FIREFLIES OVER NAINI LAKE

The sun is bright in the sky when I walk the perimeter of the lake the first time. The waters are a sparkling green and twinkling with sunlight. I stop to smell some wild roses and kick an errant pine cone. Dinner is a long way away. And I have been told to disappear till then. I have time.

The shadows of the dark catch up with me on my second vigil around the ramparts. The waters are already becoming impersonal. The last of the sun is setting the sky orange purple with farewell.

Dorothy’s Seat, Snow View and the other high points are all fine. But it is the lake that always calls me. The mountains let me be who I am. But the waters…they call to me and promise me their secrets. That’s why I love to walk the Naini Lake. The busy Mall Road on one side and the tranquil Thandi Sadak on the other. I need both sides to keep me centred.

Today, so far, the waters have given up nothing.

I am near the Northern end and close to the Naina Devi temple. Enough walking. A quiet little nook is what I need. To get the best seat in the house and see the last rays of the setting sun dancing on the ripples.

There is a weeping willow tree near the edge with some of its branches leaning into the waters. It is dropping yellow orange leaves like bits of flame into the lake. A pact I suspect tree and water have had going for a while. That’s why the locals call them Laila Majnu.

I throw the horse chestnuts in my sweaty palms far into the water. Two little splashes mark the landing. There is a perfect little place next to the thick trunk. I can already feel myself sink into that sweet spot, away from watching eyes.

Except….there is someone there. He isn’t young. Maybe the same age as the tree, which makes him old. Maybe the same age as the water…which makes him ancient. He has white hair and an old person’s face but bright shiny eyes.

I screw up my eyes in disgust and go, chaaa... As close to an apology if there was ever such a thing. I turn to leave. He thrusts out his hands and nods. It is a box of donuts. It’s not looking Indian. It has the words Chocolate Frosting and Cincinnati Champs written on it.

I have been told not to talk to strangers. And certainly not accept food from them. Nainital is a small place with very few strangers. I don’t know him. But I do know of him.

His hands have spots on them. He nods again and thrusts the box closer. I look at the box again. It actually says Double Chocolate Frosting on it. It looks better than the ones we get at Sakleys.

That just plum concludes the argument. I nod back and go sit the other side of the tree. And help myself to a donut showing as much restraint as I can muster. It is a fresh box. There are still five inside. I make up my mind to go at least two more.

There is no conversation. Just an old man, a kid, a tree with flaming leaves and the quiet lapping of the waters. The darkness renders everything purple now. But the moon is silvery bright.

We don’t exchange names or anything. As if we sit here every evening with chocolate donuts.

Except I am young. And a kid who sometimes doesn’t listen to his mother.

I start tentatively. ‘They call you the lake’s boyfriend, you know that?’

He doesn’t respond. Just gives a half smile and nods. His face doesn’t look like it ever smiles fully. Maybe it does but has forgotten how to. His reaction is too subtle for me.

‘They say you dropped your wife’s wedding ring in the lake. And you are hoping one day it comes back to you.’

The old man doesn’t say a thing. Even if he smiles, I can’t tell. His face is hard to read with its wrinkles and creases. A white owl hoots and goes scurrying above our heads. Its talons look sharp.  The second donut tastes as fine as the first.

The waters turn dark. Opaque. They express themselves through sound now. A gentle overlapping rhythm that plays continuously. The occasional splash of a fish or a sliding stone.

‘The lake is dying.’

A fine way to start a conversation.  I like people who get right into it.

‘I thought only people and goldfish died.’

This time I know it’s a smile he has on his face. Because he turns and looks at me, sizing me up. Then he turns and resumes his water gazing.

 ‘All I ask is for the lake to give me what is mine,’ he says in a voice that belongs to whiskey, cigars and old western movies.

‘But if it doesn’t, it will suffer as it does now. The toxic poison of a thousand constructions and the price of development.’

The last bit falls very heavy on me. So I go after the money question.

‘What does the lake have that is yours?’

He takes an eternity. I am thinking he isn’t going to attempt that. But he does.

‘It was many years ago. We were staying near Ayarpatta. My son Nalin and his friends came down to the lake to row. They had single boats then. It was a fine summer day. The kingfishers were there, so were the ducks and moorhens. The Rufous Babbler was babbling…’

This is a lot for him. We take a pause. Suddenly from the left comes one firefly, then another until maybe a dozen are glowing in front. Like they are all late for a party on the willow. They have just met outside the venue and come rushing in.

‘The fireflies are my friends,’ he says with a gentle look. ‘On moonless nights they always come to give me company and light.’

I wait expectantly and then say, ‘What happened after that? Did your son lose his ring?’

He snorts.

 ‘A lost ring would have been the least of my worries. No, that day I lost my son. To the lake.’

I sit up and inhale sharply. I didn’t expect the story to go that way. He isn’t finished so I wait.

 ‘Nalin was a champion swimmer. Best in his college. He could dive like an otter. Hold his breath underwater for over 90 seconds. But that day their boat toppled and he fell into the lake. Like so many times before. But this time…he never came up.’

The fireflies disperse when he comes to this point. Either they have heard the same story many times. Or they don’t care for this part.

I wasn’t aware that people could just disappear underwater. Unless there was a crocodile or shark in the story. But the way he says it….I believe him.

A shiver of thrill runs tiptoeing on my spinal cord.

‘How’s that possible? People just don’t uh not…come back up.’

He shakes his head. As if he has done it a million times in disbelief at the same thought. How did his little boy go down into the lake and not come up?

‘The entire town helped me look. We found 212 coconuts, 98 old video cassettes, 11 toasters, 3 dozen cufflinks and 5 gold rings. Ultimately, I called in deep sea naval divers from Vizag.’

 He stops and gives a contemptuous cough. Then continues.

‘They banned those light boats after that because they are really light but they topple over easy. It was too late. The lake had him. A lake that’s not even very deep.’

The 3rd donut turns to sawdust in my mouth. My voice has a quiver in it.

‘So, what happened? They did find him… uh did they find him? ’

I don’t want to use the word, body, so I don’t. Its presence looms large though.

The fireflies have been coming and going for a while now. Just hovering over the edge of the lake, in and out of the branches of the willow tree. One comes and sits on the man’s shoulder.

‘No, nobody could find him. Ever. It was like he had dived down a hole in the lake and come out in China.’

We just sit in silence after that. There really was nothing meaningful I could say.

 If someone takes a photograph or draws a picture of us. A weeping willow, an old man, a kid, the lake and the fireflies. One thing they won’t do is call it… a deep sadness.

But that’s how the scene is. Of profound sorrow. It spreads out like a blanket over our side of the lake. My eyes are wet and cheeks are getting streaked. I want to ask, why do you come and sit here every day?

But I can’t do it. I know why.

He answers anyway.

‘I ran away to live in Finland…but it was no use. This damn lake doesn’t let me sleep. I had to come back to Naini. To talk with the lake. It really has no business keeping what’s mine. See, the more it resists, the more it dies. Just a matter of time. One day I know he will come back to me, right in front of me.’

I look down at the waters and pull my feet back a little. The last thing my heart needs is for a body to come up in front of me. I notice the time on my HMT and start. My mother’s going to be mad. I say good bye, wipe the crumbs off with my palms and prepare to race off.

He looks at me with eyes that are not unkind. ‘Let this be our secret then?’

I nod and take off, only stopping to look back at the turn once. I can see his silhouette, still sitting there.

Back home, I tell my mother about seeing the old man.

She immediately says, ‘Oh that’s Mr Wheeler, he’s been here forever. He never talks to anybody. Did he say something to you?’

I look out from the window to the moonlit covered lake. It is really dark in the hilly town at this time. I can’t possibly spot him from this distance. But in the distance I feel I can see the fireflies dancing under the willow tree.  And I know he is still there. Waiting.

‘No, he didn’t…not a thing mother.’

P.S – A few months later, Nalin’s body came up, almost at his father’s feet. I wasn’t surprised. It was a wonder the lake had held out that long. Nobody could take that kind of pressure. I hope Mr Wheeler rests easy now. I am happy for him but I am sure the fireflies miss him.

VENI VIDI FENI

The air around Mortin’s farm is enough to make a light hearted person swoon. Lucky I am not from that stock. I have been coming to his remote abode for years. It’s bang in the middle of the jungles of South Goa.

The Feni distillery is in full production mode. The ground is covered by vast hordes of yellow green cashew apples. There are very many Feni makers in Goa. For me, Mortin is the king. Pure as driven snow and absolutely free of unnatural additives.

I give a holler and he sticks his head out from the door on the far side.

‘Why you shouting men? Making a potion for the king. His knee is locked.’

King is the leader of a tribal group that live far in the jungles of South Goa. Mortin, the liquor brewer, is also a home scientist and the entire tribal community’s doctor.

‘Mortin, there are things more serious happening in the world than the king’s locked knee. A Brit guy sneezed all over my quiche yesterday.’

He looks concerned. But I can see he is faking it.

‘Was it Joseph’s chorizo quiche?’

‘No men,’ I reply testily. ‘It was mushroom and cheese. That’s not really the point.’

‘Well in that case, if it’s just mushroom…I mean how badly can a sneeze affect it?’

I curse to myself. I often forget how cut off from the world this man is. A nuclear blast could happen in the free world and Mortin wouldn’t be bothered. Not unless there was a decline in the mushrooms in the forest.

‘We have a global pandemic Mort. A new virus. People are terrified. It’s all over the globe.’

He looks a little concerned but it’s for a different reason than I expect.

‘You said global pandemic in the beginning and then, all over the globe. You don’t have to repeat. The first time only I got the entire world reference.’

The man’s casual attitude towards global events is truly staggering.

‘Mortin, it’s called the Corona virus and the outbreak has the world badly rattled. People are getting infected like a zombie apocalypse. Travel between countries is banned. Schools, offices and movie halls are shut. Sanitizers and masks are worth their world in gold.’

Mortin checks for language redundancy first. Finds none. And then proceeds to look concerned…at last.

‘You bloody bugger. Last time you said you wouldn’t eat Joseph’s pies. And now you saying you had his quiche. That too, a mushroom one!’

False alarm. He still doesn’t care. Well, clearly Mortin is like Robinson Crusoe. The rest of the world has ceased to exist for him. But I must get his attention. I get a workable idea.

‘Mortin, my brother. I think I may be dying. Will you take care of Lucy?’

He just sniffs suspiciously at the first part about my dying. But the second? Now that’s the whole Bebinca right there. Lucy is my cat and Mortin is not fond of her. My iguana KC, he will take care of. My dog Abbkin, he will take care of. But not my Lucy.

‘No Peter, I will not take care of Lucy. I have allergies, remember? She may be the only animal I am allergic to now that I think of it. Come, let’s calmly discuss this case of your premature death. To me all vital signs are looking fine. I am worried about your choice of pie and its wider meaning. But no more than that.’

I sat down on a tree trunk fashioned to be a chair. A fever seems to be coming. Why else would I be feeling cold on a March day in Goa? He pours me a stiff Feni. It’s only 11 in the morning. But that’s for other people in the world to worry about.

The squawking of wild parrots and pigeons in the jungles is loud.

‘Government is not allowing foreigners to come in now, Mort. Damn chap called Finley, come from the bloody UK last week. He wants to know stories about the hippies and the flea market. I am telling him about the crucial difference between ‘flee’ and ‘flea’. A genuine going out of town sale by people ‘flee’ing literally. He is not getting it and is pursuing the ‘flea’ word relentlessly.’

Mortin takes a large dash of his drink and says, ‘I can see how this would bring you to death’s door. I react the same way when people call Feni, a light drink.’

Mortin’s constant stream of sarcasm means only one thing.  I must cut to the chase as the foreigners say.

