It was chilly. Far across the road, a blanket-wrapped watchman sat outside a building gate, warming himself on a small lump of burning wood. A car or two zoomed past every now and then. 23 of them had passed in the last couple of hours he recalled. 23 of them would pass every couple of seconds a few hours from now. A dog had suddenly started barking some distance away, as if trying to announce its sleeplessness to the entire world. An old man who was sleeping peacefully on a push cart by the footpath, shooed the envious dog away. He soon went back to sleep. The buildings looked like huge dark structures randomly dotted in yellow and white. Some people are still awake. He curiously wondered what was happening inside those white and yellow dots. Probably some had slept with lights on, some worked late, couples quarreled or made love; there was no way to know. He picked out another bidi from his pocket and lit it. The smoke rose in the air, and so did the warm hazy breath, till both merged in the winter air.
Jessica gazed out of her window, watching all this 7 stories below her. The coffee had done well to keep her awake, but that was hours ago. Perhaps it was something else; she didn’t know. She probably understood Antonio better now than she did seven years ago when she was in school. Her room lay beside the window sill, neat, uninhabited. The bed had starched bedsheets, as if no one had slept on them for ages; the lamp beside was dimmed adding to the silence of the room. An overturned copy of Shantaram was the only decoration on the table beside the bed. A framed photograph of a desolate beach hung on the wall above her bed. She watched as a dog, perhaps lost, perhaps just trying to fit into this world was trying to find some shelter for the night. It tried finding a place on a pile of dug up rubble by the roadside but was snarled away by another group of dogs. Animal nature. It then crossed the road, almost got itself killed under a speeding car in the process, and tried finding some peace under a push cart. The man sleeping on it shooed it away. Human nature.
The Western Express Highway lay deserted, never-ending and it had suddenly lost all its charm. Rahul could feel the vodka in his blood-one hell of a party it was. He loved the hustle bustle of day, the mad rush through overcrowded roads, the myriad noises which created some kind of a symphony. The nights turned lonely, a sudden void. He tried finding solace in the company of friends, spending the night in noisy places, subduing his senses in alcohol and waiting for the dark silence to break at dawn. It would be dawn soon he thought to himself. He barely noticed a dog crossing the road. Too late to press the brakes, he just sped past. The rearview mirror just showed dark shadows on the road under the dim street lamps. Did it manage to escape? He couldn’t tell. Maybe another soul just merged with the silent darkness.

Faith, Belief and God

God and man are tied together by the thread called Belief. An abstract term, its significance varied from person to person. Some, as I mentioned earlier associate it with God, while others with everything else. Many a times the answer to this question sought by an educated mind results in rationalisation on the altars of science; it results in a divide between the mind(brain) and the soul(heart). The brain, well versed in science and scientific reasoning finds and answer for everything to deny the very foundations of Belief. The heart on the other hand uses belief as a prop to keep going in the right direction. It is Belief in God that sustains a lost soul when he faces a dead end. The anecdote below would perhaps be the best way to convey the message.

Two criminals broke out of jail located in the middle of a desert. It was a hot summer noon and they had no idea where the nearest signs of civilisation were. One of the criminals was a scientist who swore by science and the other, a believer in God. They decided to walk and keep each other company till they reached safety. The walk in the hot sands was an ordeal that was sapping them of all their energy and the zeal of freedom. Yet they dragged along. Suddenly, the Believer started running, shouting, “Water! Water!” and the scientist on hearing these magic words, started running too. The Believer stopped after sometime, looking all around, bewildered on not finding the water. The scientist, puffing and panting caught up with him and pointed out,"You had seen a mirage.” They walked on, the exercise draining a lot out of them.

(I suppose, some of you would have already guessed where this is headed…)

Soon, the Believer saw water again and started running towards it. The Scientist called out behind him, ”That’s a mirage you fool. Stop this non-sense. You are tiring both of us. Just conserve your energy till we can get help.”

“No”, replied the Believer. ”We are being tested for our sins. Keep running and we shall find water.”

“Alright then”, retorted the scientist. “You go ahead. Keep running and get yourself killed. I will not give in to your foolishness any longer. Farewell!”

The Beilever kept following the ‘water’ which eluded him every time. But each time he convinced himself that it was God who was playing tricks with him and prodded on. He walked and ran and walked again. Till it was dark. Soon he saw light in the distance. He ran again and this time he found it was for real. It was a village. It was too dark then to go out looking for the Scientist so he decided to go in the morning. At the break of dawn, he took a camel and ventured out in search of the Scientist. He found the Scientist lying dead near about the same place where they had had parted.

