calling me ‘Uncle’ at every possible opportunity hasn’t really helped either. But I see them here and there and quite often walking dreamily in front of my car fiddling with their mobile phones, while I honk patiently till they pay heed to my entreaties and give way.

Since these days it is possible to create one’s own personal universe in the virtual world and also to put firewalls against any potential intruders, it is tough to take a peek at the world of present day youth. But they do seem quite busy over there and also appear to have become quite docile and domesticated by internet. I would be rather surprised to find out that they had been planning a social revolution on facebook/whatsapp all along under the garb of fuelling online retail industry.

It is indeed surprising that despite their preoccupation with the social media and everything that comes with it, the youngsters do manage to have bumper crop of grades each year. Apparently, even getting 100 per cent marks in exams isn’t a novelty any more, neither it is to find billionaires among ‘Youth i.e. those falling within the age group of 15-29 years’.  After all their parents not paying attention to their own parents and marrying beyond their castes and communities and hence expanding the healthy gene pool seems to have paid dividends.

I would like to end this little homily on a rather serious note. A few days ago, we had some workers at home doing some masonry job. Two of the workers were young boys who treated their headphones as an extension of their ears. One day, miraculously, I caught them without their mobile phones attached to their bodies and I began a conversation. Both claimed to be 18 years old and had just arrived from their village to earn a living in Delhi. What is the level of their education was the most logical next question considering my middle class upbringing. Both of them smiled. They had never gone to school. I asked them again, the answer was the same. ‘So you can’t read and write?’ I said incredulously and trying hard not to sound rude. They smiled again and said ‘No’. I was surprised to know that these two 18 year old boys in 21st century India working in Delhi and as enamoured by the digital technology as any other youth, had no formal education. After a bit of a thinking I found myself rather confused. I am still wondering if I should feel sorry that as a Nation, we were not able to provide simple joy of literacy to these young men, or should I be happy about their youthful comfort with the modern technology, despite the academic disadvantage, which might help them sail through life just as well, or perhaps both. 

Leaving you with that thought while wishing you all a Happy Youth Day!

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Ghosts From My Village

My village never had a shortage of ghosts. They were found at every corner although with a special preference to water bodies. There was hardly a well or a pond without a ghost ambling around it. Surprisingly the villagers and the ghosts shared a rather cordial relationship.

Our ghosts were very different from what you saw in Hollywood/Bollywood movies. To begin with, they were not relegated to the realm of dark nights. They preferred afternoons. Three hours after noon were considered ‘hours of the ghosts’.  Around those hours you were expected to avoid desolate wells and lonely ponds, lest you encounter a ghost basking in the afternoon sun, soaking its feet in the water. It was a bit inconvenient for children, as those were the best hours to steal mangoes from the orchards or to take a dip in the cool waters. As a child, I always suspected some conspiracy between the living and the dead in this matter.

Contrary to general perception, our ghosts never resorted to violence. They maintained a certain decorum while interfering in our lives. Once in a couple of months, someone from the village would start shaking involuntarily and weep profusely or laugh uncontrollably. Breaths would become short and the body above waist would move in circles. The news would spread quickly and the entire village would gather around the person. A few people in the village, were considered experts in communicating and negotiating with the ghosts. Being an expert did not require any training; a loud and confident voice was good enough. Anyhow, the expert will ask someone to burn incense sticks, put some holy ash on the possessed person’s forehead, and begin questioning the ghost who had taken charge of the 'body'.
‘Who are you?’ was the foremost question. For some reason, ghosts enjoyed prolonging suspense over that one. Enquiries about their identity would be met with laughs, cries or stony silences. While the experts would be busy establishing the identity of the ghost, there would be a lot of guesswork among the onlookers. 'Would this be Hari Buwa from the Banyan tree or Vatsala from the orchard well? or Antu from the village pond?' Each ghost had a different personality and a tragic story of neglect and harassment. Hari Buwa was a bhajan singer who decided to hang himself to a Banyan tree because his only son did not take care of him in his old age. Antu consumed poison because he was not able to repay his loans. Vatsala killed herself because her husband neglected her. There were countless young women who had thrown themselves in different wells due to harassment at the hands of their in-laws; in some cases they were pushed. The ghosts were wronged, whose plight was ignored by the villagers while they were alive and hence they lurked around the village like a collective sense of guilt. “I am so sad” they would often say in between sobs and the villagers would try to console them. During this consoling the line between the ghost and the possessed often blurred. A ghost story from the past often applied balm to the tragic story in making.

Eventually after a lot of reluctance the ghost would reveal its identity. The next logical question was why was it here and what did it want? They had all sorts of demands. Antu always asked for alcohol, some asked for onion pakoras, some asked for bangles. The most heart-wrenching demand was that of Vatsala, she would ask for candies and buiscuits; she had young children when she killed herself. A promise was extracted that ghost would leave the body once its demand was met. The demanded item was placed at the place indicated by the ghost and the possessed person collapsed out of exhaustion which meant that the ghost has left. It was a matter of couple of hours, but provided enough material for discussion over next few days.

Things have changed in the village these days. Children are busy attending coaching classes in the afternoon and grown-ups are glued to the tele serials. Tankers are constantly drawing water from the wells for the construction work in the nearby town. Most orchards are bought over by the rich people from Mumbai who have put towering walls around them. The new generation of daughters- in-law are educated and know their rights. Old houses have made way to the newer and modern ones with unbreachable doors and windows. Suicides do happen once in a while, but people try to cover them up legally and also get rid of them from their conscience. Ghosts have not possessed anyone for a long time. The older people say the ghosts have become rather shy, some say they have left the village altogether.

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Girl by the window

The concert hall was filled with old, retired people. From the last row, I could see different shades of gray. There was a smattering of young lustrous scalps, since some from the audience needed assistance to reach the concert. A wheelchair stood in the corner and many four-legged walking sticks lined the aisles. The singer was an old man too, who sang old songs from an old notebook with yellowing pages.

In this geriatric ambiance, the only thing that was young and supple was the rich voice of the singer. Every note fathomed depth of the melody, indicating a lifetime of training and dedicated practice. ‘He has been suffering from cancer’, someone whispered to me.

The singer began singing a song by Tagore describing a young woman sitting by the window, her head resting on her palm, with flowers and an incomplete garland in her lap. The imagery was vivid and the melody hauntingly pleasant. Graying heads moved gently, while some remained dreamily still as if transported to some place in their own personal history.

It was time for the last song. Notes of the raag Bhairavi, created the sense of sweet agony one feels at the end of a beautiful concert.

The song was over. People shuffled back to their feet as if waking up from a dream. Cotton sarees rustled, walking sticks rattled. Familiar faces were spotted, smiles and hugs were exchanged, and news of grand-children and faraway offsprings were shared.

I sat looking at the crowd. A woman was hobbling down the aisle. She had curly hair with generous amount of kumkum in the parting, loudly declaring existence of a living husband. One part of her body was paralyzed and fingers of her hand were upturned awkwardly. A side of her lips was drooping down, making it difficult to gauge her mood. For a moment, I remembered the girl from the song, sitting by the window with flowers in her lap. Could this woman have had a moment like that song in her life? Would she have waited for her beloved looking at the Bakul flowers strewn in her backyard? What songs would have been hummed by those drooping lips? What ecstatic bliss would have been experienced by her now paralyzed body?

Cars started arriving at the porch. People were helped into their cars. Steel watchstraps and golden bangles glinted in the dark while they waved and reminded each other of the next concert.

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