‘Well, then he gave a real watery sneeze all over proceedings. And his eyes were red like James gets after drinking a litre of Uraak. He looked like he was coming down with something. Dr Alvarez was sitting at the next table. He gave a loud roar and ran like a fast moving Kangaroo. Didn’t even take his Poi and Cafreal. Just yelled, get yourself tested, you foreign f#*k!’

Much to my consternation, Mortin doesn’t show the necessary reflex required when an old friend might be dying. Just looks mildly amused at this slice of Goa story.

The he says, ‘When you saw a fast moving Kangaroo men? And why you wearing a mask which says, I love Him? Should I be worried padrao?’

I curse my choice in friends.

‘Fine friend you are Mort. Not worrying that I am dying here but very worried about my mask. This is a very emotional time for me. It’s a t-shirt that says, I love Himachal Pradesh, which I had to cut up.’

Mortin laughs like a bear. Very open and very loud. He makes for a funny visual. A short stocky guy who would get lost in a crowd of short stocky guys. He has a stern mouche but a kind heart.

‘How will a mask protect you after you have received an infected spray of saliva? Did you try washing your hands?’

I cringe at his choice of words, specially the spray of saliva bit. But I can feel my throat closing and the fever progressing in my bones. I soldier on.

‘I don’t know! I’m scared like the time Jerome was when his wife…. but let me not change the topic. Yes I washed my hands and face and legs 36 times after the Brit spit landed.’

Mortin laughs again and disappears into his shed. Then he brings me a 60ml of Feni. This one looks a little bit green in colour.

‘Drink this,’ he commands.

I drink it. It doesn’t taste any different from his regular hooch.

‘Think this will help Mort? Mhojea jivak borem dissonam. I feel a lot sick already,’ I say with feeling.

The throat is constricted. Definite feverish feeling. Could this be the way it ends?

Mortin claps his hands like a kid. ‘Good good. Go take a nap on the big bed.’

I manage a weak, Deu borem korum, and go crawl into his bed in a foetal position. Who knows, I might not make it to the next day.

The next day I feel like a new man! Like a million bucks. My throat is clear, brow is clear of fever, breathing is easy. I am feeling better than my pre-infection days.

I want to give Mortin an awkward man hug. But he’s nowhere to be found. Probably collecting strange psychedelic flower seeds and mysterious dotted fungi.

The next order of business then is to go check on that Finley chap.

I make my first stop at my Aunt Cassie’s house. She’s a legend of sorts. A wee little thing from my neighbourhood, and the local news. The collector and dispenser of community happenings. Some colourful, some dramatic, some plain silly. But her accuracy rates are in the high seventies.

She yells at me not to step foot into her door. The sneezing episode at Jo’s place wouldn’t have escaped her.  Her place is too clean for me and I am happy to stand outside.

‘Don’t be a hero Peter. Go to Anthony’s and get with the doctor. That foreign chap with you? He’s in the big hospital in Margao. He has that thing. The Coco virus thing.’

I take this news calmly. Though I feel really good, I’m not sure if I am going to die. I am a simpleton. What do I know about international viruses?  I know all about Johnny Walker 12,15, 18…you name the year. But I know nothing about a virus called Covid 19.

My life is so slow, I don’t meet more than four people in a week. Unfortunately, the Brit guy came and upset my weekly average. And gave me a world famous sickness. Which I may or may not still have.

I hotfoot it back to Mortin’s abode. He is still nowhere to be seen. I go around back and see him behind a banana tree, almost where the jungle starts. I am about to holler when I see who he’s talking to. A King Cobra, that’s who! The shout freezes in my throat and the blood in my veins.

Except, Mortin is laughing and nodding in an agreeable way. The snake is at eye level with him. It seems to be whispering into his ear. It is a funny story because they both laugh. Maybe really funny because the King sways back and forth. Mortin suddenly spots me standing like a statue. He pats the King Cobra on the head and walks across. The cobra becomes like the wind and disappears.

 When I get my guts back, I tell Mortin about Finley.

Mortin smacks his lips in a way I do not appreciate. But he is my saviour and I must not be petty.

Mortin hands me over a half litre bottle of Feni. Of the greenish variety.

‘Natural retro viral antidote. Two 60mls of this and he’ll be a new man. Maybe even a better man.’

He gives his long bear like laugh when he says the last part.

I want Mortin to come with me but he refuses outright.

‘You know me Peter. I trust snakes. But I have a problem with people.’

The universe tests me at this point. Should I drink copious amounts of Feni and just celebrate my good health? Or try and save that damn fool Finley? Am I hero material? Well, I didn’t think so. But the damn universe…had to go and give me a little conscience.

I go meet my cousin Anthony. The one doctor in our family. The one I have been compared to ever since I hit puberty.

‘Listen Andy. I tried this stuff on myself. Look at me go. I can lift a fallen coconut tree and smack it back into the ground. ’

Anthony or Doctor as he is called here at the government hospital is facing issues with faith himself. Can he believe his aunt’s son? A layabout and copious drinker of local hooch. He keeps a three meter distance between us. Which clearly shows where both of us stand.

His reputation and everything he’s built could end in tatters. There would be no conflict if I wasn’t his father’s sister’s son. He wouldn’t give a hoot then.

That tilts it heavily in my direction. He sizes me up. Admits reluctantly like I am looking like a keen bloodhound. He has to make the call. I know how he’s going to play it. Otherwise I make the call that matters. To his mother.

‘Listen Peter, I can’t just give this without checking. We have testing protocols, patient consent, clinical trials, side effect observations to note, 90 day results…’

I just give him a dead pan look. And keep doing it…till he cracks.

‘If anything goes wrong Peter, I am going to have to deny any official intervention. Okay, you stay here. I’ll go and check with the medical team if we can administer this…,’ he holds up the green stained Feni and gives it a withering look. ‘This liquid.’

‘When you say, medical team, you mean Sister Agnes, right? Anyway, Mortin’s Feni antivirus is what I call it. And all these sick people will give you consent for a possible cure in a heartbeat. I may not be as brilliant as you, but I am no yokel. Yes, go on then. Make sure he gets it all in,’ I say with the calmness of one that has met the healer. And been healed.

I have done all I can. I push off home and fall into a dreamless sleep. Except for one where I see the King Cobra talking to Mortin. And then both turn and grin at me as if I am their idiot child. That’s the only one.

It’s all pandemonium the next morning. Dr Anthony also known in these parts as Andy is standing outside talking to my mother. Much excitement and wonder seem to be the theme. I go back to sleep. Only to be bushwhacked by my mother. She grabs my shoulders and literally throws me off the bed! Usually she does this in rage. Today, it is done with a great big smile.

Anthony is all smiles too in his warm greetings. His smile is as animated as a road runner. He even tries to hug me. That’s funny considering yesterday he kept a full three arms length between us.  Seems like that’s all in the past now.

‘It’s a miracle Peter. That Finley guy has recovered fully. Zero fever, clear airways, throat absolutely fine. It’s amazing. He is still going to be under observation. But hallelujah, I am certain there is no going back. He is healed.’

I am quite excited about it as well. This does double confirm that we may have a viable cure here. I may be Goan but I am a human of the world as well. Well, a little bit anyway.

‘Listen Andy. Both of us know what we have here. The cure to worldwide pandemic is in Goan hands. All I want to know is…lead me to the cha ching!’

Andy has a classic weasel look. Obviously he’s been running some numbers himself. But being a doctor he will try for the path lined with nobility. And caution. He starts by giving me a pained look.

‘C’mon Peter. Let’s remember that this situation is bigger than personal profit. All humanity would be looking to us as angels of protection. We must take the high road. Also, one case is not conclusive. I am going to the Mapusa medical centre to run seconds. They have two confirmed cases. One Israeli and one Latvian.’

I stretch and yawn. Yesterday was an unnaturally long day for me.

‘You lost me at the humanity part Dr Andy. And it’s two cases including me. Let me know how it turns out. But I have no doubts. We have the cure.’

My savior Mortin is standing in his shorts and peeing on the daisies when I find him. I wait for him to finish and then tell him the good news.

His reaction should be jubilance. Instead, it is wary.

‘Listen Peter. I don’t want a lot of people coming and finding me. I have a limited social circle and want to keep it that way.’

Typical. His social circle as far as I can see is a King Cobra…and me.

‘Mortin, you have no idea what you have stumbled upon. The key to unlimited fortunes. And the blessings of human beings all over…’

He cuts me off midway my triumphant declaration.

‘I don’t care for any of that. And I didn’t stumble upon it Peter. I created it for sick people using seven different ingredients. One of which is a little bit of Audrey juice.’

‘But we are a part of the chain Mort. We must do what it takes when called upon by the planet. What’s Audrey juice by the way?’

‘Peter, I’ll give you whatever it is you are excited about. But I am not getting involved. Audrey is my friend. You saw her the other day, didn’t you?’

Realization dawns slowly. I shudder and tingle at the same time.

‘You mean your pet cobra you were chatting with, the other day? One of the most poisonous snakes in the world and you call it Audrey?’

‘Don’t call her an ‘it’ Peter! It’s a her. And she’s my friend. I never question why you call your cat, Lucy, or your dog, Abbkin, do I? Now, I have to go get some sea algae, if you want me to make more of the green potion. And as I said, I want no further involvement in this. You have to handle the world and the everybody part.’

‘That’s a good idea Mort. You supply me the potion and I’ll go make the fortune and be the hero who saves millions!’

Mortin laughs again in that infuriating way. ‘Yes, then you can afford more than Joseph’s mushroom quiches.’

He is indeed a uniquely evolved person.

Two days later I meet Anthony again at the Margao hospital. The Mortin antivirus has been tested thrice more and has been successful every time.  He is cautiously confident enough now to speak with the higher ups and the media. He doesn’t want to hog the entire credit and that’s why he’s called me. Also, because I am his brother from another mother. Mostly the second.

We smile benignly at the crowd of reporters. The crowd is taking pictures of him. Only one big city reporter has come from Mumbai. But that’s okay. There are many claims being made about a cure worldwide. Anthony tells me it will take time for the discovery to seep through. There are a couple of local leaders and politicos too. Right now, they don’t say much. Just in case this miracle cure doesn’t play out the way it is supposed to.

But it does. And in a week’s time they are hijacking mikes and press conferences. It seems nobody cares about the part where one has to wait for a certain period, to note down any observable side effects. The patients are getting cured and that there is the whole cigar.

The antivirus has proven effective with every patient and every single time. From Hyderabad to Kerala, the results have been definite.

The entire world knows about the ‘working’ cure in the next two weeks! To his credit, Andy calls me for each conference where the hero worship is growing. I have been telling Mortin to keep brewing his potion and also to come meet the press. He agrees to the former but snorts dismissively at the latter.

Because of travel restrictions, not too many people can come to Goa. But that being said, a veritable medley of medical experts, journos and other important people gather for a big announcement in Panjim.

‘We have the cure! We are the chosen ones to show the way for the fate of the world. Future generations will remember us as the heroes of our time. The protectors of human race and saviour…’

I tug at Andy’s sleeve. ‘Man, he is laying it on thick eh. Anyone would think he personally created the antivirus. If you could save lives through narcissism, this guy would win outright!’

We have got front row sofa seats in the big auditorium. On the stage this time. The Union minister for health himself has come down from New Delhi. Andy is all aquiver with excitement. He can see his name already in double sized golden font as the personal flame bearer of the Hippocratic Oath. The one Jesus anointed after Noah to save the world. Must be contagious because all the speakers are behaving the same way. I don’t hear acknowledgement of the source of the philosopher’s stone anywhere.