So what is the moral of the story? Perhaps you would still remember the endless number of stories which shows a blind believer, who does not work hard in poor light. I could not agree more. Belief is not what stops one from working towards his goal, it is a source of energy. True Belief is one that helps one move on despite all atrocities and adversities in situations where rational thinking would suggest giving up. God is like that source of light at the end of the tunnel, which gives you the false impression that the tunnel is not dark and prods you to keep walking. In today’s world, Faith is a gift which keeps one in the path of 'Dharma' despite innumerable distractions and incentives to quit that path. It is this faith which therefore still holds the world together saving it from total chaos. So, finally what about God? Well, I believe and I keep the faith!

Karna

The entire night passed in a daze. Not a wink of sleep. Had he found a mother or lost one? He did not know. He felt like the waters in a lagoon; it knows not whether it belonged to the river or the sea. He wept all night. Kunti had asked him not to kill her sons, his half-brothers. If he did not, he would be betraying himself and his dear friend, a friend who had embraced him when all others had ostracised. I cannot spare Arjun were his last words to his mother as he turned away from her moist gaze. He had been deprived of her love and affection all his life; and now when he wanted to rest his head on her laps and weep, he could not. And he knew deep inside that she longed to clasp her long lost son, close to her bosom as well. He could not let emotions get the better of his ideals. So he walked away.
Hidden in all his agony, was a shimmer of joy. The Pandavs were his brothers. Arjun was his brother. Circumstances had forced him to take up arms against Arjun, but he adored him at heart. Deep down inside he knew he could not kill his younger brother. He stared at the starry skies and painted his thoughts on the wide spotted canvas. A young Karna playing with his five brothers-piling on each other, running around, flinging each other into the waters. The thoughts melted away into slumber.
It was the big day in the battle. Krsna knew it better than all. Arjun was to fight Karna. He knew that Arjun did not stand a chance. But only one man knew of what was to come-Karna. The chariots of the two great warriors stood face to face, about a couple of hundred yards apart. The soldiers stood by, no one moved a muscle. This was going to be etched in history in letters of gold. The charioteers snapped the reins of the horses, and the chariots jumped to life. Thousands of friends and foes watched. Arjun was said to be invincible, but they knew he had finally met his match. Karna on his part knew what he wanted to do but knew not how. He looked at Krsna, advancing towards him. He shut his eyes. Krsna, you know all. Give me all the courage I need. The chariot halted with a sudden jerk. Karna jumped off to find a wheel of his chariot stuck in a puddle. He looks up at Krsna, Arjun’s charioteer, a few yards away. Krsna smiled back as if to say I heard you. Karna kept his bow and quiver aside as he knelt by the wheel. He looked away as he tried with to pull up the wheel. And he waited. He waited and waited until he felt the sharp and heavy piece of iron pierce his heart. He fell to the ground, looked up at Arjun and smiled. In the numbing silence that followed in the battle field, Karna could hear the voices of his brothers, his mother Kunti, his friend Duryodhan. He was content-he had lived up to his Dharma towards his friend, mother and brother. The golden orb in the distance sunk below the horizon. Darkness embraced the battlefield as Karna shut his eyes for the eternal sleep.

The stained remnants of my
Sins remain unwashed.
Red, still fresh, bleeding
Through the wounds of my soul.

Flesh-
My immortal self, seethes
In its sweltering stench;
Provoking the orgy of emotions:
Draining all of me.

Osru jole bohiya jai,

Bedonai bhora klanto mon;

Shithil hoye shikol bedhe,

Nijeke keno rekheche gopon?

NH 44

The drive from Guwahati to Shillong, judging from my memories, has been quite pleasant. The ascent from the hot, humid plains to the hills through winding roads, the scent of cold misty air gushing in through the pulled down glass of the speeding vehicle, is an experience to behold. The leaves of trees keep growing smaller and smaller till spiky pine trees decorate the facade of the hills like green rippling curtains. One does come across human habitations, mainly small Khasi villages by the roadside, making a living out of business the commuting vehicles generate. The short statured, shawl clad, red-lipped betel leaf chewing inhabitants going about their daily business is a pleasant sight.Communicating has never been a problem. They speak their own unique dialect of Hindi, bearing the tone of their mother tongue; quite intelligible though.
About ten kilometers before entering Shillong, one drives along the most scenic stretch of the entire journey, along the Barapani reservoir. The placid waters, with the rays of the sun enmeshed, as if dancing with the ripples. Small islans jut out of the water here and there. One of the most picturesque spots one could encounter.
Sadly, things have changed now, as an aftermath of progress perhaps-the thrust towards development.Unknowingly, we are destroying the natural heritages that have lived on for ages. The four laning of the highway has led to excavations of the slopes running along the road. The amount of deforestation is simply heart rendering for anyone who has grown up plying these roads, admiring the beauty of the trees lining the driveway. The tiny hamlets that existed earlier have now been transformed into caverns of concrete. The carpet road which though a narrow one, was a pleasure to drive on, is replete with potholes.It has become nothing less than a nightmare. Adding to the woes are the traffic blockades being caused by the construction work. All in all, another jungle of concrete and malba is being created. Indeed, this is modernisation as some would call it, but i still prefer the same old drive that lingers on as a faint,fading memory.