‘…And it is made right here in Goa. A special brand of Feni that cures the Covid 19 virus in a matter of hours. The soil, forests, rivers, trees…have gone into creating this amazing cure. I got a call from the PM of our country and 14 other countries yesterday. I said, Yes, we have it…’

This is going way off course. I forget Andy’s sleeve and tug his ear instead.

‘Not just the trees and forests men. A big ass snake also contributed to the cure. And the antidote must be given a medical name…because it is certainly not, a special brand of Feni. You know that is highly misleading Andy.’

Andy looks at me in a very superior way. He is certainly buying into this and doesn’t want anything to break his lucky streak. Certainly not some something as trifling as the truth.

‘Come on Peter,’ he says condescendingly. ‘This is the big league now, not cashew farming at Mortin’s place in the jungle. We have to play it big now. The stakes are very high. And why not? We deserve it.’

I should have read this coming in his body language. ‘Listen Andy, I may have dropped out of Sister Maria’s vet school after 2 years, but I know my basics. There is something called an active ingredient. The one that does the curing part? And it isn’t the Feni.’

‘Yes yes Peter. You know it.’ His eyes are glazed over though and he’s a million miles away.

The bombastic hero of the moment is still saving the world on the mike. And then he comes to my brother’s contribution to the entire episode. ‘And Dr Anthony Menezes who played a pivotal part in this exciting find will now be given charge to lead the Goa Medical Chapter from here on. Well done Doctor. We are very proud to call you one of our own.’

Well, that explains Andy’s glazed eyes. He’s not a million miles away. Just a few miles away, in the main hospital in Panjim apparently.

The next day, everything changes for the Goa Feni makers association. The demand is phenomenal. Everybody who is anybody starts sending in orders. Local and international politicians, industrialists, movie stars… There is no one who doesn’t want to sip at the fountain of life.

There are other stalwarts who are claiming their own home grown cures as well. This does dilute the brand somewhat. But our product has actually given credible results.

Goa runs out of Feni in the next month! But everyone involved in making and selling it is happy. As a drink, they would sell it at 100 bucks a bottle. But as a corona virus miracle cure they sell it for 1000 bucks a pop. A lot of diluting and mixing is happening. Liquids far from being any kind of liquor are being called Feni and bottled. But in the current euphoria, it’s all good.

Except for some old timers who can watch their winter stores disappearing, everyone is positively glowing with prosperity. There are new found millionaires roaming the dusty interiors.

After a select lot of Mortin’s Feni goes out, everything else is regular Feni. A lot of people do get cured. Some manage to beat the virus on their own. But give the credit to the Feni, further enhancing its golden reputation. Rumours say that even the royal family in England has ordered a special batch.

Goa which was having its worst years in recent years goes back on the map in a big way. All its lost glory comes back in a flash. 

In the midst of this Titanic raising, I lose my enthusiasm for the circus, that life has become. It’s been a while I met Mortin, so I decide to go back to where it all started.

I find him sitting exactly the same way as always. Next to his shed and brewing something in a steel bucket. He looks happy to see me and offers me some Feni. I am happy that there is some to be had. And its regular, not the green stuff.

We never did disclose Mortin’s identity as the creator of the antivirus. But a lot of people with connections did trace him and come to visit. Making his life miserable. But they all seemed to have disappeared now.

I look at my short squat friend. He seems at peace, completely not in sync with the worldwide pandemic. Hardly seems like the hero who has single handedly changed the fortunes of his state. Even his country. There should be a dozen statues of him in a dozen different places. People singing his praises. Looking at him I don’t think he would care one bit.

‘Well Mort, you did miss out on signing the exclusivity agreement. You could have earned millions.’

His response defines him completely.

‘No re. I am happy earning thousands.’

I am still curious about one thing.

‘So Mort, how did you manage to get rid of those pesky visitors? The ones who wanted the magic cure recipe?’

As usual, first he decides to be annoying. ‘Haha Peter. A magician never tells. You know that.’

‘No I didn’t know that men. I never met any magicians. Go on then, tell me how you managed to get back your alone status.’

He chuckles and rubs his hands together with glee. Then he goes behind the shed and gets back a big signboard.

It has a picture of his cobra Audrey. It says, BEWARE OF KING COBRA. TRESPASSERS WILL BE EATEN.

No bloody wonder the place is clear of visitors!

‘I love it Mort! Except, I didn’t know that King Cobras ate people.’

‘Hahaha….I know. But I haven’t had any complaints about it so far.’

This time we both laugh and clink glasses. Mission accomplished for us.

Both of us are happy to be back in our world.

Drinking Feni. The life giving liquid.

Cheers!

CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

The village of Sukhan was in its final throes of self preservation.

The jury came out when the sun was at its highest.  Everyone had gathered under the big banyan tree. Like they had ever since the oldest member could remember from their childhood. All big and small decisions had come to a pass here. It was their one fixed point of reference.

It was not a large gathering. Many years of ravaging drought had sent most men and even the women fleeing to the cities. The people left were the ones who could not move. And the few who would not.

Kinney sat directly in the middle of the gathering. The gravity of her posture did not in any way indicate she was only 15 years old.

Her younger brother Sunny scrabbled in the dirt next to her. He was only seven and always cheerful. The ways of the world had not affected his young mind. It was little matter to him that that the fate of his life was being decided right now. By people who had not done anything to create or sustain it.

The only thing on the little boy’s mind was to try and drown an ant with his spit. Kinney gave him a terse instruction. He reluctantly pulled up his dribble an inch short of the ant. Kinney was practical if nothing else. Moisture was scarce in their land. It must not be wasted.

The mukhiya cleared his throat. As per tradition, he started the proceedings.

‘You must both leave from here before the sun sets today. The village elders have deliberated many hours over this. We cannot let our village perish. There is no other way. Kinney, take your brother and go before the sun god consumes us all.’

Kinney sat impassively through this. She had known this was coming. There was an element of déjà vu from last year. It was all talk then. It seemed to be way more than that now. She spat on the ground and then spoke. 

‘We have nowhere to go. And Sunny is a child. He hasn’t done anything.’

‘Hasn’t done anything, hasn’t done anything! Look around you stupid girl. Our entire village can fit under this one tree. Just some years ago, we needed fifty gunthas to accommodate everyone. Seven years ago exactly. When your cursed brother was born.’

The school teacher for the village school, Mrs Dhuli Chand, was absolutely frothing at the mouth. She could not understand how Kinney could be so casual when the facts were clear. Obviously the girl was an idiot.

Mrs Chand finished by saying, ‘Panditji, maybe she will listen to you. Your wisdom is all that keeps Sukhan going.’

The sun was overhead and the land, wracked and hot. Pandit Dharampal wiped his brow and cleared his throat deliberately.

‘The rain gods are unhappy with us. It started seven years ago when that boy was born. We all know he consumed his mother as he came into this world. His father Mirak killed himself in the fields three months before he was born. The child is clearly accursed. Every puja and havan has been done. I have purified the village six times in the last six years. Nothing.’

At this point Panditji gave a long dramatic pause. As if pained by the brilliance of his deep analytical capabilities.

‘Nothing has worked. And we know why.’

The local moneylender Shamul felt his thoughts were so indignant, they could wait no longer. He was a small man but even in lean times his stomach looked well fed. His voice was starved of empathy though.

‘That boy must leave immediately. All the young people have gone off to Nagpur or Kolhapur. We can’t afford two more mouths drinking and eating. The Janamdetu well is almost dry. The local inspectors are stopping us from taking water from the dam. And that’s so far away. ’

Manilal, the grocer, spoke up. ‘Yes, my four children are always unhappy. It’s become very difficult to feed so many mouths in this place. With no water, we will have to leave for the city ourselves in some time. Oye ladki, why don’t you have mercy on us and leave with your brother?’

Manilal’s wife Asha spoke in a haughty voice. ‘We are very god fearing people. So much charity we have done. So many people we have helped. Why we have done the full char dhaam darshan and got the almighty’s blessings. Why would god punish us?’

There were many more murmurs of assent coming from the background. The entire village usually so divided on many matters was admirable in their unity today. They really had each other’s backs.

The finest testimonials poured forth from the crowd in support of each other. They generously reinforced each other’s worth in dire times. The higher purpose they had served. All laid on bedrock of a multitude of good deeds. Not to mention the pilgrimage to every holy or semi holy spot in the country. The only reason God wasn’t in their corner was because of these two children.

The mukhiya thought he had the house solidly behind him today. After all he had acted on the highest principles and values of justice.

‘So Kinney and Sunny. It is decided then. You will leave the village of Sukhan before dark. And never return.’

Kinney had no expression on her face as she listened. She knew that she and her brother would have to leave. Nobody was going to intervene. Nobody in the village was close to her.

She spat into the ground again. A hard life ensured she took life changing news with stolidity. Sunny was sitting next to her trying to get the ant to climb up his finger.

The people started dispersing. The mood was upbeat after participating in an exciting burst of democratic justice. The village had been saved from the brink after all.

Kinney took her brother’s hand and made to go to her hut. It wouldn’t take her long to gather their meagre belongings.

Suddenly, Rafiq called out her name as he came up behind her. Rafiq chacha was the postmaster for the entire district at one time. Now he just looked at stars and wrote poetry in Urdu for the loves he had lost.

He thrust a paper into her hand. Kinney looked at it and saw an address in Nagpur. There were two hundred rupee notes as well.

‘Go and meet my brother Javed in Nagpur. He is a tailor and is always looking for help.’

Kinney looked at him defiantly. ‘But we were born here chacha. We don’t want to go.’

Rafiq chacha’s eyes were kind. His voice was full of rage.

‘These fools are doing you a favour. There is nothing here. Go and never look back. I have to go now.’

They stood by the highway in the evening. They were to go to Khamiti and then catch the night bus to Nagpur. It wasn’t long they got passage in a truck that had seen better days. There were a bunch of people in the truck, mostly villagers from the neighbouring district. The truck got moving with a clang of gears.

 ‘Ah, does that smell like a wet breeze to you? See, it is already happening!’

Mrs Chand, the teacher, was exultant.

Pandit Dharampal looked up at the sky and agreed. ‘Yes, and I do believe the clouds are looking heavier. I hope the heavens bless us tonight. We have done all we can. How much more can they test our goodness?’

Kinney was still holding the paper with the address in her hand. It was her most prized possession right now. As the village and her whole life disappeared slowly from view, she felt a fresh wave of despair. What was the meaning of this wretched life? Did God have no plan for them at all?

The storm hit the village of Sukhan at midnight. It dumped 875mm of water in three hours, an unprecedented number in the entire state’s history. It caused a flash flood that literally washed away the entire village. One eyewitness said it was like a gigantic snake that came and swallowed up everything in its path.

The district superintendent, Prem Kumar, made an interesting observation in his report. Riddhi, the closest village just seven kilometres away had been left completely unaffected by the deluge.

He also wrote in his report that there were zero survivors in Sukhan and that the village had ceased to exist overnight.

MIRACLE ON THE ROOFTOP

It seemed to be a fine night for dying.

The torrential rain had started two days ago. And it had not stopped.

Main Street in Camp was awash with swirling waters. It was sometime past midnight. There was not a soul to be seen. No people, no traffic, no dogs. Nothing was brave enough to try messing with the rivers that had taken over the road.

But out of the night appeared some movement. First a silhouette and then a shape.

A woman. With a determined face.  

Her big grey umbrella aloft, she trudged ahead, looking neither right nor left.

Anu didn’t care about the rivers or the rain. She had ceased to care about the seasons, people, nature, and other such trifles. And she didn’t care for life anymore.

That was the reason that tonight…she planned to die.

The door that led to the roof of the Morton hotel was unlocked. Anu had learned that on her recce mission from yesterday. Now she opened it and took a moment to catch her breath. She had to walk the 10 floors up because she wanted to avoid people.

The rain was pelting, as if someone above was shooting down water bullets. There was just the light from the bulb above the door. The Morton’s billboard outside the building threw a red neon hue to her left. Graceful lightning streaks burst through the sky once in a while.

Beyond that, everything was inky wet blackness.

Anu opened her umbrella and made her way to the metal steps that led to the parapet. The water was ankle deep till she hit the first step. She didn’t care. Her eyes were glazed.

 It was all going to be bliss in a minute.

‘Can I have that umbrella?’

Anu almost jumped out of her skin. The roof seemed to be the loneliest and last place God built.

Until that voice spoke.

She darted frenzied looks everywhere.  Visibility was near zero. She couldn’t see a thing.

‘What….Who’s there? Hello?’

The wanting to die part aside, she had got a serious scare. A horse seemed to be running through her heart. Crazy scenarios ran through her head.

But it stayed quiet.

 Anu began to think she had imagined the whole thing. She was seriously distressed after all.

Until the voice spoke again. Quite clearly.

‘I assume you are to be our high diver for today. In which case surely you won’t need the umbrella later, will you?’

It was real. There were two people on that forlorn roof tonight. The horse started pounding through her heart again.

‘Who are you? Show yourself.’

A shape moved into focus under the light above the door. He had been sitting on the right, around the corner from the door.

She must have passed right by him, she thought. Anu could barely see his face. He seemed biggish. In part due to the large orange bomber jacket he had on. And a face lost in the shadow of the hoodie.

‘Can’t a guy get some freaking privacy? Sheesh. And believe me you scared the crap out of me when you banged that door open.’

Anu’s heartbeat started coming back to normal. She couldn’t believe there would be someone out here at a time like this. On a night like this.

The rain kept hammering down in sheets.

Her watch said 12 57am.  

Anu was not sure about what she should do next. A first for her that night. Till this point she had been single minded in pursuing her intention. Her face hardened. Her mind was made up. Nothing must come in the way of her plan tonight. Certainly not this scary apparition materializing out of nowhere. She had places to go.

And a life to end.

She turned her face away from the stranger. And started to climb the staircase again.

‘Didn’t you see Mary Poppins lady?’

She had promised herself that she would be single minded in stepping off the edge. Nothing would stop her.

Except for this ridiculous question. Now she had to know. She stopped.

‘Mary Poppins! What…does that mean?’

The man shrugged his shoulders.

‘The umbrella will just slow your fall. Like a damn parachute. Might save your life…might get you two broken legs, maybe a hip. Or a collar bone. Of course, depending on the landing, a spinal injury is definitely a possibility. Of course if you land on your neck…’

Anu had a rising sense of desperation. And an anger with all of humanity.

‘Would you please just shut up? I don’t want to hear any of this. Who the hell are you anyway?’

The rain eased up that moment. As if it wanted to hear the answer too.

‘I am Noah. Reading up on how to build my own ark. Once the waters decide to swallow up our cities and our sins, I plan to head to the West Indies. If you chuck me your umbrella, I can go back to the instruction manual.’

Anu had a complete sense of disorientation. A bizarre scenario like this could really fritz a person’s mind.

‘Are you mad? What’s your problem?’

‘Good one lady. . Look at where we are standing. You’re the one about to jump, not me. I would say that you have a problem. Madness is relative, wouldn’t you say?’

Anu considered that. She couldn’t fault the logic. All things considered, right now, she had way more than this guy in the crazy department. But it didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things, did it? Nothing did. It was time to end her.

She took another step up. Just two more to the top.  

The voice boomed again over the rain. ‘I’m not kidding about the umbrella. It’s just going to go to waste. It might snag in a tree. Break your fall. All kinds of…’

Anu couldn’t believe what she was hearing. From extreme grief she started teetering towards livid.

‘Shut up please, you selfish bastard. I will keep it closed when I jump. Or throw it before I jump! It’s my damn umbrella. Go back to whatever perverted thing you were doing. This doesn’t concern you.’

She moved up one more step. One more and she would be at the top of the world. The rain again resumed its previous fury. Funnily it wasn’t as noisy on their section of the roof now.

‘You are the selfish one, high jumper. I am the one that will need to haul my ass out of here,’ said the man on the roof.

‘15 minutes after you take the plunge, there will be hotel staff swarming up here. Then, the cops. I don’t want to be sitting here when they arrive. The rainiest night of the decade, you think they’ll believe that my being here tonight is a coincidence? That I’m just a regular guy reading a book up here at one in the morning? That there were two crazy people on the roof at the exact same time? No way Jose!’

Anu considered this and found it reasonable. But not her problem, she decided. She couldn’t be stopped tonight. She had an appointment with destiny that she intended to keep.

‘Well, I’m sorry then. You will just have to move because I am not stopping for anything tonight. My life is over.’

‘Why should I move? Kamaal hai yaar. You find a different building to jump from. Anyway, you should have gone over to the Heron down near Wadias. This building is only 10 floors. That one is 17. Gravity is a bitch and a half there I believe. You should totally do this there.’

She already had the lowest opinion of men. And this guy here was just plunging it to unseen depths. Well, she would fire one salvo of her own. For women like her…everywhere.

‘Oh, my God! Are you fucking kidding me right now? How low can you go man? Here is a girl who is obviously incredibly troubled. Looking to jump off a building. And all you are concerned about is my umbrella? You are pathetic.’

The rain waned for a bit. The noises of the night could be heard a little again.

From despair the mood now switched to adversarial.

‘How did this become about you judging me? Listen lady. You’re losing perspective. Let me summarize. You are here to jump. I am here to help. I am giving you logical advice to help you on your way. All I am asking for in return is something that won’t be of use to you…uh later.’

This behavior completely lent credence to Anu’s current central belief. All men are scum. Anu was determined to let him have it with both barrels.

 ‘Unbelievable. Not a shred of concern. Men are degenerates. Zero human empathy. It’s kind of chilling in a way. I mean the cold way you just ask me for my…’

She was working herself into a fine frenzy. When he interrupted.

‘Do you have a father? A mother who stands outside the door when you come home from out?’

Anu was taken quite by surprise. So much so…she answered.

‘Well. It’s none of your business but I have a mother who raised me. And she still waits at the window till she sees me walking up the lane.’

‘So indulge me now and visualize the picture while I give the voiceover. In an hour, the phone is going to ring in your house. Your mother all disoriented is going to answer. A man’s rough voice will tell your mother that a woman’s body has been found. A girl has killed herself. Come to the hospital morgue to identify the body. She will immediately say… it’s impossible. My daughter is sleeping in her room. Then with an icy chill going into her heart, she will go to your room. Find you are not there. Her whole world will start filling with despair and panic. She will have to get some transport from somewhere in this wet night. And go to the depressing hospital morgue where an indifferent policeman will tell her to identify your broken body. By this time she will be having palpitations…and remember, all this even before she has seen your body. Once she does, that is when the earth shattering pain will actually come. The sight of you that will never leave her for a minute in her remaining lifetime…’

Anu did something she had not done all day. She started tearing up. The anger was still simmering but the eyes started doing their own thing. She could not bear to hear another word.

‘Stop…Please just stop. I left a note, okay. A three page letter explaining l why I am doing what I am doing. That she should not feel bad for me. I have disgraced her and have no right to live anyway. She will be better off without me…’

At this point the tears just started flowing freely and mixing with the rainwater on the roof.

The horrible man continued talking, screwing in the knife further.

‘What else did you say? Not a shred of concern. Men are degenerates. Zero human empathy. Yeah well, don’t expect me to have empathy. You certainly don’t. What kind of woman does that to a mother who loves her?’

‘You have no idea what kind of hell I have gone through this past month. My whole world just shattered into a million…’

‘Your boyfriend promised to marry you and slept with you. And now you think you are pregnant. Once everybody knows, they will throw stones at you and your mother.’

Anu was midway taking the last step up when she froze. The guy had gone straight to the heart of the truth.

‘How…how did you know that? Are you Clint’s friend? Have you been following me?’

The man in the shadows shuffled forward half a step forward. He removed his hoodie. Anu saw that he was a youngish guy, in his thirties maybe. He had a clean cut face with long unruly hair.

‘Get a grip lady. I was here before you even approached this road. It’s not that difficult. See suicide geeks fall under three categories. Usually its crushing debt, failed the exams or abandoned by the love of their lives. Going by your shoes, I’m guessing it’s not crushing debt. This is not result month, so I am ruling out the exam thing. That leaves the last option. My friend’s mother is a Gynie. If I had a penny for the times I have seen teenagers come in there. Eyes full of unrequited love and stomachs distended. I am going to go with that one because you have the look.’

Anu’s foot stepped onto the top step. But the other foot stayed where it was. She was crying freely now. Her shoulders were shaking with emotion.

‘Everybody said we were the perfect couple. No one could love each other more. He was so different. The eyes don’t lie. And he meant it when he said he loved me to the moon and back. We were looking up apartments to rent for our future…’

‘I am sure at one time you both were picking out baby names as well. And calling each other hubby and wifey and other mushy stuff.’

She flinched when he said that. He was a mind reader.

‘Except…it ain’t real. I am not saying it doesn’t exist. Our social construct does throw up the occasional story of childhood sweethearts. But for the most part it’s promises made by youngsters with hormones raging and imaginations soaring to reach a natural conclusion.’

‘But we promised each other we would be together till our last breath,’ she wailed. ‘We were going to get matching tattoos.’

‘Then why is he not up here this fine night? Why will his mother not get a phone call to identify his body? You have a good thing going to finish your mother’s life. The guy gets you to sleep with him and goes his merry way. What wrong did your mother do to have her life completely gutted?’

Anu was trying to get a grip on her tears. Not very successfully. This stranger was really messing with all the arguments she had perfected in her head. She took one step down.

‘I know now that Clint was a complete bastard,’ she said her voice hardening. ‘He has done the same thing to other girls. But it’s too late for me. You have no idea about my mother’s neighbors, aunts and friends. They will rip her life apart with horrible comments and judgment. I will never be able to show my face outside. And my mother will die of shame.’

‘People will judge and make snide comments even after you kill yourself lady. Your mother will die of a broken heart anyway. She will never smile again for the rest of her life. Or stop seeing your face in her dreams. She’s the one to think about. Don’t bother for one minute about the others,’ he said and snorted. ‘That generation grew up in a time before cable TV, Internet or Facebook. People who had literally nothing else to do except talk about other people. They have no life themselves except for the lives of others. Don’t worry about them, they’ll move on.’

She took a step down. The rain started easing in intensity. Her crying had completely ceased, much to her amazement. The dark depths of despair had started receding now.

There were now two camps in her head. The one that wanted to die. And the one that wanted to live. Maybe.

‘I am pregnant and not married. In my community that is worse than death,’ she said in a voice that was flatly stating how it was. 

The stranger turned his head quizzically.

‘How many months gone are you?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t had the guts to go check anywhere. But I am late by least three weeks. That’s never happened to me my whole life.’

The stranger threw his head back and laughed. A sound full of delight and wonder.

‘Oh come on little lady. This whole sleeping with someone for the first time comes accompanied by a lot of hormonal changes in your body. I am sure you think that you are…’

This time she interrupted in a flat voice.

‘I got a pregnancy kit home. It’s positive. I am pregnant.’

For the first time that night, he paused and showed her the courtesy of contemplating this development. But not for too long.

‘Ah, like that. Sorry, didn’t think you would know what those are. It really isn’t fair you know. People who try for decades to have a baby and are forever unsuccessful. And then, there are you damn youngsters. Five minutes of fumbling around…’

First time that night, she walked down two steps. Her shoulders were still a little slumped. She had climbed down from suicidal to plain desperate now.

‘Yes, I am pregnant. Soon everyone will know. For all your talk, you don’t know where I stay. With whom I stay. It’s just a matter of time.’