Stained

Stained pieces of glass:
Red;
Remnants of the shattered past,
Lay scattered in my tainted memory.

Blood trickles out of torn veins,
As the pain hazes out
In doses of morphine
Soon, they wouldn't suffice.

The stench of old scum
Undulating heaps,
Never disintegrated in time.
They now choke the lungs.

Vision blurs in clouds of smoke;
My soul burning,
With all that remains:
As my human self succumbs.

The 2MP canvas...

The Slumdog Revolution!

A lot is being said and discussed about the latest Danny Boyle movie. In India we have discovered every rational reason to call it an Indian movie. Now the question that I bring up out here is whether this movie can really be called Indian?
If I say Yes my justification would be :
a.It is based on a novel by an Indian
b.It is based on Indian reality
c.All the actors and technicians are Indians
Well... reason enought to call it Indian.

But, I personally would say No, and I have good reason for that too. A movie is as good as its director. Actually, a movie is a canvas on which the director paints his ideas. This is a Danny Boyle movie and Danny Boyle definitely has portrayed the movie from a Bristish/Irish perspective. If a Madhur Bhandarkar or (better still) a Karan Johar were to make this movie, would it have been the same or would it have had the same impact? I seriously doubt. For example, in the movie, Danny builds the character of Jamaal as the movie progresses, which helps in making some of the little nuances more pronounce. In typical Bollywood movies, the movie begins with the characters/heroes, who end up stealing the limelight. The movies end up being all about the characters and nothing else. One would hardly find any subtle layer. Indian Bollywood movies stimulate emotions but not the grey cells, and that, I would say is what makes Slumdog Millionaire a Non-Indian film.
Slumdog is already there, and deep down inside I am sure the big guns of Bollywood would be saying, "Shit! We never looked at it this way." Now what? Now, I would expect a cinematic revolution of some sorts in Bollywood. The generation of movie watchers has changed. It is a new generation which can identify and appreciate sensible cinema, be it from anywhere. So, for a change, I would expect to see more movies being made, with the movie being the priority and not the moolah it rakes in. We can already see a beginning with so many art house(read small budget) movies coming out. Many of these small-budget movie actors are quite celebrated today-Rahul Bose, Konkona Sen Sharma, and many others. The revolution has already started; now it will gain pace. As for movie buffs like me, we'll get to watch good cinema :)

Making a Jodi with the Junta

There is a lot that I have been wanting to pen down in my month long stint at Mumabi but for now I shall restrict my self to the most recent experience here.

Time: Late Sunday evening(maybe night, if thats what 9:45 pm is for you)
Venue: Juhu PVR

And considering the date, you would have probably guessed it already. Rab ne Banaa di Jodi was quite different from all the SRK movies that we have witnessed so far. This time, for a change it was a lot closer to the Indian reality. There were lot of instances which looked like pages straight out of the life of a middle class man. There are so many people who could do whatever it takes to make someone else happy. A Surinder Sahni exists in every gully. I have not been following the reviews, but SRK according to me has evolved tremendously. He has managed to come out of his DDLJ/DTPH/KKHH template to bring out a Chak De and now this. I happened to watch one of his TV interviews before the release of the film and he seems to be be a lot more mature than he was during yester years and the thought that he puts into his filams these days clearly shows. After Rab Ne, SRK would have surely pulled many out of the AB club to his. Though Rab Ne was pretty much all about SRK, another person has managed to make his mark yet again. Vinay Pathak has always been one of the art-house bests and now, finally he has managed to find his deserving place in commercial cinema as well. Taani's role did not have much to it and so I don't think Anoushka Sharma deserves any special credit. Having said all that, the movie undoubtedly had the signature larger than life, mushy essence. But we can't expect an SRK art film, can we? We Indians are hopeless romantics and can easily relate to all the mush, and that is exactly why SRK is what he is. So, on the whole, the movie gets a thumbs up from me.
And as for the box-office, I'm sure it will do wonders.