The stranger dismissed her concerns with a scornful snort.

‘Have you been living under a rock? Tonight your coin has fallen, lucky side up. Go to a good doctor. An hour tops. You should be good to go. Full fresh start. And nobody needs to know anything ever happened.’

Anu moved down to the base of the steps. She had almost started looking hopeful.

‘What? Are you hundred percent sure? I have no idea. I don’t know who to ask. What doctor…’

The guy put up his hand.

‘I told you about my friend’s mom, the Gynie. She does these in her sleep. Get your phone out and make a note. Its 986…’

Anu broke in. ‘Why don’t I give you my number and you can text it to me?’

Anu came across now and stood in front of the man. He was decent looking guy with a serious face. But he had twinkling eyes.

‘No, let me just tell you the number. Her name is Dr Gunjan Tripathi. When you speak with her, tell her you are a friend of Saahil Kadupathy. Sorry, I would give you the number but I have no idea if you plan on finding another building tonight and jumping. In which case I want nothing incriminating on either of our phones.’

Anu made a careful note of the details in her phone. Then she smiled her first smile of the night.

‘I really owe you a big thank you.’

‘Don’t mention it. All in a night’s work,’ he replied in a cheerful voice. ‘Now get outta here. It would be a pity if you went ahead and died of pneumonia now.’

He stuck out his hand awkwardly. Anu shook it. And then leaned forward and gave him a quick hug.

She walked through the door under the bulb for the second time that night. Suddenly, she turned as a thought struck her.

‘You never did tell me what you are doing here?’

He shrugged and put the hoodie back on his head.

‘I work the graveyard shift in the hotel. Right now, I am supposed to on laundry duty,’ he said looking at his watch. ‘Another four hours and I am out of here.’

Anu considered this for a moment. Then she said, ‘My name is Anuradha Mhatre. You really are a strange person Saahil Kadupathy. And tonight, for that, I am grateful.’

Anu turned to go. Then stopped again. She extended her hand. The one holding the umbrella.

‘Here you go. I don’t think I’ll need this anymore tonight.’

Saahil shook his head.

‘Nah, I am good. I just said that to get your attention. You know something Ms Anuradha Mhatre. If I didn’t have a serious someone waiting for me, I would take your number. Because you are super cute.’

Anu blushed. And smiled.

The last she saw he was disappearing to the side of the sloping roof.

For the first time in a long while, the rain stopped.

Anu woke up the next morning with a feeling of trepidation. Then happiness. It was another day. It was another chance.

Her mother was having her tea in the kitchen. Anu went and hugged her from behind. It was a long hug.

She got her morning fix of tea and the Times. She also sneaked a look at the time. In a couple of hours she had a call to make. An important one. But there was time for that.

The headlines were bold.

Tech Entrepreneur Kills Himself – Jumps off Morton

Late last night, Saahil Kadupathy, a tech entrepreneur, committed suicide by jumping off the landmark Morton building. Manik Agarwal, close associate of Saahil said that he was facing serious medical problems lately. Saahil was recently diagnosed with a major breach in a valve in his heart. His Doctor, under conditions of anonymity, said Saahil only had another month or so to live. It was the wettest night of the year when Saahil decided to jump off the renowned hotel. He left a suicide note explaining that nobody was to be held responsible for his actions. Manik said that Saahil was one of the bravest and most cheerful chaps he had ever met. Another friend said, ‘His zest for life and its blessings were truly an inspiration…’

Anu’s tears wouldn’t stop.

She had thought she had a hole in her heart that nothing would fill. When in fact, he had a hole in his heart that nothing would fill.

The world would never know.

But she knew.

On a storm streaked night on the loneliest rooftop in the city, a miracle had taken place.

A stranger had stood tall for her.

And had shown more heart than anyone she had ever known.

BLOOD ON THE CANVAS

The last chance at revenge, honour, and a little blood…wouldn’t go amiss at all.

The house has that kind of crowd in here tonight.

The stage is set for the Armed Forces Inter-Battalion, boxing championship finale. The best boxers fighting for the pride and glory of their paltans. It’s still early evening but the stars are twinkling over the low hills of Sabathu. The winter chill is explicit. The crowd is ready.

I settle back in my chair and slowly start counting down from 30. The noise is substantial.

The little Gurkhali, Magan, squares off against the pride of the Rajput Rifles, Sartaj. Five foot two inches of pure brawn looking up at five foot eleven of home grown, farm stock muscle. Some words are said as Sartaj moves into the little Gurkha’s face.

The referee intervenes and separates the two. He will be doing that a lot this evening.

The Gurkhali section of the crowd erupts in protest. Visibly, there are comments on the weighing in and weight category. Some of the comments are funny and there is a lot of laughter. The other side howls in pride. It’s just a token protest. Because it seems the right thing to do. Nobody really cares. They want what comes next.

The call comes.

Box!

Magan is watchful and content to dance around. Sartaj is a little wary too. The little guy doesn’t do much but jab for a while, staying out of reach. Sartaj makes a note and tries to crowd him, get him into a corner. The little boxer from Nepal has feet that are dancing. He is throwing some punches but nothing close to where they should go.

Cries of Haan de, Haan de erupt from the Gurkha side. That loosely translates to ‘Hit him. Hit him.’

So far, it’s not working for Magan.

‘Maar de, laga de are the cries that come from the Rajput Rifles side.

Sartaj, the big Rajput chap is led around the ring by the, never in one place, Magan. It’s at the 90 second stage. Then, the jeers of the crowd get to Sartaj. He gets Magan into a corner and unleashes a barrage of short fast jabs. Magan goes into the classic two hand defence. Many of the blows are deflected but some land. Magan goes for the clinch but the Rajput is having none of that. He is perceptibly becoming a giant, now big time aware of his towering advantage and reach. He lets loose with a series of left and right upper cuts.

Magan starts feeling the pain and again clinches. The ref comes in to separate. The tone of the match is set. Already, one man knows that this is his night. And the other has to think about how to survive the next 12 minutes.

Ding.

The boxers head to their corners. Magan’s face tells a story of the rough 3 minutes spent. I try hard to catch his eye from my chair below to his right. He looks stubbornly ahead. What’s going through his head is hard to tell. He sits in his typical well planted, easy way. 

Couple of Majors from the Gurkha camp, sitting behind me, are invoking 200 years of history. One of them with a Manekshaw moustache is already declaring this a disaster.

‘Why didn’t we save Baldev for the last one? Or saala, even Kundan? Apna banda is toast today.’

The other officer says, ‘The Gurkhas will be losing the cup after a decade. The Colonel of the Regiment is here. Boy, we are getting a rocket tonight, no question.’

I turn around. A 12 year at a boxing match and amidst so much adult testosterone should be out of place. But, not me. I am a fauji kid. It’s all I have ever known since I was in my diapers. I look confidently at the two officers.   

‘Magan has this, don’t worry.’

 They look at me with condescension.

‘In your dreams kiddo. Not here…not today,’ one of them sneers.

The other puts a kindly hand on my shoulder.

‘Look at Magan. He is hopelessly outmatched and even he knows it.’

I look at Magan and he does seem a little slumped. I think to say something and then decide this is not the time or place.

Magan has been my friend for the last two years.

My father’s regiment was posted in Poonch, Kashmir, for a while. Magan used to take my brother and me down to a stream, accompanied by two plastic buckets. The small mountain stream was rich with life. We put the crabs we caught in one bucket and the small fish and eels in the other. Then we used to take our haul to our mess cook, Nikku dai. He could do wonderful things using a big enamel mug and oil and a few spices.

My brother, Magan and Nikku dai and I would sit at the dining table and polish off everything with rice.

Magan could take pudina, tomatoes and chillies and make the most brilliant chutney. We would have that with big cold puris, made at the langar. Good times.

I remember that Magan would fill up both buckets with stream water and use them as dumb bells. He was always working on his upper body strength. He could do those lifts for an hour!

His legs are pure iron too. One time, he ran after a mountain goat. The goat ran straight uphill to get a drop on the hapless chaser. Magan caught up with it well before the top. He was literally flying even though it was a pretty steep slope. It was a close thing as to who was more astonished. The goat or I. Sometimes, he would tell me a few stories from the hills. Where he grew up. Stories of brave men and mountain spirits.

He doesn’t talk much but he is my friend. My daju. My elder brother of sorts.

The blood comes in the second round.

Magan’s right eye opens up halfway. He is taking a fearful beating and only his constant clinching dilutes the punishment. But he has pluck and he is stubborn. That helps him to make it to the bell.

The crowd acknowledges his capacity for taking the beating with cheers and applause.

The Rajput side looks mighty disappointed when the bell goes. The Gurkha side looks whipped and expecting more. Some senior officers are already having hurried meetings and confrontations. I catch my father’s eye from across the room. He gives me a wan smile but I give him a full-fledged grin. Just to tell him that it is going to be all right.

The medic is applying medication of some sort on Magan’s brow which is leaking red fluid copiously.

The office behind me says, ‘I just hope he doesn’t lose by KO. He’s just about on his feet now.’

I turn around again. I am patient with them. They don’t know Magan as much as I do.

‘Don’t worry, he has this. It’s his win tonight.’

They both roll their eyes and start talking about the CO, the Brigade Commander, and the COTR who will be raising some hell tonight. Of course, everybody will get an earful, going down the chain of command. Apparently, a time for crime and punishment.

Don’t really care, so I turn back.

Magan is looking straight at me.

I do occasionally manage to get some back story from Magan. He is from a small village outside of Pokhara where his father is a small time contractor. Magan started working for him from when he was seven. He started lifting sacks of cement, machine spare parts, chemicals, and fruits and didn’t stop for a decade. Sacks heavily loaded. Twenty kgs. Each. Four at a time. From when he was eight.

Then he ran away to join the army at age 17.

His father used to contract people to pick fruit for planters during the season. Magan would have the most to show for his efforts at the end of the day. He could shimmy up and down trees as easy as pie. His forearms are pure corded muscle.

He is small but the strongest man I know.

We keep staring at each other for an eternity. Then, I raise my index finger. Magan raises his gloved right hand in return. He nods imperceptibly. The blood is staunched and he heads back out.

I see my father across the ring in the senior officer’s enclosure. His eyes are crinkled with worry. Not for the present but for the future. Like, just after the fight, tomorrow in the officer’s mess, next week at the Raising Day, the reunion next month….

In short, it’s going to be a long year.

The Rajput boxer, Sartaj, wants to finish this. The crowd has been prompting him and they start baying for it from when the bell rings.

Sartaj takes Magan towards the corner all the while throwing a flurry of punches. Magan play the same cards as before. He tries to clinch.

The crowd boos. They don’t want it on points tonight. They don’t want a show of nuance and technical skill. They want somebody’s lights to get punched out!

I want it too. And it’s time.

I really want to catch my father’s eye. I half wave my arm and he looks at me. I smile at him, and give him a thumbs up. He is really not sure what to make of it. Then I gesture with my thumb towards the ring. He refocuses on the battle.

Nobody in the room has caught the subtle change in dynamic in the ring. I have.

Sartaj goes in with a furious right hook. It has served him well this night. But it never lands. Magan feints like a dancing cobra. In the testosterone filled grimy backdrop, I can almost see his fangs. And the first sight of shining venom. 

As Sartaj steps back to make space, it happens. Magan’s right hand goes up like a jack hammer aimed at his confident opponent’s chin. The Rajput puts his up his dukes to parry the blow. It never lands.

Magan pulls it back at shoulder height and kills the delivery.

The trap is set and sprung. It’s all so fast, the tall boxer is not even beginning to figure out the end has come.

Magan’s left hand travels from below now, gathering velocity with every inch.

The left bicep and shoulder are contorted with the kind of power that I know he can summon. It’s got a lot behind it.

The hills of Nepal, with its beautiful nourishing rivers. The ridiculously beautiful green foliage and mist laden clouds. The sweet taste of the local pig. The fast flowing, clean waters with the tastiest fish. And the pristine air you want to bite into.

Everything from the elements stakes a claim on the power in his blow tonight.

It lands squarely on the tall boxer’s chin. It’s a brutal, smashing walls, kind of punch. The Rajput looks surprised for a second as his body and brain register the punch. Then, he somersaults back into the middle of the ring. His eyes roll up into his head. The crashing noise he makes when he hits the canvas is deafening.

The Gurkhas are stunned for a second. Then they are off and cheering up a storm.

The Rajput side is stunned as well.

The ref begins the count. The crowd takes it up in support.

Magan is dancing lightly in the middle of the ring now, all cock a hoop.

My father is on his feet, cheering and counting down the numbers. So are the two Majors behind me.

Magan looks at me and smiles. The count hits ten. The ref picks up his hand. The evening has a winner.

One-punch Magan picks up both hands and shows his fists to me. And, then to the crowd.

The Gurkhas go wild with shouts of Ho ke hoi naa…Ho! That is their equivalent of hip hip hurray!

They are behaving rather badly as victors. But the night is theirs.

The Rajput guy gets up for a second and then falls back on the canvas.

It’s a winner take all evening. And my friend Magan has brought home the honour.

The multitudes of stars over the hills of Sabathu twinkle brightly. Magan is of the hills. And today, the hills sit back, and give their approval.

I smile and then sit back in my chair.

Nobody knows my friends better than me.

The Best of Intentions

My worlds start colliding in a bad way, every Friday night.  The violence happens like clockwork. My bubble of urban living tears a huge rip. Right down the middle of my middle class consciousness.

Overlooking my balcony is the local slum. Not too close that we have to smell the particular rank smell that emanates from it. Not too far to avoid hearing the loud Hindi songs that play all day. A lot of dogs stay in their area as well. They seem to break into bark as easily as the people break into arguments. Loud and louder are the two preferred settings. I am okay with that.

But my head hurts when I hear the man beating his wife.  It’s a weekly feature now. Every Friday night. I don’t know her name yet. It never comes up. I know their faces. My birding binoculars and I both needed to know. But I do know his name. Anil. I know, because she keeps saying, ‘Anil, don’t hit me on the face. Not on the face…’

I smoke my cigarettes in the balcony. Read the papers. But when it starts, I am gone in 20 seconds.

Last Friday, I have a drink or two with the boys from office. Its IT guys, so it’s pretty much mandatory. Come to think of it, it isn’t a drink or two as much as a bottle or two. Lately, our drinking has taken on a darker pattern. It’s not as social and it’s not as friendly. A desperate need to fill a growing void with more alcohol. I blame corporate. It makes us mean. It makes us measured. It makes us wary. But what the heck, it’s better than many jobs. And the going rate for our integrity is more than six pieces of silver even in these volatile times.

My cab drops me off at the corner and I start the short walk to my apartment. I have deliberately come late today, hoping the beating phase is over. I am straining to hear the sounds of violence. But I don’t need to. It’s there. It’s happening. The methodical sounds of slaps and her intermittent cries of pain. A searing burn starts spreading in my insides.  A slow simmering of anger ascending in intensity. But the voice in my head comes on simultaneously. It’s not my problem and I shouldn’t interfere. That’s what the city’s unspoken message has told me subtly over the years. My whole life. It whispers the same message in my ear now. My ears are red and ashamed. I listen to the city. I run.

Sleep is elusive that night. I get nightmares. The lady from the slum is getting a beating. But it’s not her husband beating her. It’s me. And her pitiful voice that keeps saying, not on the face please.

The next morning, I surprise myself by getting up early. I make the surprise thing a double feature by deciding to go for a walk. I make the first two turns briskly and walk smack into the lady from my nightmare. She is a tiny thing and walks with quick bird like steps. She moves past without looking at me. She has no idea how much I have come to know her. On an impulse, I turn around and say, ‘Oye, suno.’ I don’t know what makes me do it. Ignore the code the city has imposed. But I am committed now. To breach the world that collides with mine. I realize I am staring at her. She is looking at me. I start the conversation.

‘Why do you let him do it?’

It’s not a great start. But I hope she knows what I mean. She doesn’t.

‘Do what sahab,’ she asks, her eyes busy with thoughts of the schedule she has to keep.

So, she does want me to spell it out.

‘I hear your husband beating you. Why don’t you stop it?’

Her expression changes. Only slightly though.

‘Nobody beats me sahab. I don’t know what you are saying.’

I do not expect this line of defence and am stumped. Now the onus is on me if I have to prove her misfortune to her. I am nothing if not persistent.

‘I can hear your crying clearly, every week. Why don’t you complain to the elders? Or go to the police….’

She repeats herself in a dull monotone. ‘My husband doesn’t beat me sahab. No one does.’

Her eyes still give nothing away. She is looking for escape from this conversation. I see that and shrug. As I turn my back to her to continue walking, she calls out. ‘Sahab…wait.’

So, we are going to talk about things unsaid then. I am ashamed that I get a deep satisfaction at that moment.

She says, ‘Do you want a kaam waali (maid)? I do jhadu, pocha, bathrooms, vessels, and cooking also.’

Well, gee whiz! So the elephant in the room stays. Damn the poverty in this country.  Third world problems. Damn the men who have set up such a one sided system. Completely loaded to our advantage. In Europe, Anil would have been taking anger management therapy. Here, therapy was to lash out at the weakest link. The low hanging fruit. People, who don’t have any choice but to take it. Who the heck did I think I was, trying to change centuries of tradition?

Or, am I angry because she hasn’t accepted my noble attempt at saving her? Anyway, my mother is coming next week to stay for a while. A maid might be a good idea.

‘Yes, come by on Tuesday. You can speak with my mother about it. I stay at….’

She interrupts. ‘I know you stay B201, Clover. I’ll come there. My name is Santoshi.’

I feel a little embarrassed. I may see right through a certain class of society. Looking at them yet not seeing their faces. They knew who we are though. By our faces.

The monsoons are rampant this year. Unprecedented rains. Nature is telling us in no uncertain manner about how insignificant we are. Our illusion of being in control, made a mockery of. The roads are ripped, travel is brutal, and my Outlook inbox is bursting with to-do things.

A month passes by before my next conversation with Santoshi. She has started working at my middle class, two bedroom hall kitchen apartment. I stay out of her way as much as possible. Until, the Saturday morning when I see her with a shiny black eye. And an egg sized bump on her forehead.  There is no hiding that. We look at each other. I cannot, not ask. It’s right there. I ask.

‘You really should fight back now. Look at your face. He can’t beat you up like this.’

She looks at me and carries on with washing the dishes. Her expression shows no gratitude for my concern. I am just an irritant who is getting in the way of her packed day. Her smile is disconcerting. Her comeback is familiar.

‘Nobody beats me sahab. I walked into a door yesterday. I’ll be fine.’

My eyes shoot up in disbelief. She goes about scouring the dishes till they shine. Her eyes flicker to mine once more. They are imploring me to go about my life. And never bring this up again.

I stalk off. I feel very grimy and sweaty all of a sudden. I get into the shower and turn on the hot water to the maximum. My skin is screaming in agony when I turn off the scalding water.

The monsoons explode over the city the next week. Just when we thought it was over. It is torrential. Rain in Pune is usually feather thin and misty. This is nothing like that. It is tropical in its fury. The old timers say they have never seen anything like it, in their life time. Rivers keep forming and taking over the roads. 

Another work day is over. It’s late in the evening. I am on my scooter and almost home. I stop short when I see a man frantically waving me to stop.  A couple of kilometres short of my place is a little stream with a little bridge over it. The stream has become a raging river, swelling its banks. And swept away the bridge, like so many matchsticks.

I go ahead to inspect the fascinating spectacle. It’s still raining buckets. I am grateful that I am dry under my raincoat and helmet. Some people are huddled near the edge and some spread out. We see an empty car, go floating past in the waters. Then, a body. People try to grab hold of it with sticks. It zips away in the fast moving waters.

Suddenly, away to the right I see a familiar person. It’s Anil, my maid, Santoshi’s husband. He is peering into the waters leaning against a small tree. I go up behind him meaning to have a talk. He looks drunk standing rather unsteadily on his feet. The next moment, an idea comes into my mind that leaves me shaking at the knees. I should rid the world of this person.

How did I even think of this? I am just an IT geek, not an angry or dangerous person by any means! This is madness! It’s so horrific, it quite takes my breath away…with its brilliance. And it won’t let go. The universe is the architect. I am just the chosen instrument. The rational part of my mind stops working and a primeval force takes over. Nobody will ever know, whispers the blood drenched and dark side of my mind. I snap and tip over into insanity at that point. It is begging to be done.

I don’t have to even touch the man. I just grab a branch behind him and pull it back to its highest stretching point. I let go. He doesn’t even cry out. Just flails once and then the waters are over him. Taking him away swiftly. It’s too easy. No one realizes what just happened. No cries of exclamation or surprise.

I spend the next hour helping out with rescue operations. The police are there now. I help them put barriers to stop oncoming traffic. The crowd has armed themselves with longer sticks and nets. I even help to fish out three hapless people who are being swept downstream. Then I start off for home. A quite sense of satisfaction within, that I have done my patriotic duty. Who says poverty makes people turn on each other? Times like this disprove that. We do look out for each other.  

But there is the, not so trifling matter, of killing another person. My mind splits into two personality types. Mr Anxiety is electric with fear because I may have just killed a human being. He is immediately visualising how a life time in jail would feel. Mr Anxiety is also terrified of the other side that seems completely unrepentant. Mr Smug Killer is on the other side and has only one thought. It’s like a tree falling in the forest. F#*k it. If no one saw it, it didn’t happen. In other words, if no one saw me, then I didn’t do it.

I see saw between the two. The smug guy wins. I should be sick with worry or guilt. Instead, I am ecstatic.  

Until I get home and open the door. I hear the crying way before I see it. It’s an animal like sound, very high pitched and terrified. Santoshi is sitting with my mother in the kitchen. Her eyes are red and face streaked. She has a cup of tea in front of her that she hasn’t touched.

I look askance at them and both start talking at once. I tune out Santoshi’s voice because it is loud and frantic. My mother is more comprehensible. She explains that Anil, Santoshi’s husband, may have been in an accident. Someone from the Fatima Nagar slums claims to have seen him floating away in the stream. And now he is unreachable. His phone is switched off.

I look at Santoshi again. It seems impossible that she can work up so many tears for someone as miserable a low life as her husband. I sit at the kitchen table and encourage her to have some tea. Saying the right things is important. So I tell her not to worry. I am sure he is fine and hell, who knows it may not have been him at all in the stream. It could easily have been another person. The few sips of tea she has do calm her down a notch or two. But not enough.

Then between small low sobs, she starts talking. Now, I am listening.

‘If my Anil is not there, every man in the basti will take advantage of me. No man in the house, I will be an open target. My kids will start getting bullied more. Having no father means more boys picking on them and more fights. The bigger boys might involve them in selling drugs for them. Anil used to take us to the Dagdu Sheth temple every Tuesday. When it was very crowded, he used to carry my son and daughter on his shoulders. He knew they loved the view looking over people’s heads. Every summer, we used to go to the village. He made all the arrangements…’

A few tendrils of doubt begin to spring deep down in my gut. It’s the dull monotone and the intensity in the way she talks that is getting to me. Mr Smug Killer has lost all its smug now. My tendrils of doubt start turning into rivers of dread. I need to say something quick.