The Clay Monster

He stepped out, triumphant having felled a Serbian giant, but a Swiss one and a bigger one at that waited for ambush. This is no alluring beginning to another middle earth story. But Roland Garros 2008 was no less. The women’s singles saw the emergence of two stars; Safina who was unseeded at the beginning of the tournament and went on to becoming the runners-up, brushing aside Maria Sharapova in the process, and Anna Ivanovic who topple quite a few greats to win the title and top the ATP rankings. Personally however, I do not find women’s tennis as attractive as the players themselves. Tennis for me has always been the men’s singles.
This year’s Roland Garros had Nadal as the pre tournament favorite, after he had won the ATP Masters. However, Federer enjoyed everyone’s support. Nadal, the king of clay was the only hurdle between the all time great and the coveted French Open title. And the hurdle had not been moved an inch for the past three years. If all went well, there would be a Nadal-Djokovic clash in the semis with Federer waiting for the victor in the finals. It takes little intelligence to guess whom Federer wanted to avoid. The Nadal-Djokovic semi final clash was luke warm as a contest. Nadal cruised through the first couple of sets, but Djokovic showed great nerve in the third, almost winning it. In the end, it was a Nadal- Federer finals yet again. Federer had not really cruised through the tournament if one looks at the score cards, but all those games were a preparation for the finals. He was trying it all out to see what worked for him. He would need all that experience.
The Finals: Nadal and Federer walk out, the audience support clearly in favor of Federer. Surprisingly, sitting on my couch I felt that the commentators too supported Federer. I just hoped Federer lived up to their expectations and made up an interesting finale. It was Nadal all through. Despite playing an aggressive game, just as what the doctor had prescribed, Federer was ousted by an unplayable Nadal. Federer committed far too many errors, probably reeling under pressure and ultimately, the final scores of 6-1, 6-3, 6-0 meant that the clay monster had crushed the Swiss giant.

…Another wet evening, and yet another stroll into the thickets. The trees were drenched and as if out of sheer envy, they shook their branches to drench me. I had folded my trousers up to the knees and splashed the muddy waters of the puddles with alacrity like we did while walking to school on wet days (read everyday). A slippery looking toad hopped over my slippers and I chased it into the wet grass lining the forest pathway. Birds had come out of shelter to look for dinner before the next shower. There seemed to be plenty; butterflies flapped on those little yellow flowers growing out of the light green grass, earthworms wriggled their way out of the soaked soil and the rhythmic screech of insects preparing themselves for their nocturnal stint had already begun.

The water had grown louder since yesterday; I no longer heard those insects. The rotten wooden bridge was still intact. Five felled pine trees lay side by side like lifeless trolls; years of lashing water having caused considerable decay in their bodies. And walking over these trolls was no joke but I loved doing it most.
One…Two…One…Two…
The logs were big and cylindrical, slippery with the overgrowth of moss and fungi on them. I would walk with both arms stretched out sideways as a balancing act, slip and fall, one leg dangling down a crevice and the other kissing a fungus, then get up and resume. One…Two…One…Two…
I would do it for hours with nothing else on my mind. As if nothing else existed, just the dead pine trees, the restless stream beneath and insects screeching the background score.