‘But Santoshi, he used to take money from you for his drinking, and then he gets drunk and beats you…’

In my current state I realize I have referred to Anil in the past tense. I did correct myself hoping she wouldn’t notice. She doesn’t. In fact, she just carries on like I haven’t spoken.

‘My mother in law is going to curse me for bringing bad luck. His family too. Then my mother will join in, then my family. He did love me in his own way. Brought me flowers for my hair and gave money for a new sari every Diwali. The landlord, Prakash is going to be the first to start…’

My rivers of dread start becoming full-fledged flash floods of panic.

I don’t even listen to the last part. I can’t listen to that voice any more. I am already at the door with my raincoat and helmet in hand. I yell, ‘Don’t worry Santoshi. Your Anil will be fine.’

My mother looks at me approvingly.  The last thing I hear her saying is, ‘He never did hit me on my face too much either. He used to listen, you know…’

It is the longest night of my life. I cover over 25 kilometres that night going down river, from police chowky to police chowky. It’s a needle in a haystack situation. The rain is coming down violently. I am filled with a growing depair as the clock hits two and the day has never seemed longer. I will never find this Anil guy.

And then, I find Anil! Miraculously, he’s alive! If alcoholics have a patron saint looking out for them, then he’s sitting right there on this man’s shoulders today. It’s way out of the city where the farmlands start. He is sitting shivering with a group of people who have suffered similar fates that evening. They are the lucky ones. The village folk used fishing nets and bamboo sticks to extract them from the roaring waters.  

Its morning by the time I return home triumphantly with my cargo. Santoshi wails even more as she clings onto her wary husband. Tears of joy are rolling down her cheeks. I roll my eyes at the excess drama in the situation. But my mother is happy. And I am happy. Good outcomes for everyone. 

A month passes. It’s a fine December morning. Office work has lightened up considerably. I am celebrating the start of my weekend with a decadent breakfast. Eggs, sunny side up, sausages, toast and coffee…the stuff of royalty. And heart attacks. I start to pour my coffee into a mug when Santoshi walks in. I spot what’s different about her right away. She has an awful looking black eye. Half is purple and the other throbbing red.

We look at other for the longest time. Maybe it’s only three seconds in real time but it sure seems to stretch into eternity. Her look is classic, you don’t ask, I don’t tell.

I break eye contact. I finish pouring my coffee. I take my tray and walk to the other side of my suburban existence. My nook in the balcony beckons but even there, the air hangs heavy with the smell of irony. It’s going to be a nice winter I am thinking. Maybe I should head to the mountains for a bit.

THE LAST SPERM STANDING

Bankura, West Bengal, Jan, 2012

Anshul Das had a very wretched life. Nobody in his 14 years of life had really cared much about him. Or taken any notice of him. His being the third of five sons born to indifferent parents didn’t help. His father was an alcoholic, a pursuit that took up all his time. Anshul’s mother was invisible. A life of labor and hardship rendering her incapable of maintaining any close relationships.

 Anshul really had it bad when it came to looks. He had a deformed tailbone that forced him to hunch back slightly. He was bow legged and never the fastest at anything. His hairline started receding when he turned eight and started sprouting from his upper lip. His eyesight was dim and he had thick bottle sized glasses by the same age. Anshul had really been done in by the genetic pool.

His environment wasn’t great either. People seemed to just look through him. Teachers, neighbors, class mates, even his own brothers. One time when he mustered enough courage to talk to a girl, she ran away shrieking. Bhoot bhoot (ghost, ghost), she yelled. Her friends took up the chant. That killed off any budding interest he had in the fairer sex. He had no friends and sat alone in the school compound to eat his dabba.

His father once went to the winter market and brought back 4 four pairs of canvas shoes for his sons. Anshul’s mother reminded him wearily that he had forgotten to get a pair for Anshul. His father looked perplexed. If I had another son, I would have known about him, his look said. Eventually, his brow did clear.

Books came and saved Anshul’s life. The Sisters of Mercy had a library stocked with 100 years worth of the best reading material. Anshul took some time getting the language but he had time. And, no life otherwise. So, he read. And read. He knew words such as apocryphal, when his brothers were spelling apple as apil. Their futures had a different path. He was onto his thirteenth Agatha Christie book by 15.

Anshul moved to the classics. They were difficult to read. He read them anyway. Then he started reading about people. Charlie Chaplin, Muhammad Ali, Martin Luther King, Gandhi, Ford, Hitler. By the time Anshul was 18, he was finishing off great masses of Chomsky, Mailer, Tolstoy, and Asimov. Then came Jung and Nietzsche.

At 19, Anshul Das disappeared.

In that, nobody in his home town ever saw him again. There was talk of murder or accidents but the lack of a body disproved that. People talked about him for a very short while. His father drank more and cursed his other sons. Then as before, they forgot him.

But…not the universe.

Earth, Oct, 2022

The sperms started dying sudden deaths and no one realized. The birds went on flying. The cows kept chewing cud. The cheetahs still danced their beautiful dance of death with the gazelles. It was about 11 15 in the morning on the west coast. Apparently, a killer pulse that went in and out of every digital device in the world. A minute later and every sperm in the world had gone sterile. Very quietly.

Later, the experts would debate and come up with theories and mitigations. But at that instant, procreation had just become the past tense.

John Hopkins Research center, New York, Jan, 2023

A group of penguins could have done better. Communicating, that is. Certainly better than the best medical minds in the world. The room had a conference table that could seat three dozen people. They were all occupied. The head of the table was a weary looking man. He looked like he had retired last week.  Over two days of continuous arguments and looking at thousands of research papers could age people. Now, he held up his hand and the conversation trailed away. He kept it succinct.

‘We have to make the call. Get me the President.’

The White House, Washington DC, Jan, 23

The president of the United States of America had just finished his dinner. He was in a bad mood. Misery loves company, so he was going to tweet the rest of the free world. Tariffs and climate change naysayers were his weapons of choice.

His secretary patched the call through. It was the Surgeon General and apparently, it was a matter of life or death. Life or death calls from the Surgeon General could not be ignored. The president took some time understanding the content. But then his brow shot up.

‘You are kidding me with this!! Every male human being on the planet! Are you telling me that there are no more working sperm on the planet? That sounds insane. How could this happen?’

‘We are just not sure Mr. President. We suspect a pulse of a particular electronic frequency has caused it. We have gone over every test, every report, and every last bit of analysis. Seven times over.’

The doctor sounded weary. But… sure.

The president’s mind was reeling. The planet would end on his watch. That was what he was hearing. And, the election only a year away. That was way worse than life or death. Why does the universe hate me so much, was his immediate thought?

‘Have you checked with other countries? How long have we known? Why didn’t I know this sooner?’

All good questions. The Surgeon General braced himself.

‘We have had unprecedented talks with representatives of over 150 countries. It’s global. We didn’t know earlier because women with pregnancies went ahead and delivered normally. But it took us time to figure out that no more women were getting pregnant. Exactly, two months ago.’

POTUS was not going to buy this bullshit. They spent billions of dollars on education, research and medical funding. How could this happen?

‘How could this happen, Andrew? Have we identified the cause? ’

‘The IOT effect is what we are calling it. Every person with or near an electronic device has been exposed and rendered sterile. The women are fine. Men, not so much.’

The special advisors to POTUS were in the room now and the call went on speaker. The Secretary of State spoke.

‘There are many people who do not have devices or the Internet. Inuits, nomads in the Sahara, tribes in the Nile forest. Have we checked out everyone?’

‘Absolutely. No go on that. We have gone to the remotest atoll in the Pacific to the deepest Amazon jungle. Progress has made its way to all these places. From our station staff in space to the good folks in the Marina trench. It’s universal. From kids to adults. Everyone tweets, posts or shares now.’

The president felt his migraine coming on. He had a real bad feeling. The import of what he was being told was kicking in.

‘Get me the Joint Chiefs, the FBI, Homeland Security, NSA, UN Reps, and anyone relevant to the situation. We meet in the Oval room in 60 minutes!’

The president remembered he had the best medical mind in the country, still on line.

‘Andrew, I am not looking forward to meeting the press tomorrow. Is there any hope? Anything at all? ’

‘I am sorry sir. Right now it looks like the survival of our species is coming to an end.’

‘Give me something….a straw, a twig, a leaf dammit!’

‘Right now sir, we would love nothing better that any of those. Ummmm, can we check with the Chinese if they still have those cloning stations? They had promised they will stop but you know them.’

There was no press meet scheduled the next day. The word went out from the White House that night. Keep it quiet for as long as possible. Go out and check every male on the planet. If there was anyone who might have escaped, he had to be found.

The president was nothing if not pragmatic. The last call that night was to his wife to tell her to cancel the shipment of oysters they had ordered. His son in law would not need them now.

Doomsday was at hand.

Rhygaya Monastery, Arunachal Pradesh, India, Feb 14

‘I want results double tested. Once I have verifiables on 212 people, we go.’

The winter chill was magnified on this remote monastery in the North East of India. It was on the peak of the highest mountain in Arunachal. Only people who wanted to get lost, came to stay in these climes. The hills were witnessing the highest levels of activity ever seen, since its creation. The hill side was peppered with green jeeps, ambulances, helicopters.

The head monk had signed off on the list. The caravan was going to move out.

One of the young monks suddenly materialised and whispered in his leader’s ear. The old man, his face craggy and marked by the elements of a century, listened. Then his eyes widened in realization. They were 213 people in their gompa.

The young lieutenant came running down the slope to the biggest tent in the area. It was distinguished by a flag with the stars and stripes on it. An audience was granted immediately.

‘They have another person here. He lives by himself. In an underground enclosure. No one has seen him for over a decade.’

Ten minutes later, the big American was eyeballing the old monk. The latter was showing a complete lack of distress at his oversight.

‘He has taken the 30 year invisibility vow. It’s been ten years. No one disturbs him. He hasn’t seen anyone for all that time. Sometimes we just forget he is there.’

The American was both irritated and excited.

‘Does he have a name? What does he eat? Does he have any gadget of any kind?’

‘We did not seek his name and he did not volunteer it. Our youngest brother takes his food to him once a week. And no, he did not have any possessions when he came to us. Just three metal trunks full of books.’

The American abandoned his classy, world conquering attitude. He was a nervous excitable teenager now. His voice was trembling with hope. Maybe, just maybe, the world had one last shot.

‘Take us to him immediately.’

The underground section of the abandoned monastery had no doors. It was a deep underground cavern. There were a hundred steps down. The head monk had sent the youngest monk to prepare the man. It would be a shock for him to meet another human being. It had been a while.

Anshul Das was not a happy man. It was a shock for him. He had been happy for the last many years. Solitude was his best friend and constant companion now.

But he had no choice. The world had found him again.

After the young monk, came a whole bunch of men. They stationed themselves outside his underground abode. But he came face to face with only two of them. One of them was a tall white guy and the other one, a muscled and fidgety, African American. The leaders of this pack, Anshul assumed.

‘I am special agent Johnson from the FBI. This is special agent Johnson. No relation. We are here on a matter of international security. We need your help. We need it now.’

First thing Anshul did was cover his ears. It had been eons since they had been exposed to the human voice.

‘Can you please lower your voice? It hurts up here,’ Anshul said, pointing to his ears.

‘Also, you have wasted your trip. The world wanted nothing to do with me. And I want nothing to do with the world.’

Both FBI agents looked at each other. Then the white special agent Johnson spoke again. He narrated the sequence of planetary events that had occurred. And how it led to this point in time and the conversation they were having now. He spoke with short clipped sentences and was very descriptive. He ended on a strong note. Both impassioned and ominous.

‘Listen to me son. And listen good. What you want doesn’t come into it. The fate of mankind hangs in balance, and you may well be its last hope. Fifteen floors under, in this giant basement, you may be the missing link. We request your immediate cooperation.’

Anshul looked at the two men in their shiny black suits. It should have left him impressed, considering the poorly dressed and poorly equipped policemen back in Bankura. But eternal solitude and the wisdom contained in thousands of books had changed him.

‘Touching. Very dramatic, in fact. Don’t close the door on the way up. Actually, you can’t, since there is no door.’

The black special agent Johnson spoke for the first time. He kept it short.

‘Sir, we have been authorized by the highest authority to use any means necessary to secure your cooperation. Including force. ’

There was a pause to let the last part settle in.

Anshul was nonplussed.

‘You mean God sent you guys?’

The FBI agents looked at each other. They certainly did that a lot.

‘We are acting under the direct orders of The President of the United States of America and the Prime Minister of your country. There is no higher authority on this planet.’

Anshul was not impressed. ‘So, two guys with elections to win. I see no divine authority there. Look around you. Does it look like I care who wins or loses up there?’

The two Americans were chomping on their bit now.  This conversation was going nowhere. The black suit made the first move. He took two steps closer.  

‘Okay buddy, this is going nowhere. Good night.’

The last thing Anshul saw was a large, white handkerchief come down firmly on his nose.

White is the color of peace and serenity, he thought dimly. He had no more thoughts. Only darkness.

Anshul woke up in a world gone white. It was a dazzling white. It hurt his eyes.

He looked to his right. There was a big glass window. Beyond it, he could see two men in serious conversation. The short man with a white beard looked Indian. The other, a burly white man with straw colored hair, looked American. There were some other people huddled in the back as well. Near his bedside was a metal table. It had piles of assorted chocolate, pills of blue and red, and various powders looking like chalk and cheese.

He looked to his left and started. There were five people standing quietly and observing him. The one leading the pack seemed to be about 60. He had a kind face with gentle eyes.

‘Herr Das, Guten Morgen. I apologize for the inconvenience you have been put to. My name is Dr Custer. These are my colleagues. Are you feeling okay?’

‘I feel fine Doctor. ’

‘We need your help. The world needs your help.’

‘That’s only the second time in my life I have heard that. And both, very recently.’

Anshul looked down his body, to below his waist. He didn’t feel any different.

‘Am I okay? Did you not get what you were looking for? ’

‘You are currently the most virile person on the planet. You are okay, I assure you. The human race unfortunately, is not.’

‘That’s good to hear. About the part concerning me, that is. So, what is the plan for the human race?’

‘You do appreciate the burning need we had of extracting your sperm. To check if they were still functioning. The good news is that, ahem…your swimmers are in great condition. Motility jumping through the roof. Unaffected by the blitz that has swept the planet.’

‘Really don’t care, for obvious reasons. What’s the bad news?’

The doctors looked at each other. And, then at Anshul.

‘They just won’t take hold. They hit the external world and they perish. We are a swarming bunch of digitization and radiation waves on earth. Nothing is getting through that. Currently, we are in a digitally quarantined facility in the Mojave Desert. It’s all 1992 here for a 100 mile radius. It’s going to have to be done naturally. If you know what I mean.’

Anshul thought of the world he had left far behind. The choice to enrich his mind alone. Not the physical part of him in any way, going forward. There was a reason for that.

‘Gentlemen, I have renounced the pleasures of the flesh a long time ago. I don’t care enough about people to come back to that.’

The doctors cleared their throats and hemmed and hawed. The guy with the kind face looked up with imploring eyes.

‘You see those people out of the window. That is the President of the United States standing with the Prime Minister of your country. In the back are the leaders of countries from the rest of the world. Not one of them has a mobile or tablet or anything digital in nature. They came in droves to see you. All enmities have dissolved. United at last by an enemy greater than their follies or their greed.’

Another doctor who looked quite youngish for this lot suddenly piped up from the back.

‘You will be the greatest hero the world has ever known. We can’t force you but you must understand the power you carry.’

Now suddenly the others felt that they had to be a group to convince him. Another one with a goatee spoke.

‘There are mothers and families who are praying to their gods every minute of the day. They will look upon you as their savior. You will be the miracle the lord has sent their way.’

Another bright spark chimed in.

‘And… you will be engaging in intercourse with the most amazing women on the planet.’

Anshul considered these extravagant statements. Ran each one separately through the filters in his head. The decision was very difficult to make. He had for so long only revered the mind and its powers. Physical gratification was a long renounced concept. He had developed a faint contempt of it over time.

But still…extraordinary circumstances did call for change.

Rather than reading about the history of the world as he was doing at the moment, he had a chance to rewrite it.

Something stirred within him. There was no denying his primal instincts, locked deep inside, and forgotten. But, not dead.  For all the higher consciousness he had attained, he could not deny the physical part of him. The human body was meant to procreate, just like every other animal in the food chain. And… it was an opportunity for sex. He was still a virgin, after all.

It took him a long while to make up his mind. He chose the road never travelled.

‘Okay gentlemen, line them up. So is Katrina still around and acting? We can start with her.’

The doctors looked relieved and happy at this response. There was a chorus of thanks. One of them flashed a thumbs up towards the mirror. To observers beyond one way glass.

The bright spark came in again firing from the hip. He had pulled out a sheaf of photographs from his clip board.

‘You will have to go with this order, I am afraid. People most crucial for the continuation of the species, must go first. You have to start with Zoe Garcia from Buenos Aires, leading micro biologist and gene therapy specialist.’

Anshul studied the photograph thrust under his face. A pretty, 30 something lady, with blue eyes and blonde hair.

‘No problem gentlemen. I am at your service. My swimmers are at your command.’

As the grateful looking group moved out of the room, Anshul said something under his breath.

Dr Custer looked back and said, ‘I am sorry, didn’t catch that. You were saying…’

Anshul looked up with a smile.

‘Nothing at all doctor. Just thinking aloud.’

‘About anything particular?’

Anshul’s expression was inscrutable.

‘The prophecy was true then. Ultimately, the meek shall inherit the world!’

POINT 4700

I wrote this story in 1999, during the Kargil war. I could swear my father, an army officer, brushed away a tear when he read it. That could, of course, be just my imagination. But the chance that he did makes this my personal favorite and the reason I am debuting with it.

Lt. Rishi Kamath tried holding his breath in order to slow his screaming heartbeat. There was no snow on Three Pimples, but the cold dry wind seemed to penetrate his very bones. Two hours of merciful rest before Point 4700 was to be taken. He reached into his pocket and found some chocolate. Almost two minutes passed before his numb fingers got the foil to open. He stuck the chocolate under his chin to thaw it a little. Noticing that this wasn’t working too well, he took a large bite out of it and shoved the rest back into his jacket. Making sure to chew the sweet into a fine paste he chased it down with icy cold water from his canteen. His throat was still raw from the exertion of breathing the rarefied air. He tried to get some shut eye but suddenly, Paul’s face popped into his head and he snapped awake.

Lt. Paul Kohim, his best friend for so many years now. And today, he had seen Paul die. It wasn’t a glorious or even a brave death. Climbing a sheer rock face when a boulder sent by the enemy caught him head on. It was quick. He didn’t suffer. They say war makes children into men. Rishi snorted. There was nothing remotely manly about Paul lying crooked and dead at a desolate, forgotten-until-now place, called Three Pimples.

He was the youngest officer from their batch, the baby of the course. And he looked childlike even in death. The tears still wouldn’t come to Rishi. That was deliberate. For all of today he’d kept his friends face out of his mind. That wasn’t working anymore. They had been together for the last two years in college and subsequently the academy.

Though Paul was a Naga Christian, he knew more about Hindu scriptures than Rishi. Rishi thought about the times they had spent at the coffee house in Pune. Paul would always order club sandwiches, he thought that made an impression on the ladies. Despite being from different backgrounds, they loved the same comics, played their football together and shared a deep passion for Kajol, the dusky movie star.

Last summer was the first time Rishi had gone to Pauls’s house for a brief stay. Paul’s mother had made hot pork curry and rice. Rishi had kept ribbing Paul that day.

‘I hope this so called pork of yours isn’t man’s best friend, Paul, you know the kind which have tails and bite.’

Paul had bristled with indignation and stated very strongly that their family didn’t eat dogs. And Rishi had laughed even harder. Paul played the guitar well and they had gone through a lot of songs late into the night. Paul’s mother had finally asked them to go to sleep and keep warm.

And now, he would never be warm. His mother would never make them pork and rice again. Hell, his mother didn’t even know that her son would never come home again. He would never eat another bite of her cooking again. Like everyone else, he had told her that he was in the Udhampur sector, handling a cushy CI ops (counter insurgency operations) exercise. The dumb bastard, Rishi thought savagely. Why couldn’t Paul have taken that software opening in New York? Why was he so hell bent on joining the infantry? Was it because of him, Paul had joined, Rishi wondered. Paul had always maintained he had flipped a coin for it. 

Rishi forced all thoughts of his friend out of his mind, and focused on reviving his toes. Their equipment was still scanty and he knew the importance of maintaining feet in the infantry. He remembered how embarrassed he’d been when his mother had given him her knitted socks. Even his batty had smiled at Saheb’s patterned socks. He thought of his mother. He was wearing two pairs of her special socks and was grateful. He was always very close to his mother and never hid anything from her, except now.

His last letter to her had read:

Dear Ma,

I am living the good life in the beautiful Bhadarwah valley. The army takes care of all our tourism needs. We get to live the good life among the mountains and the clear streams. Tell Dad that his son is making every effort to bring honor to the family. I miss your cooking very much. Know that I keep a watch over you all from here, as I’m sure you do over me at your end. Whatever tomorrow brings, stay safe in the knowledge that your son loves you and will do his family proud.

Thanks for the besan laddus. And for sending a bunch of them. The boys loved it and send their thanks.                                   

 Love

Rishi 

Rishi heard the battle call and readied his battered bones for more effort. His mother would be more than a little upset if she knew her son was nowhere near Bhadarwah.

He was in the Drass sector, Kargil, Kashmir, planning an attack on a point called Point 4700.

As usual, the assault went awry right from point start. Intelligence had placed five to six men of the enemy at 4700.There must have been at least twenty. They were ready. They sent in a hail of bullets. Rishi’s section lost two men almost immediately. There was little cover except a few rocks, mobility was near zero and the elevated position of the enemy gave them a huge tactical advantage. More men dropped. Luckily the mortars kicked into action. Counter fire from his men started to even the balance.

Rishi looked from around his vantage point and after twenty-four days in battle, finally saw the enemy. The man stood exposed even as he laid a blanket of fire at Rishi’s troops. Rishi had his covering fire. He drew a bead and slowly squeezed the trigger of his INSAS. The bullet caught the enemy soldier on the neck and dropped him out of sight. But Rishi didn’t stop squeezing the trigger until his magazine was empty. He felt nothing. No elation. No patriotism. Not even fury. He just felt dead. He fed in another magazine.

Like an inanimate but clumsy swamp thing, Rishi let out a cry and charged the enemy’s sangar. His men, well beyond any fighting heroics now, followed him. Even though he was the junior most, youngest officer of their unit, the men charged behind without the slightest hesitation. The bullet hit him on his left collarbone at just about ten yards. His men were faster and started dropping the enemy. Even as he spun and hit the ground, Rishi knew the objective had been taken.

Lives had been lost, honor be damned, the bloody target had been acquired.

Only then did he allow himself the luxury of fully collapsing. There were lights going off in front of his eyes.

One of his men cradled his head in his lap and started crying, “Rishi Saahab, Saahab.”

There was hardly any pain, just a numbness that seemed to seep into his very soul.

His life didn’t flash before his eyes, like he’d heard it was supposed to.

He didn’t feel like a man.

Just a child who missed his mother, as life ebbed from him and turned the ground red at Point 4700.

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