Merian

Merian DeSilva gazed at her graying self in the mirror. She soothed the grey tufts that framed her wrinkling façade dragging the golden comb down the thinning cascade as if trying to paint them back to their Barbie doll like self; as if trying to miraculously transform the face in the mirror, to something forty years younger. She tried it everyday, since she had turned old. The golden magic wand never worked. And she was in no condition to start looking for the fountain of youth; so she went on with life as it was. And life did grant Merian her share of joy, be it in the form of her new recipe of chocolate pie or the first fruit on her mango tree.
She had woken up early today and was done with the morning chores. Today was special, not because it was Sunday; she was growing older by another year today. “Sixty-five!”, she concluded after some math on her fingers. Her memory had not yet failed her, just that she no longer bothered to keep a count of her age. Years passed, and all that remained was a hope. She was awoken from her thoughts by a tap on the door. It was Anita. Anita was not very different from Merian herself; about the same age and similar memoirs to haunt. Merian at times wondered how beautiful Anita would have looked in her youth. “A princess”, she would say at times to a blushing Anita. Anita did not have a photograph of her younger self, so it was all left to Merian’s imagination to flatter her.
“So where”s my cake?”,Merian asked candidly, as Anita proceeded to hug her. She knew there was a cake waiting for her as usual. All she wanted to know if it was chocolate or pineapple.
“Your chocolate cake is waiting in the hall with all the others”; Anita pulled Merian out of her room.
The Happy Birthday song followed amidst some mild clapping, not quite resembling the hullabaloo of a birthday celebration, but befitting inmates of Asha Niketan, the old age home - Merian’s home, since the past one and a half decades. She hugged everyone in the hall as they exchanged bites from their slices of cake with hers. She had tears in her eyes. She had not wanted to celebrate her sixty fifth birthday here. She had not wanted to celebrate any of her last fifteen birthdays here. She went back to her room and pulled out the old silverfish-nibbled photograph from the old rusted steel trunk. She had not wiped her tears; they would flow even if she did. She caressed the black and white faces in the photograph, then pressed it close to her bosom and wept aloud.
Merian DeSilva, the dance teacher was quite well known among the communities in Panjim, who wanted their children to be involved in extracurricular activities. That is how she earned a living for herself and her son, Soham ever since Mr.DeSilva passed away. Soham was fifteen then. She was no expert dancer herself, having lost the practice and the dancer’s body after marriage. But , she was a good teacher, nevertheless. She never wanted the premature death of her husband to change the life of her child. She always made him feel that all was well, though the financial setback was tough to tackle at times. She drowned all her pain and strife in her silent soliloquies. She found her haven in the little joys of her son, his aspirations and his success.
One morning, Soham rushed into the house with a piece of paper in hand and read out –
“Dear Mr.Soham DeSilva,
The English department of the University of Lancashire is pleased to inform you that you have been selected for our special programme as had been advertised. You have also been granted a complete scholarship based on…..”
“Ma, so what do you think?”, Soham asked with a proud smile on his lips, his arms folded tight.
Ma did hear it; it meant Soham was going away. Soham looked at her face and knew it all.
“Don’t worry Ma. It will be just for three years.”
Ma smiled. Soham did not quite understand whether the smile was in agreement or a sarcastic reply to the ‘Don’t worry. .’. Whatever it was, Soham left for England the following week and his mother began her three year wait. It had been five years since his father passed away and they had learnt to live without him. Soham wanted a comfortable life for his mother, one in which she would not have to take dance classes any more. A degree in England would do him a world of good on returning back to India. There was a dearth of English teachers in the universities here and he had always felt it during his education. All good things call for a sacrifice; well, this time it was his mother making one, by letting go of him.
Merian got on with her life and her dance classes. Soham would send a letter or two every month and she would reply back. At times, Soham would call up a PCO in the locality, where Merian would be waiting to hear her son’s voice. Two and a half years went by the same way.
“I’m almost done. A couple of months and I’ll be back.”
“Two months”, Merian thought. She made sweets for all her dance students that day. She knew that two months would pass in a jiffy. She marked the calendar hanging from the dilapidated wall of her one room home. Every morning, the calendar would be the first thing she would look at. She saw May change to June and June to July until -
“…Ma, guess what? I ‘m coming next week. I’m coming home. Woohoo!” Merian had never imagined that this would be the last time she heard her son.
The following night, a neighbor rushed into her house, gasping. “Merian behan, have you heard the news? There has been a shootout in Soham’s college. They are showing it in BBC. An English student apparently went bizarre. They are saying that an Indian too has died in the incident though…”
……………………………………………………………..

Merian cajoled the faces of her husband and son in the photograph again. The photograph went blur behind the curtain of tears as she heard a soft whisper in her ears, “Happy Birthday Ma!”.

"...Lost" - 55 word short story

The palm trees whispered the sordid news to the evening breeze; it would now travel to every corner of the world. Shomya lay under one of them, his tears narrating the tale of humiliation. He had lost the bet. The Indian cricket team had lost again.
His sobbing stopped gradually as night engulfed the land.

Freedom on Friday

The hum drowns out,

Music, the silence...

I flap my wings,

As the shackles break.

The rain of the new land

It rained last night. I lay back on bed as the flashes of lightening lit the room through the netted curtains on the window. I had seen a lot of rain before. But this was a different rain; a rain of a new land. I had music plugged to my ears. And the music could’nt have sounded better. The flashes seemed to dance to the rhythms of Malhaar(Fuzon) and Baadal(Om). The beautiful rain of the new land. I say, music doesn’t glorify a season; seasons glorify music. I wish it rains again tonight.

Choice

From the shallows of youth to the uncertain depths of manhood, it’s been a long way. But what has hit hard is the sudden shift. Four years of engineering was supposed to serve as the transition but it hardly did. It was four years spent the way I wanted to spend it; shoving away the inflictions as I could choose to do so. What makes it worse now is that I still have the inflictions but not the choice.

Choice is probably the best measure of success, whatever be the definition. The more the number of choices one has at any juncture in life, the more successful he is. Sounds funny, but by sparing a moment of thought we all would eventually agree to a certain extent. Starting from the choice of schools one has after a successful entrance exam to the choice of brides at a latter point in life; it is a stark fact. We could come up with innumerable examples hidden in the hulabaloo of life. We just fail to identify. So, let's start counting our success and feel good about it.

Here's to a successful life!

As you peek,
In the silence of dawn;
I watch enticed,
Your dancing smile…

Sameer

It was a soggy weekend. Pie Street was not in its usual spirit. The rain, a couple of hours back had dampened the hustle bustle. Couples took their evening strolls while some ambled along alone, preoccupied in their soliloquies. Others chattered along in groups discussing life, passions, politics and everything conceivable. Many cars lined the street; not many plied though. Book vendors laid out their merchandise on tarpaulins along the footpaths that lined the twelve foot wide road. They would look persuasively at every oblivious face that passed by. These people did have a good business going, with quite a lot of avid readers frequenting the coffee shops that lined the street. I sat on the stairs outside Beans recollecting the travails of the week and watching all that was happening on Pie Street; the silhouettes that passed by in front of the glowing neon advertisements, the only jubilance in the otherwise droopy Saturday evening; the children begging for alms and those splashing on the puddles. I had already had my black coffee and was waiting for Sameer.

Sameer was late. He rambled on and on as he laid out his books on a blue tarpaulin. He then began flaunting his latest collection of Camus and Shakespeare. I wondered if he was a bit too grown up for his age for he seemed to read into the books better than I did. Sameer - Just as any other child of twelve, he loves the first showers of rain, the petrichor thereafter and floating paper boats on water filled pot holes, he loves watching the beautiful people walk past and he loves me. He sells books outside Beans. On weekends, I sit with him; we talk for hours. He tells me all about his exploits in school, his friends there, the books he had read, and all that was there to be told about his solitary life. He narrates stories from the books that he reads. I hardly listen to the stories; I stare at his eyes, transfixed as they glow when he talks of a prince or blazes at the mention of a diabolic villain. This has been the greatest pleasure in my otherwise nugatory life, quite soothing, after an arduous week at office. I too juvenilely complain about my life to Sameer; about how my boss had bullied me, or a rickshaw driver had cheated me, about the neighbor’s dog barking at odd hours in the night, or the leaking tap in the bathroom. He probably likes listening to me, for he never budges or fidgets during my jabbering; or perhaps he finds all that amusing. Whenever, a passerby stops to have a shy at the books, Sameer starts his list of recommendations. The recommendations are opinionated and biased; based on his own liking for the book or the author, but are often genuine. And he shows the same zeal for everyone. I, needless to say, happen to be his best customer. I read none of the books I buy. Sameer’s recommendations to me inevitably reach a level of elaboration wherein they become the narration of the entire story. Nevertheless, I always buy the books.

It was Sameer’s birthday. He did not expect me to remember. Days and dates held no meaning for him and moreover, he had mentioned it just once since the time we met. But I did. We had chocolate pastries, ice-creams, watched movies and did all that I thought would enthrall him. We had dinner at Ruby Tuesday and I still remember the glitter in his eyes as he admired all that he could see and feel; the people, the food, the ambience. That was probably the happiest day of his life. I stared at his little facade wondering where in him he hid all the strife that the adversity of life had inflicted on him.

Suddenly, while fondling with the spoon, he started pensively:

Dada, I miss Maa. I still remember her. She would have been so happy to see her darling son here, with you, amidst all the big people. She loved me, and instructed me to love everyone; never to fight. Sister Martha from the orphanage tells me that I’m just like her. However, she tells me that God has given me a small heart, and I since I use it more than others it has grown weak. I don’t know what she means though. But she always weeps when talking to me.

************************************

A year has brought so much change in the Pie Street. The serenity which prevailed earlier despite the hustle bustle is no longer there. However, the neons, the rains, the petrichor and the children splashing the rain waters are still there. They will always be there to remind me of the little boy who loved it all. Happy Birthday Sameer!